AN: You're probably wondering why this story jumped up to the front of the feed. I've finally got around to editing this wee beauty back into shape. I even republished a chapter towards the end. I think you'll find it better than it was. (You'll also probably find typos. No one's perfect, loves). Give her a reread if it's been a while. Or read her for the first time and give me a chance to steal your soul. I promise you'll love it. Cheers.


Friday: December 23, 2005

Margaret Hale arrived in Milton, Connecticut on a dreary winter's day, the grey clouds striped with smoke from the factories that rose towering up against the sky. She hugged her coat to herself and stepped from the terminal, shouldering her pack, pulling her suitcase behind her. She looked around her, tired and spent, wishing her stomach would settle.

The flight hadn't been kind to her but air travel never was. The wind rushed past her, forcing its icy fingers into every crack and crevice of her clothing. Margaret blinked back tears, and pressed forwards to a line of yellow taxi cabs.

"Where to?" The cab driver gazed past her as she fumbled with her bag looking for the address. "I don't have all day, sweetheart."

Margaret shoved her bag aside, "The college then. You can drop me at the Main Building."

Margaret watched as the city skyline drew nearer, the cab zigzagging through the busy streets. She clutched her pack to her chest, feeling the sharp form of her mother's parting gift. She unzipped the bag and pulled out the dusty polaroid camera. Margaret ran a finger over the ridges and into the crevices, wiping the dust from her finger. She blew on the viewfinder.

She ripped opened the covering of a film packet and fumbled with loading the old camera. She clutched it to her chest, turning to stare out the window. A massive stone church loomed in front of her as the cab came over the rise of a hill and Margaret caught her breath. After snapping her first photograph in Milton, she craned her neck, drinking in the sight of the ancient building until she could no longer see it.

Her mother's goodbye had been cold and limp, her thin arms lying flatly on Margaret's shoulders in a weak display of affection. Margaret forgave her when she saw the pain behind her mother's eyes, looking past her. Three months before, her father had offered for Margaret to come live with him soon after the finality of her mother's condition became clear. Margaret wouldn't admit she'd jumped at the chance to put as much distance between herself and the weight of her mother's long and weary sickness. It wouldn't be long, the doctors said. There was nothing more to do but wait.

Before she left for the airport, Dale Dixon handed Margaret a large parcel and patted her shoulder awkwardly.

"She wanted you to have this."

"What is it?"

"Open it."

Margaret had hugged the box to her chest, raised her chin, and turned away without another word.

She paid for her cab, and turned, scanning the buildings before her. Milton University was deserted for the holidays. It took nearly an hour to locate her father's office. She rapped on the door and heard his soft tenor, so familiar and yet so strange.

"Come in."

Father and daughter regarded each other in an odd silence.

"Why, Maggie dear, you're early," Richard Hale stood and walked around his cluttered desk, glancing at the clock on the wall. "Dear me, it seems the opposite. I'm late."

Margaret's smile tightened but when her dad pulled her into a rough and genuine hug she felt warmer than she had in months.

Richard Hale pulled back and smiled down at her, tapping her nose like he had when she was a child, his eyes sparkling, "How was your journey?"

"Not too bad," Margaret was unconvinced by her tone and she saw her father search her face. She straightened her shoudlers and schooled her features, "I could use a cuppa, to be honest."

Her father patted his jacket pockets and smiled in triumph when he produce a set of keys. "Anything is better after a cup of tea."

Margaret smiled a true smile at the familiar words. He always said that.

An hour later, she sat staring into the cheery fire, her hands wrapped around a cup of good English tea. She smiled at the scones and butter and jam sitting at her elbow and sighed. How she missed England. She'd not been there for five years but she still longed for it, even if London had never been home. Margaret sighed again, shoving down a sharp sense of weary loneliness. She no more expected Milton to be home than any of the other places she had lived.


Sunday: December 25, 2006

"Dad?" Margaret shuffled sleepily into the tiny kitchen and stopped in surprise at the sight of her father making pancakes.

"Happy Christmas, Margaret." He glanced up with a mild smile, "Did you sleep?"

"Certainly, I did." Margaret sat at the table, "I'm not twelve, Dad, all anxious for Father Christmas."

"Do you want blueberries in your pancakes, or chocolate?"

"Blueberries."

Mr Hale sprinkled the cakes on the griddle with fresh blueberries and turned them. He glanced at Margaret and paused at the thoughtful smile on her face, "What is it, my dear?"

"It's just. . . you're cooking. I don't think I remember you ever making anything but tea."

"Necessity is the mother of invention, I suppose. My first few attempts at pancakes were dreadful, if not inedible."

"If you get tired of eating pancakes, I can always cook something up."

"Oh no, you needn't bother."

"I don't mind, Dad."

"I do make other things besides pancakes," He added almost as an afterthought.

