THE THREE WITCHES OF MILTON

Part 3 of 3

A North and South, Jane Eyre and Pride and Prejudice Crossover Parody

From: Parodies and Other Such Poppycock

'I see,' John said at last, rather flatly. 'Well, lucky me, and poor you,' he decreed, thinking that there was some truth in what they spoke, not that women were lesser, of course, but that men, through a right that they had not earned, had inherited the lion's share in life. His apology was not cynical, just as it was not necessary, but John being a man who had been forced to take on the burden of other people's debts for most of his life, always felt a sense of responsibility weighing down on his shoulders, and so, he was compelled to say sorry.

Returning to his chair, John slumped down with a thud and stared at the fire, his long fingers rubbing at the bristles which darkened his chiselled jaw in that way he did when he was deep in meditation.

Feeling abandoned, the ladies all coughed as they rearranged themselves daintily upon the settee, their attempt to discredit Miss Hale and dangle themselves before the Milton master not at all going how they had planned.

It was Miss Ingram who was the first to take another stab at her love rival, thoroughly fortified by a jam tart. 'At any rate, that is why I feel so for Miss Hale. She is probably so foolhardy because she does not have beauty, brains or breeding to fall back on,' she ridiculed.

John's head shot up. 'How so?' he bit back, terribly brusquely, since to his mind, there was no woman alive as striking, as witty, or as refined as Miss Hale.

'She cannot even play the piano!' Miss Thornton interjected, the youngest of the set feeling left out, and out of place, the woman used to being the biggest blabbermouth in the room.

John laughed sarcastically. 'Ha! Is that all her faults amount to? Go on, Fanny. What else does she lack to bring'er up to your standard?'

'I heard Miss Hale say she cannot play herself, John,' his mother confirmed, glancing up briefly from her sewing to say her bit. While she may not have agreed with everything these ladies were prattling on about, most of it pure poppycock, she could not deny that Miss Hale had admitted in the matriarch's presence that she played both ill and hardly at all.

John huffed and folded his arms crossly. It would seem that he was the only one present who was prepared to defend Miss Hale's honour, so defend her he bloody well would, whether the lady in question liked it or not!

Sniggering, Miss Bingley could hardly believe her ears. 'No one can be really esteemed accomplished who does not greatly surpass what is usually met with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but half deserved.'

'Sounds exhausting,' John smirked childishly as he resumed reading his paper, silently praying that his home would never be invaded by a woman, be it wife or daughter, who took up even a quarter of those tiresome pastimes.

'I myself have only met say six women who can claim such accomplishment, and four of them are sitting in this room,' Miss Bingley said, her hand gesturing towards her companions, all the ladies smiling in thanks, all the while loathing each other in that underhand way that only female folk know how to do.

John massaged his brow, the thought of so many tedious fortes making his head swim. Thank the Lord that Fanny had only taken up an interest in the piano! Heaven help him if she ever developed attentiveness for any other activity, but this was unlikely, given that she usually gave up on any new pursuit mere days after starting, exasperated by the effort required. However, John would not remain silent on this one, not when he could have his fun, a reward he sorely deserved today.

'I am no longer surprised at your knowing only six accomplished women,' he mused, an impish grin tickling his face. 'I rather wonder now at your knowing any,' John quipped, ignoring his mother's tutting to hear him joke so.

'We do exist,' Miss Latimer reminded him querulously, not amused at having her years cooped up in a dreary Swiss finishing school overlooked. It had been a chilly mausoleum that had turned her soul to ice, and so, she was not prepared to let her time there go to waste. After all, her education had been founded on the rudimentary art of acquiring a husband, so get her hands on him, she darned well would.

'But should a woman not boast more than fine accomplishments? Should she not add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading?' John questioned, unable to imagine his life without his books, and equally unable to envisage having a wife who did not also share his love of the written word, even if she did have her personal tastes that differed from his own.

