This chapter is brief and rather sappy :P. It's basically a little "filler". I will make up for it with longer chapters to come and might be able to update this coming weekend.

Chapter 3

Margaret woke the next morning to find the bed next to her cold and empty. It took her a moment to gather her bearings and realize where she was, everything still seemed a bit unfamiliar. With a sigh, she sat up and blinked at the sunlight falling through the window. She noticed a small piece of paper on the pillow next to her and picked it up.

Good morning my dear,

I hope you slept well. I have gone over to the mill to take care of some business, which unfortunately cannot be delayed any longer. I did not want to wake you. I will be back in the afternoon and we can have tea together. I hope you will find some time to settle in.

I'm thinking of you.

Love John

She pressed his note to her chest with a smile, letting her eyes wander out of the window and over to the mill. She would have to get used to this. With him being at work, she would have time to settle into her new routine as mistress of Marlborough Mills. There were many things to learn, and she had to start somewhere. With a little sigh, she got out of bed to ready herself for the day.

She did not see as much of John in the next few days as she would have liked. He did come back to the house for tea every day, and they would have dinner together and spend time in his study afterwards.

While he was away, Margaret familiarized herself with her household duties. She talked to the cook about dinner options. John had never eaten much, and often had just eaten out, at the club. She was going to change that. She spoke to the household staff, to learn about their daily chores and routines, she started looking at wallpapers and interior decorations which would make the house feel more homely.

On the following Monday, she was woken by an unfamiliar conglomerate of noises. A distant rattling and clanking, voices yelling, the clattering of horse-drawn carriages. She jumped out of bed and darted over to the window. When she realized the source of the noise, a wide smile spread across her face: Marlborough mills had come alive once more.

Nicholas was back at the mill with the other workers, Mary was in the canteen again, cooking for them. She often brought the Boucher children with her, who would sit on the wooden landing inside the mill yard and play with their dollies or – in Tommy's case – read their books.

It took Margaret some time to get used to the constant noise level. The shifts started at eight in the morning and ended at eight in the evening with the blow of the whistle. John was up in his office before the beginning of the day and he came home after the workers had left, so they could have dinner together.

He was always very busy, meeting business partners, writing letters, filling orders, and brooding over his accounting books. She made him come home for half an hour in the afternoon, so they could have tea together, and occasionally she would drop by his office during the day with a basket of fruit or some bread and ham, to make sure he was not starving himself again.

It was only at night that the two of them were undisturbed, as they lay in each other's arms, making love. They had been with each other so often now, that Margaret felt like she almost knew his body by heart. She had learned where exactly to touch him, to make him gasp and moan and call out her name, and she would never grow tired of making him feel this way.

She craved his touch so much that she often found it hard to concentrate on anything else during the day, yearning for him, praying for the sun to set, so he would return to her.

Afterwards, they lay together, and sometimes they would talk for hours. He told her of his day at the mill, and she told him of her household duties, her walks, and her visits to Mary and the children in Francis Street, which she had resumed.

He had not exactly been pleased about her going back to Princeton, but he knew better than to argue with her about it.

He was aware of how much Margaret valued her independence. It was what had made him fall in love with her in the first place, and he would not take that away from her, however much it sometimes worried him.

He knew Princeton well enough to be aware of all the dangers this place could bear, but it helped that she knew many people there, who were fond enough of her to look out for her, and she had promised him to only visit the place in broad daylight, when the streets were busy, and to avoid the deserted back alleys.

Margaret had started redecorating the house, and soon John was barely able to recognize the place. Vases with beautiful flowers had appeared in all the rooms, there were pictures of nature on the wall, some of them drawings and watercolours, which Margaret had done herself. The curtains had been changed into lighter colours, which made the rooms appear larger. Big pots with ferns had been placed in the entrance hall and the number of candlesticks had increased drastically, making everything appear less dark and gloomy.

John was amazed at how a few little touches could so dramatically change the feeling of those rooms. Everything around him reminded him of her now. Her joy and love of life was gradually seeping into every corner of the house and for the first time since he had moved in, it was more to him than a place to eat and sleep – it felt like a home.