Margaret opened her mouth to insist on helping in the kitchen, but swallowed it when she saw the look on her father's face.

"I can't wait to try them all."

Mr Hale brightened, "Do you really mean it?"

"Of course."

There were a few presents under the scrawny tree, which made Margaret blush when she remembered she had brought nothing for her father except a necktie, which now seemed unimaginative and juvenile.

After the wrapping papers were cleared away, and a pot of tea settled on the side table with plenty of biscuits, father and daughter sat in silence. Margaret fiddled with her camera, watching her dad as he stuffed his pipe, lit it, and puffed a few long breaths. He settled himself into a more comfortable position and picked up a large leather volume, opening to a ribbon page marker. Margaret watched him read for a long moment before she raised her camera and snapped his photograph, the sound cutting through the crackle of the fire. She watched the photograph develop with scrutinizing attention. She was getting better.

"Did your mother give you that?"

Margaret looked up at the sudden question, stiffening.

"I'm sorry, I just wondered if you had a Christmas—before leaving."

"Not exactly," Margaret spoke slowly, "I did ask her for an old quilt and this camera, but that was awhile ago when we decided I would be leaving."

"I see." Mr. Hale took his pipe out of his mouth and looked into the bowl, tapping out the ashes into the fire, "Nothing else?"

"No—yes," She remembered the parcel Mr Dixon gave her. "There was one other thing, but I haven't opened it."

"Well, it is Christmas."

Margaret fetched the box from her room, and sat on the couch, carefully slitting the bright red paper. Tears flooded her eyes as she lifted the creamy white lid and pulled aside the tissue. She looked up at her father who was watching her.

"Do you like it?"

"Did you—"

"We both did, but your mother chose it. I thought dark green was a lovely colour for you."

The heavy suffocating weight pressed harder on Margaret's heart as she thought of her parents setting aside their differences one last time.

Just for her.


Tuesday: January 3, 2006

"How shall you spend the rest of your holiday, my dear? You ought not be cooped up in the house with me, or at my office."

"I dunno, Dad," Margaret was helping her dad chop carrots for a roast dinner. "It's a nice city, but there doesn't seem to be much to do."

"True," Mr Hale peeled the potatoes, his mind seeming to wander. At last he laid down the peeler, drying his hands, "I will say Milton has some wonderful examples of historic architecture."

"Oh?" Margaret looked up, curious.

"There's a charming old manufacturing district that may interest you. Milton was one of the pioneering cities in cotton production, I believe. Many of the old buildings are still there, being put to new use. You might wander down to the truck yards."

"Truck yards?" Margaret transferred the carrots to the roasting pot.

"Many of the old manufacturing buildings were gutted for use by small shipping companies. I think you would enjoy poking around."

"Poking around a truck yard?" Margaret's voice was flat. She tossed a doubtful glance over her shoulder. Her father was standing at the junk drawer, pushing through the bits of paper, staples, and pencils until he drew out a battered business card.

"If you do go, Margaret, you should visit my friend, John Thornton. I'm sure he'd show you as many old buildings as would satisfy even you."

Margaret took the card and glanced at it, "Is he a truck driver?"

"John? Heavens, no. He's an owner," Mr Hale smiled, waiting for her response.

Margaret swallowed a sigh and gave what she hoped was a bright smile, "I'll pay him a visit this afternoon if you can spare me in the kitchen. I'd like to explore at bit before school begins."

"I can most certainly spare you, my dear. Tell John hello for me, won't you?"


By the end of an hour, Margaret bitterly missed the efficiency of the New York City subway. The bus system in Milton was passable at best, but she soldiered on, determined not to be beaten.

She couldn't help but admire the old buildings in the old downtown district. The brick and mortar of the past stood proud and tall as Margaret's eyes roved over them. She stepped off the bus and braced herself for familiar rush of the icy wind. The wind in Milton was persistent and unforgiving.

A lorry rumbled past the bus, sloshing grey snow in its passing. Margaret checked her camera, and shouldered through the wind, following in the truck's wake. Though she didn't relish the idea of popping in on her father's friend, her curiosity got the better of her. She was drawn to the haunting old manufacturing building like a moth to the flame.

Mr Thornton had done little to improve on the design, marrying the necessities of modern business with the skeleton of the past. She wandered down the drive, her eyes drinking in the sight. If this Mr Thornton was as old as his building, he was certain to be a bore.

The loading dock for the trucks was occupied by a handful of rough looking men, hustling about the newly arrived truck as the driver backed towards the bay. Margaret fingered her camera not caring that she had no business in the yard. Her eyes traveled over the building again, coming to rest on a tall figure dressed in a grey suit, so dark it was almost black.

The man wearing it stood at the top of a quarter-flight of stairs, leaning forward on the rails, watching the activity with a look that burned down on what he saw. He commanded the scene before him while remaining separate from it, Margaret thought. Behind him, her eyes traveled over the words "Marlborough Shipping Depot," blazed in white peeling paint.