Smiling to himself, he thought on all the evenings he had sat in that cosy Crampton drawing room, discussing prose and philosophy with his tutor, only to peer stealthily to the side a thousand times an hour to see her sitting there, quietly reading away in her own little world, her clever head bent over a book, her curiosity as immovable as her will of iron. John remembered how, on one evening, he had watched his darling in rapt fascination as that insolent bracelet of hers slid up and down her wrist every time she turned the page. As he peeked at Miss Hale, John had seen a strand of chestnut hair escaping its pins and coiling over her face, her hand reaching up distractedly every now and again to push it aside. He had hardly been able to look, the desire too insufferably overwhelming as he fought the urgent impulse to go to her, tuck it behind her ear, and kiss her lobe with the lingering anointing of his trembling mouth, all the while whispering how much he adored her.

How he longed to go to her all the time, to sit by her, and ask her what mesmerised his sweetheart so in that mysterious book, begging her to read it aloud to him, content to listen to her melodic voice for hours, her southern lilt like a lute that strummed the chords of John's heart, pacifying the tempestuous turmoil within that the mere thought of her provoked, a power she did not even know she possessed, his lovely lass.

John had dreamt of this so often, the man having been forced to anchor himself in his chair during his lessons to prevent himself from taking leave of his senses and throwing himself at her feet, imploring her for just a morsel of her attention, a scrap of her glorious affection. In the months that had rolled by, no matter how frosty their estranged relationship had become after her rejection of him, followed by her unbearable preference for another man, John could not help but pine for Miss Hale, no matter what falsehoods he had shouted in her startled face about his passion for her being both foolish and done with, the woman being of no consequence when it came to his hopes for the future.

Oh! What lies, what lies.

The truth was, he had never loved her more.

Working at his study desk night after night, regardless of how hard he tried to cruelly expel her from his mind, just like she had banished him from her cares, he could not remove her from his heart. Therefore, John would think on her, constantly, obsessively, the image of Miss Hale, by then his world, his wife, sitting there by the fire, reading unobtrusively while he worked, their baby gurgling away cheerfully in a bassinet at their feet, a dream that was too farfetched in its perfection to ever be a reality.

Sniffing, John refused to let the tears which pricked behind his eyes overflow, and seep down his face in salty rivers, because he had cried over her more times already than he should, not that anybody would ever know.

'I think you have left out some accomplishments that a woman should lay claim to,' he deliberated aloud, a slight croak to his voice as he repressed his mounting emotions as best he could. 'Should she not also be compassionate? Can she not also be a good sort of person as well as a skilful sort?' he advocated, thinking on Miss Hale's unsurpassed capability, given that she practically ran her home and assumed the responsibility for her family's struggles alone. Then again, this was nothing compared to her spirit of benevolence, a genuine goodness which was unmatched by any mortal on earth, proving to him yet again, despite what he had seen at the station that night, that she was an angel sent here to save him from himself and offer John salvation, the chance of a life not built upon diligence and duty alone, but true happiness.

If only she would need him, just as much as he needed her.

Not that he would admit it, because it was a wickedly selfish thought, but John had long since hoped that in her misfortune, what with the passing of her mother, followed by the crisis at Outwood, Miss Hale would have come to him for help, allowing him to care for her as he yearned to. But no, she had never come. She had never asked. She had never hinted. She was self-sufficient to the last, this defining trait of hers something he both admired and hated, because while it rendered her magnificent in his eyes, it also kept Miss Hale at arm's length, since she would never need nor want him, not as a husband, nor as a friend.

Oh, John! How wrong you are!

The ladies all pouted, their lips pursing, fearing that they had seriously misjudged the situation and the extent to which Mr Thornton was determined to approve of Miss Hale, in spite of her obvious and abundant faults.