Sunday was the only day the mill was closed, and the young couple had all day to spend together. They would go for long walks whenever the weather permitted it, her arm linked with his, as they would talk for hours about anything and everything. If they stayed at home, they would sit comfortably in each other's company and read or discuss a book. And sometimes they would just stay in bed for hours, doing things that husbands and wives tended to do behind closed doors.

It was those days, when they really had time together, that Margaret felt like she was getting to know him on a deeper level. She had learned to read the tiniest changes in his countenance or voice. She had never consciously noticed before, that he tended to fumble with the cuffs of his shirtsleeves when he was nervous, a mannerism she found quite endearing in a way. He was not in the habit of eating regularly, but when he did eat, he would always finish his food, leaving not a crumb on his plate, like he did not take it for granted to be able to have another meal in his life.

He had perfect manners and knew how to conduct himself in society, always the perfect gentleman – refined and articulate, and Margaret supposed that he had to have taught himself, knowing how important it was to know those things, if he ever wanted to escape his circumstances.

Yet, when he talked to his workers at the mill, she noticed a change in him. His northern accent became thicker, he swallowed half of his letters and used slang words, suddenly sounding just like Nicholas Higgins. Much to Margaret's amusement, he did not seem to notice that he was doing it. It was those moments when she caught a glimpse of his upbringing, he was able to hide so successfully whenever it was necessary.

And then there was one more thing she was becoming increasingly aware of in him, the more time she spent with him – it was this strange, sad, haunted look that sometimes appeared in his eyes, when he thought no one was watching. He was so good at hiding it, that it had taken her quite some time to notice.

They had not yet spoken much about his past, except for the one story he had shared with her on the morning after their wedding night about the mill fire. She knew there was more – it was a pain that was still buried deep inside him, and as much as it hurt her to watch him carry this burden all on his own, she dared not push him to talk about it, afraid that he was not ready.

It was on a Sunday morning, a couple of weeks into their marriage, when Margaret woke to the warmth of her husband's body, now so familiar to her.

Blinking happily, she turned to look at him. He had his back turned to her, breathing evenly in his sleep. The blanket had slid down from his shoulder, exposing his back to her, and once more she noticed the many fine, white lines running across his skin.

Most of the times they were together without their clothes on, he was facing her, and they tended to be a bit preoccupied whenever it happened, so she had not yet been faced with his scars up close.

Without thinking she reached out her hand and gently traced them, feeling the tender skin against her fingertips. She felt him stir, as he uttered something incoherent. Then he turned onto his back, blinking at her through sleepy eyes. "What are you doing?", he mumbled after a moment.

She did not know how to reply, feeling almost as if he had caught her doing something forbidden. "I was just – ", she swallowed, biting her lip.

He slowly raised himself up into a sitting position, without taking his eyes off hers. "What is it, Margaret?", he asked once again. She knew there was no use in making excuses. They had agreed to always be open and honest with each other, and she owed him as much, even if she feared that she would make him uncomfortable.

"Those – those scars on your back", she started weakly. "Are they – from your work at the mill as a boy?" He looked away from her. A few seconds ticked by in silence. When he finally opened his mouth, there was the same strange detachment in his voice, that she had heard once before, when he had told her about the mill fire: "No, those are from the workhouse."

"The workhouse?", she heard herself say, in a voice which was barely above a whisper. She did not know much about workhouses, but she remembered Birdie mentioning that they were rather dreadful places. "What happened?", she could not help but ask.

She felt him withdraw from her, moving to the edge of the bed. "Just the usual", he shrugged in a voice that sounded entirely indifferent, as if he simply did not care at all. "You know, they would flog us with whips."

Margaret gasped, a look of utter shock on her face. His eyes shot up to hers at the sound, and in an instant, his strangely neutral expression changed into one of annoyance.

"Don't do this, Margaret!", he snapped, making her jump at the sudden harshness in his voice. "D-do what?", she stuttered. "Pity me!"

With that his back was to her, as he dashed out of the bed, grabbing a pair of drawers and a shirt from a nearby chair and putting them on without looking at her. "John I – I was not-" She quickly rose and was beside him mere seconds later, her heart beating loudly against her ribcage. "John, please!" She reached out her hand to him, but he flinched away from her touch, still firmly turning his back to her.