"Can I help you, ma'am?" A grizzled man appeared at her elbow, startling her.

"I hope so," Margaret was still staring at the man in the dark suit. She shook herself.

"I'm Tucker Williams, the dispatcher for Marlborough Shipping. What can we do for you?"

"I'm here to see Mr Thornton. He's a friend of my father."

"You'll have to wait in his office," The old man glanced back over his shoulder, "That's him there but he's busy at the moment."

Margaret only tore her gaze away when the sounds of shouts reached her ears. One of the men, large and red-faced, staggered forward, swearing,

"Don't you fuck with me, Smokey. I'll fuck you to hell and back, I swear to God,"

"Fuck off, Groucher, we have work to do."

"What'd you say?"

"You heard me."

The red-faced man, took swing at the smaller man, who ducked. Margaret's eyes widened as a full blown fist fight broke out, the men slamming at each other's bodies with hard unforgiving blows. She stared in horror, unmoving.

"Stevens!" The shout thundered over the scuffle as Mr Thornton jumped over the rail and rushed at the two brawling truck drivers, "Boucher!"

One man looked back at the shout, as the other man threw a solid punch to his chin, knocking him off his feet. John Thornton walked straight at the man who threw the punch, grabbed him by the shirt, and tossed him aside with a firm shove.

"Ain't no problem, Master," He slurred, swaying as he regained his feet, "Wouldn't want to dirty your pretty suit now would we?"

Mr Thornton moved without hesitation, and in one swift motion, pulled a gun from under his jacket and held it inches from the man's face.

"What is he doing?" Margaret gasped, stumbling forward.

Mr Williams stepped after her, "Leave it be, ma'am."

"You've got thirty seconds, Groucher before I pull this trigger."

The man spat, tipping sideways, eyes shifting from the gun to Mr Thornton's face, "I got me a load to drive, Master. Stevens is always trying to snivel up to you, when we both know I'm worth ten of him. I got my kids to think of."

"Start walking," Mr Thornton stepped forward, forcing the man to step back. "Now."

"Stop!" The sound exploded from Margaret's throat as she rushed up, grabbing at Mr Thornton's arm, "Are you mad?"

Mr Thornton glanced sideways at her, his face dark, "Who the hell are you?" He shook her off and took another step forward, the man called Boucher flinching back.

"Stop this," Margaret ignored his question, ice in her voice, "or I will call the police."

"Williams, get this girl out of here," Mr Thornton shouted over his shoulder, striding forward, keeping the firearm trained on the stumbling man, chasing him out of the yard. "Get out and don't come back."

Mr Williams put a hand above her elbow, gently guiding Margaret towards the building, "Come with me."

"He can't do that," Margaret gasped, shaking his arm off, "Aren't you going to do something?"

When the man was gone, Mr Thornton turned and stalked back, the gun hanging loose at his side, "Show's over," he growled at the men loitering about, enjoying the spectacle, "Back to work."

"Can I call a cab for you, Miss?" Williams opened the door into the building for Margaret.

"Hale. I'm Margaret Hale," She said, spitting the words out, her body trembling with adrenaline. Her eyes followed the suited Mr Thornton, until Williams succeeded in getting her inside. "Won't you call the police?"

"The police?"

"He pulled a gun," Margaret was seething. "A loaded gun and threatened to shoot a man."

"Oh, that," Williams shrugged, "Don't you mind that."

"Then I would like to have a word with him myself."

"You?" The older man eyed her, "Have a word with Mr Thornton?"

"Yes."

"You should go on home, Miss Hale. This ain't a place for a nice girl like you. I'll call you a cab."

"No, thank you," Margaret gritted her teeth, "I'll see myself home."


John Thornton stormed into his office, the door slamming against the wall. Boucher was drunker than John had ever seen him and he felt his temper getting the better of him. He pulled out the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet and set his gun down. He shoved it closed and locked it. Boucher was a damn fool. John shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it on the desk, looking up when he heard Williams clear his throat.

"Was that necessary?" The older man poured a cup of coffee from the machine— long cold— handing it to him.

"By my reckoning," He sat at his desk and took a drink, making a face, feeling his temper simmer down. "I'm lucky I had it on me."

"You going to fire him?"

He eyed the older man over his coffee, "Not today."

"I'll make another note in his file," Williams poured out the dregs from the machine.

"Give his next haul to someone else."

"That won't go over well."

"He knows better than to show up hammered."

Williams sighed, "Anything I need to know about the bank meeting?"

"We got approved to refinance our loan."

Williams nodded.

John shoved his coffee aside, unbuttoned his cuffs, and rolled up his sleeves. He pulled out a stack of papers and began to sort through them, "You get that girl taken care of?"

"She left."