Thinking on her feet, Miss Bingley stated, 'That is all very well, and good deeds are, of course, a Christian duty which we must all adhere to,' she went on, trying to remember when she had last lifted a finger for anybody other than herself. 'Nonetheless, Miss Hale is too outspoken, too opinionated, something which is most unbecoming in a young lady, quite off-putting.'

At this, Miss Latimer's eyes bulged, sparkling with mischief. Ah-ha! This was just the ticket. 'Indeed,' she began, her neck pivoting round to look at her host, the skin on her slender column creasing. 'I particularly recall one evening, Mr Thornton, when you made a remark on the matter,' she goaded, delighted that she could evoke the recollection of that night, one which must still surely be offensive to him, even all these months later. 'You told me quite clearly.'

John rummaged through his memory, wondering when on earth he had said more than two words together to Miss Latimer.

'Oh?' he replied.

Miss Latimer grinned, an ugly, sardonic grin, and if one looked close enough, then one could see her sharpening her claws beneath her gloves as she readied to rip apart the appeal of her opponent's faultless facade in the eyes of Miss Hale's admirer. 'Yes, it was at your dinner party,' she launched, sensing the air in the room shift instantaneously as both Mrs and Miss Thornton shuddered, the man sitting across the room stiffening, his reminiscence well and truly stirred up in revival.

'It was after Miss Hale had behaved so shockingly. Perhaps you remember it? I recollect that after she had finished making her discourteous scene, you turned to talk to me,' she narrated wistfully, and John recounted the manner in which he had unquestionably diverted his attention to Miss Latimer, and possibly paid her a mite too much courtesy, a gross oversight on his part. With a sheepish sulk, John could confess, that deep down, the less than proud part of him had been trying to make Miss Hale jealous, not that she would have taken the trouble to even notice, whereas if she had spoken to another man with enthusiasm for even a second, John's face would have set into a permanent scowl.

'I told you how sorry I was for her outburst, and I apologised on behalf of my mild and ignorant sex, mortified as I was. If I recall, you said of Miss Hale, that like a tigress, she cannot be tamed, and as such, no man could ever hope to control or restrain her,' she orated, delighted by the way everybody in the room gaped at her in enthralment. Still, much to Miss Latimer's annoyance, there was one who still refused to glance her way, his back still firmly set against the group, and little did she know, that far from throwing ice upon the fire of his fervour for Miss Hale, her words only sought to stoke it into a more vehement inferno of feverish passion.

'And then, if I remember correctly, you muttered under your breath, "and nor should she be,"' the banker's daughter finished, a little lamely, his silence not the reaction she had lobbied for. Miss Latimer had intended for her speech to be the final nail in the coffin for Miss Hale, but no, thinking back, she realised her folly at once. Mr Thornton may have appeared to be enraged with the young lady that night for opposing him in front of his fellow masters, the bachelor considered the monarch amongst the cotton merchants, a man nobody would ever dare contest, that is, not until she had stood up to him. Nonetheless, the woman seated to his left had seen the way his intense eyes had skimmed up every few minutes to glimpse the vision in icy blue who sat halfway down the table, checking to gauge her mood and see that she was well taken care of, his heart heavy as he sighed to think on how they had quarrelled so carelessly and caused a further fracture in their already fragile association.

Yes, Miss Latimer had seen it then, just as clearly as she saw it now. Mr Thornton, the man she coveted, was already taken. And it did not matter a fig what that haughty-toity Miss Hale said, because regardless of her impression of indifference towards the mill master, Miss Latimer had seen the young lady glance hopefully at Mr Thornton almost as much as he had her, so it was obvious that she had feelings for him too, even if she were not yet ready to acknowledge it.

As the clock on the mantel ticked away, passing the stifled time, still John said nothing, and as five pairs of eyes studied the back of his head nervously, he did not move, not a muscle, the cogs of his mind revolving as he thought, and thought…and thought.

'My-my, Miss Latimer,' Mrs Thornton rallied, attempting to muster all the cordial liveliness she could, disconcerted by her son's eerie hush. 'It seems as if you recall Mr Thornton's words better than he does himself.'