He had never acted this hostile before. It took her off guard, and it hurt. "No, Margaret, it is over and done with", he huffed. "There is no use in dwelling on it."

John was not the kind of man to act in this way - to treat her so coldly. She had once regarded him as such a person, but had learned a long time ago that it had been a misconception. She did not know what had come over him now, but she suspected that it was not anger that was driving him. There was something else.

She wanted to touch him, to take him into her arms and apologize for overstepping his boundaries, but she did not dare. "I'm sorry", she breathed, as her vision blurred with unshed tears.

At the tone in her voice, John slowly turned and when he saw a tear rolling down her cheek, he was instantly hit by a pang of guilt. What had he done?

Suddenly his hands were on her upper arms, holding her gently, his face one of shock and guilt. "Oh Margaret, dearest, please don't cry!", he stuttered helplessly, rubbing his trembling hands up and down her arms in an attempt to soother her. "I am so sorry, I did not mean to lash out like that. I don't know what came over me."

She shook her head, her hands coming up to his sides. "That's not why I'm crying", she whispered. He looked at her in confusion. "I'm crying-", she muttered with a tear-strained voice, "because I can't bear to see you so hurt. I should not have reminded you of it. I swore to myself that I would not. I am sorry."

John was lost. He did not know how to tell her all that he was feeling. He did not want to keep secrets, he wanted her to know all of him, but he could not, however much he tried. He could not let go.

That strange darkness he had fought to keep at bay for years was still there, somewhere deep inside him. He had realized on the morning after their wedding night how hard it would prove to keep fighting it, now that Margaret was in his life.

Whenever she looked at him like this, whenever she touched him with her gentle hands, he was overcome with the urge to succumb to her. To break down, fall into her loving arms, and let it all out.

But he was afraid. Afraid, that the darkness would be too strong. That once he dared to confront it, it would swallow him whole and he would drown, never to make it back to the surface again. But how could he tell her? Already he felt a lump forming in his throat and he had to swallow hard to keep his emotions in check.

With shaking hands, he drew her to him, wrapping her in his embrace, as his chin came to rest on top of her head. "Dearest, I love you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I – I can't." It was all he was able to utter, but for some mysterious reason, Margaret understood.

"I know, John", she whispered, as she clung to him, "It's not your fault."

Something in her words touched the very core of him, threatening to break him with her softness. He leaned his forehead against her hair and closed his eyes, trying to catch himself, as the words tumbled out of him: "It's a pandora's box, Margaret. If I open it, it may never close again, and it scares me. I've made sure to keep the lid on it tightly for years, but with you here with me, it has become so hard."

She held him to her, feeling his breath against her forehead and his heart thumping wildly against her chest.

"You can't keep it shut forever, John", she whispered. "You do not need to carry all of this on your own. Do you think I don't see your struggle? I try not to mention it because I don't want to push you, but when we are together, even when you smile and laugh, I can see the pain in your eyes. I just wish that there was anything I could do to relieve it."

She felt him release a shuddering breath. "You don't deserve this, Margaret", he mumbled. "You should have married someone less broken."

Her head shot up at his words, her eyes boring into his in shock. "John, don't you dare say such a thing, you hear me?!" She cupped his face with both her hands, making him look at her. "Don't you dare even think it. I have never loved anyone in my life as much as I love you. All of you. I would not wish to be married to anyone else. I have no regrets."

She saw him struggle to comprehend her words, once again being reminded that he sometimes still had trouble understanding that anyone could care for him so much. She closed the distance between them and brought her lips to his passionately, knocking the breath right out of him as she tried to convey everything she felt through her touch.

For a few seconds, he just stood, frozen. Then the dam broke and he started responding to her kiss with an unconcealed urgency. It felt like he was a man dying of thirst and she was the last drop of water. They sunk down onto the bed, their bodies moving against each other almost violently.

They could not tell how much time had passed, when they came to their senses, naked and still entangled with each other, their breaths coming as heavy pants.

"I love you, Margaret", he breathed, clinging to her. "I love you, I'm sorry." "Hush!", she told him. "Stop apologizing. Whatever this is, we will get through it eventually. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But one day, we will. I promise you."