All the ladies laughed uneasily as they looked his way, unsure of what he would say or do next, his moods an enigma to them.

'But afterwards, she seemed to improve on you,' Miss Latimer bit out curtly, stung by his refusal to acknowledge her jibe. At least this one was true, even if everything else had been a malicious fib, or at the very least, an exaggeration. Miss Hale had been rude to him, she had! Everybody had seen it, so why was he unwilling to condemn her for it?

'I even believe you thought her rather pretty at one time,' she sniffed, once again thinking on how Mr Thornton had spent half the dinner slyly diverting his attention from his companion and offering it shyly instead to Miss Hale, even for a fleeting moment, his face awash with yearning as he took in her agreeable gown, twinkling eyes, glossy hair, and attractive form. Yet worst of all, Miss Latimer had perceived the palpable disappointment secrete from him to discover that Miss Hale, the only one he had eyes for, was not the one sitting by his side.

'Yes, I did,' John said finally, his answer absolute, not a trace of reservation diminishing it, strange for such a typically tight-lipped man.

'But that was only when I first knew her,' he added quickly, and it did not escape his notice to hear the simultaneous breath of relief that issued from the ladies, shortly followed by their smirks and cackles of glee, because cackles they were, to think that Miss Hale had without a doubt waned in his highly sought estimation.

But unknown to them, John was again deep in contemplation.

Smiling to himself, he decided that this was the perfect time to set the record straight and explain to these women – these three witches – once and for all, that he was not the man destined to be theirs, and even more so, they were not the ladies for him, because there was only one he had ever wanted, only one who would suit his desire, his temperament, his passion, and alas, she was not here.

Standing up again, John put his hands behind his back and trailed towards them, his comportment calm and collected, everything a polite gentleman should be.

'As I say,' he opened, his tone steady, 'that was only when I first knew her.' Then, with the octaves of his voice lowering into a growl, he barked, 'But it has been many months now since I have considered her one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance.'

All at once, the ladies' silly grins distorted into frowns, and they all choked in chorus on their gags of surprise, a most unladylike symphony erupting around the parlour.

John was pleased with this reaction. However, he was not done yet, because when he gave himself to something, he committed to it wholeheartedly, for as I am sure you will recall: John did not know how to dabble.

'In fact, wait, no, I take that back!' he revised, his height growing as his temper swelled like a storm within. 'She is the most handsome woman of my acquaintance,' he corrected categorically. 'It cannot be otherwise, not when her beauty of face and integrity of heart are unrivalled, an enchanting combination of immense appeal which is enough to disarm any man of both his wits and soul.'

'John!' began his mother warily, all too aware that when her son was in a foul mood, he could say things he regretted, his disastrous proposal to Miss Hale no doubt being a prime example. While John may never have used his strength of body to physically assault anybody, the sharpness of his tongue and the keenness of his intellect were weapons enough to conquer any enemy of his. He was a private man by nature, but when the red mist descended, he could be known to fly off the handle, speaking before he thought. And what was worse, Mrs Thornton knew that John could take just about any slur hurled at him in insult of his own name, the sensitive boy having been forced to suffer such abuses since he was a child, ever since his family's disgrace, but it was inconceivable that he would endure to hear his beloved Miss Hale taunted or teased in any way.

Nevertheless, John did not heed his mother, but continued with his self-righteous rant, his exoneration of the woman he worshipped.

'And more than that, she is everything a woman should be, and everything a man could wish for, because believe me, you can forget about all your superficial accomplishments, because at the end of the day, men of sense do not want silly wives,' he advocated, staring down at each of the ladies before him in turn, his gaze prolonged and unforgivably penetrating, telling them in no uncertain terms that he judged them to be rotten to the core.

'You talk of women as if they are lesser beings, but you are wrong! Yes, it is regrettable that women are made to feel they are insignificant, both by the law and society, but by God, that does not mean they should actively choose to debase themselves and shackle their cause. They should be crying out for recognition and demanding veneration, showing us men what women are truly worth. Indeed, some women merit a higher regard than a hundred of their male counterparts combined. Why, my own mother is more clever and capable than any man I know!' John sponsored, nodding his head towards her, the mother's heart warmed by her son's words of encouragement, his sister confused as to why she too was not mentioned.

'And as for Miss Hale, she is tremendous! I have never met a woman so exceptional in all my days. And that, ladies, is what a man wants in a wife. He wants somebody who not only cheers or champions him, but somebody who challenges him, inspiring him to be a better man, the best version of himself that he can be. Partnership, honesty and devotion, these are what make for a marriage of real substance, not wealth, position or influence. These do not bring happiness, but are a retreating horizon that cannot be achieved, leaving us constantly empty and dissatisfied. They will not bring you comfort when you are lost, when life proves hard, no, they will abandon you. But true love, a genuine faith in one another, a sincere friendship, this is what I want.'

After a while, John exhaled, his rage dissipating as it peaked. Instead, he was overcome by a surge of remorse that engulfed him like a wave. 'There is only really one person who I want all of that with,' he said, so quietly, it was as if he were talking to himself. 'She is rational. She is intriguing. She is kind. She is competent. She is heroic. She is irreplaceable. She does not have a silly or scheming bone in her body. And I will not let you treat her so wickedly,' he said with a judgmental glare.

Walking towards the window, his eyes broadening as they darkened with the brooding hue of epiphany, John muttered in self-reproach, 'I really should not be telling you all these things.'

'No, John! You most certainly should not!' his mother agreed, shocked by her son's unexpected outburst of emotion, his words almost certainly fated to become the tittle-tattle of Milton by the evening, and then what would become of him?

John shook his head, still concentrating on the window, no longer caring what they thought of him, his mind too harried by thoughts of her. 'No…I should be telling her,' he meditated, a pithy laugh escaping his mouth. 'I need to tell Miss Hale that I think…that I feel…that she is −'

'That I am what?' came a quiet voice from across the way.

All at once, everybody gasped, and sitting as still as petrified statues, they all turned their attention towards the door. That is, everyone but John. There he remained with his back to the scene, but he was not uninformed, no, for his every sense was keenly alerted, save his eyes. Closing them like the quivering wings of a butterfly, he dared to hope. He listened to the inflection of that gentle voice. He smelt the fragrance of peach soap. He tasted the tingle of excitement in his mouth. And raising a hand to his chest, he could feel his sprinting heart, a phenomenon that only one person had the ability to effect upon him.

Could it be? Could it be that she…?

Turning around as slowly as a snail, John opened his eyes, and when, at last, he had veered round completely, he halted, his body going rigid, as if he had been knocked for six by an invisible and incalculable force.

There, at the other side of the room, she stood. Small, stately, surreal, dressed in a brown coat, that funny brown hat of hers in hand. The woman simply stared back at him with a stunned expression, but if John looked carefully, he could not help but smile, because even in her shock, she was still so majestic, fully in control of herself, unlike him.

'Margaret,' he breathed, that unmarried word, (for unmarried it was), floating into the air and causing her to tremor, the vulnerability in his husky tone of Darkshire granularity enough to make her weak at the knees.

Stepping closer, she fixed him with a firm stare, one which was uncompromising in its confidence. 'I'll ask again, Mr Thornton, what am I?' Margaret challenged. 'If you are going to talk about me, to others,' she stressed, trying not to give the gawking audience the satisfaction of her attentiveness, 'then I think I have the right to know.'

John gulped.

Margaret already knew what he thought of her, Mr Thornton had made it abundantly clear when they had last exchanged words, heated and heavy words. He reviled her. He thought her a wanton woman who could not be trusted. Well, be that as it may, if he had something scathing to say about her, then he ought to say it to her and her alone, since it was nobody else's business but theirs.

The ladies all swiftly swivelled their heads from side to side as they watched the two people, agog with anticipation, absorbed by this unexpected addition to the afternoon, almost like they were experiencing the unveiling of an unanticipated page missing from a play, a thrilling spectacle being acted out right before their very eyes. One might think the three young madams would be perturbed by Miss Hale's presence, but that was not the case, since they could see as clear as day that she was angry with Mr Thornton, very angry, so while perhaps they would be unable to crush his ardour for her, it could be that he himself, through the idiocy of his own loose tongue, could quash any affection she may have secretly entertained on his behalf, ruining their chances of marriage for good.

As for John, for once in his life, he did not need to think what to say. He was used to being careful with his words, economical with his turn of phrase, lest he waste his time, bore his company, or land himself in hot water. He was accustomed to being reticent, to not sharing the veracity of what he thought or felt, but today was different. He knew precisely what had to be said, the words that must somehow be spoken, but not here, not now, not in front of these witches. All at once, John took a hold of himself and marched across the room, coming to stand by her, his tall body overlooking her own petite one as he stopped mere inches from Margaret. It was incredible, because while he was easily head, shoulders and chest taller than she, Margaret had the ability at half his height to intimidate him, bringing John down to size.

With his breath ragged, all he could ask was, 'What are you doing here?' There was no accusation in his question, no suggestion that she was not welcome in his home, it was more of an earnest need to know.

Margaret gazed back up at him, her eyes wide in awe, her neck craned, her pretty lips parted as she struggled to find the words, too busy with being hypnotised by the way he stared down at her, a curious blend of tenderness and intensity making her feel dizzy, a fervent regard he had never offered her before. For his part, John was overwhelmed by her unforeseen manifestation in his parlour. It only occurred to him now that he had barely seen Miss Hale in months. He had avoided her, yes, it was true, but not because he did not wish to see her, not at all, but because he wanted to see her too much. The desperate desire to be close to her was overpowering, and so, to prevent himself from suffering any further or making a fool of himself, John had stayed away. But at the same time, so had she. He had come for his lessons every week, faithfully so, and for the past eighteen, she had not been present, unexplained in her absence, and there John had sat in disappointed misery, thinking how pointless it was to be there at all if she were not. Taking in the sight of her now, John could hardly draw breath. She was so beautiful, more so than ever, and if he tore his eyes away from her, even for a second, he feared he would go blind.

Swallowing, Margaret lifted her arms and pressed a pile of books up against his chest. 'You forgot these,' she told him, 'when you read with my father last night,' she explained, her voice unsteady as they continued to lock eyes. John glanced down for the briefest of moments, distracted by the feeling of her hand resting against him, and what was most curious of all, was that she did not pull away, but there she stayed, lingering in their touch.

And when his eyes fell to inspect the dull stack of tomes, volumes he certainly had not needed returned to him so promptly, something she must have comprehended, he cocked his head in bewilderment, because there, on the top, was a pair of black leather gloves. John did not recognise them at first. He wondered who they belonged to and why she had brought them here today. But then all of a sudden, the realisation swept over him, and he sighed in hopeful understanding.

Seizing the books from Margaret, John near enough tossed them away carelessly on a nearby table. Returning his attention to her, he leaned in closer still. 'I need to talk to you,' he asserted throatily.

Margaret blinked. 'Now?'

'Now!' he insisted.

'Here?' she asked, a little fretfully.

John shook his head sharply in disapproval. 'No! Not here, absolutely not,' he assessed, turning to consider their awkward surroundings.

Peering down, they both saw that their hands were loitering together, their fingers knocking as they mingled coyly, and before he knew what he was doing, John had turned his over, palm-up, and proffered it to Margaret. She had only looked, wondered and deliberated for a trice, because a moment later, she had placed her hand in his, and as his closed around hers, snug and safe, John gently pulled Margaret out of the room and led her away down the corridor.

All five women left behind, (for we cannot forget them in all of this), remained frozen in place, their jaws on the floor as they gaped in disbelief. Even when they heard the master's study door close, halfway down the hallway, still they did not speak, not a single squawk or squeak.

The only person to move, was Mrs Thornton, who, taking up her sewing, went to stand by the large window which gave her a hawk-like view of the yard. She often stood there. It was her spot, and it allowed her to observe the comings and goings of Marlborough Mills, ensuring that all was well, because mothers never cease to mother, no matter how old their children may grow to be. Nonetheless, little did the ladies know that not only was this a convenient position to stand if one wanted to see, but it was also ideal if one wanted to hear, and luckily for Mrs Thornton, her hearing was first-rate.

With her ears pricking, she listened, and yes, just as she thought, she could catch the odd sound drifting through the walls from the study. Straining her ears, Mrs Thornton tried to pick up whatever stray strands she could, each word or phrase a broken fragment from a sequestered conversation. Focusing, she thought she could hear:

'I can't do this anymore.'

'Then don't.'

'Why did you really come here?'

'I…I don't know.'

'I wanted to tell you…I needed to tell you.'

'Brother?'

'I had no idea.'

'You never said anything.'

'I was trying to protect you.'

'Funny, I was trying to do the same thing, if only you would let me.'

'You said we were finished, that your feelings for me were a mistake.'

'I meant none of it. You must know that!'

'You gave me no warning.'

'What else was I supposed to think?'

'I'm sorry.'

'Forgive me.'

'Come here…please'.

'Why?'

'For God's sake! Why are you always so difficult? Because I want to ask you something!'

It was twenty minutes later, as the five women in the room peered at the clock for the hundredth time, each one of them tired and bored, but all equally refusing to budge until they had some clarity on the strange situation they had just witnessed, that they were startled to discern the study door once again opening, the creaking of the hinges a tell-tale sign that the private interview was at last over. Rearranging themselves on their chairs, they waited impatiently, and much to their relief, they detected the faint pitter-patter of feminine feet trailing away into the distance, shortly followed by the front door letting somebody out.

Ah, so she was gone. Excellent, that must mean that he had not invited her to stay, or else, she had not accepted. However, the details were of no matter, since either way, Miss Hale's departure was a good omen for these witches, meaning there was a chance for them still.

Then, all of a sudden, there was a noise, and blinking, they all sat up straight as Mr Thornton re-entered the room. There was something different about him, his steps were brisk, his manner lively, his countenance less harsh. Grabbing hold of a chair from the table, he hauled it over, and sitting beside the ladies with informal ease, he slapped his thighs jovially, grinning from cheek-to-cheek as he looked at them all one-by-one.

'Well then, ladies, where were we?' John asked, his eyes gleaming with impish delight. 'Tell me again, what were you saying about my fiancée?'

A big round of applause to Kuwpp2 for figuring out the ending to this story! Well done!

And yes, as somebody noted, my grammar needs work, you're right, it does, but I'm afraid my dyslexia and grammar are not good friends, but I do try.

I hope you enjoyed this story. It was a fun idea for me to play with these three iconic novels and connect the various characters, themes and dialogue. It occurred to me that in many ways, our heroes and heroines are very similar, they have interlacing values, and so, a lot of these lines from the original texts which look at what truly matters to them, seemed relevant if linked to each story.

I know that John perhaps speaks too much and says more than is discreet, especially given both his nature and the time period. However, for me, I wanted to take the beautiful and subtle words from our beloved stories and give a modern audience that little bit more, that push further past the border of decorum and into unrestrained passion. In my mind, whether it works or not, this is the sedated undertone of the three novels, but with a modern twist, letting us experience our romantic lead really speaking up, shouting his love from the rooftops, and defending his lady love. And at the end of the day, that is what fan fiction is all about, experimentation.

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