John shook his head, feeling his anger rise all over again. The fool girl could have gotten shot, or worse, "Who the hell was she?"

"Miss Margaret Hale."

He looked up, a puzzled frown melting through the anger on his face, "Hale?"

"That's what she told me."

"Did she say what she was doing here?"

"Might have. You're lucky she didn't call the police. Fit to be tied, that one."

"I've half a mind to call them on her."

"She mentioned her dad was a friend."

John raised his eyebrows, "I'll be damned."

"Who is she?"

"Richard Hale's daughter."

"The old parson?"

"That's him."

Williams shook his head, "I don't recall you mentioning a daughter."

John shrugged and sat heavily in his chair. As old as Mr. Hale was, John just assumed his only daughter would be in her late thirties.

"Can't figure how she ended up in the middle of the yard," Williams scratched his chin. "I ain't never seen anything like it. She was fired up, let me tell you."

"She's a damn fool. And a trespasser." John said, turning his mind to his work. He'd spent more than enough time on Margaret Hale.

"True," Williams smirked and let out low whistle, "Mighty fine to look at though."

John's eyes snapped to Williams' face, "Get to work, Williams."


Wednesday: January 11, 2006

Margaret sat through her first day of classes at Milton University with mild disinterest. She hadn't told her father that she was registered for his ethics class. He would try to dissuade her, arguing there was an ethical dilemma in the fact that she was his daughter.

Margaret, however, knew her father was just the lecturer and the actual graded work would be assigned from the grad students in the recitation sections. She planned to argue her point until he gave in—which he would, of course.

Mr Hale took out a piece of chalk and began writing on the blackboard:

Pride and Prejudice

"Don't worry, you're still in an ethics class," Mr Hale said underlining the words. He turned to face his students, "I believe ethics are best examined here, in the divisions between people's convictions and expectations. Now, I'm an Englishman by birth and the problems Miss Austen laid forth were—and many times are still—very real in my country. America though,"

Mr Hale glanced around the room, eyes twinkling at Margaret as he met her smile and moved on, "America doesn't have these same issues of birth and ranking and inequality. Or do you?"

He raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Yeah, we do," A blonde girl with a pixie cut muttered.

The class laughed.

"Some would agree with you," Mr Hale continued. "And many would disagree. Isn't that the point? Divisions are all around us. How might one describe the divisions of America generally speaking?"

"Rich and poor?" Someone said.

"Well done. Others?" Mr Hale wrote quickly.

"Liberal and Conservative?"

"Good," Mr Hale's hand hovered with the chalk, ready to write. "Any others?"

"North and South," said a deep growling voice from the back corner.

Margaret turned her head towards the back of the classroom as John Thornton looked up from his notes. Her mouth fell open in surprise, her face flushing as they locked eyes.

How could he be here? And in a college classroom?

She hadn't noticed him when she walked in, but he was the same man, with the same commanding presence; except now he was dressed in a a brown canvas jacket over a plaid shirt, with worn jeans, and a rough pair of work boots. A faded red ball cap with his company's logo covered his black hair.

He narrowed his eyes, shooting her a daring look.

Margaret glared back.

"Excellent," Mr. Hale slapped the words up on the board. "We could also compare East coast and West coast. Interestingly enough, the ideologies encompassed by the words 'North' and 'South,' have less to do with the physical locations, even if that's where they originated. The separation, however, is still present. This class will examine the ethical questions that so strictly divide this country in particular."


John stood as soon as the class was dismissed, his eyes skittering over the crowd, resting on Margaret Hale again. He pulled out his phone and switched it on. There was a shipment to check and he was burning daylight. He wove through the tangle of students milling about the halls, stepping around the corner by the water fountain.

"Williams, did Groucher show up today?"

"He did, but I sent him home. I got his haul covered like you said."

"Who?"

"Slick."

"Figures."

"Groucher was spitting nails."

"Serves him right."

"You coming in?"

"Should be," John heard his name, and glanced over his shoulder, seeing Richard Hale waving him down. "Half an hour."

He disconnected the call, shoving the phone into his back pocket. He turned and greeted his friend.

"How are you, John? How's business?"

"Good," He shook the older man's hand.

"I'm delighted you are joining us again this semester. Any other classes?"

"Just the one."

"Excellent. John, you've met my daughter, Maggie, haven't you?" Mr Hale turned and revealed Margaret Hale who was studying the floor in front of her with a fierce determined look.

He took the opportunity to really look at her. Margaret Hale wasn't tall, but not short either. Her hair was a dark brown, contrasting with pale skin and a vibrant pair of clear blue eyes. He called her a girl before but John figured 'woman' was a far more accurate term.

John waited in silence until she raised her eyes, giving him an icy stare, before she said, "It's Margaret."

Richard cleared his throat. When John saw the old man's puzzled look, he took off his hat, turning toward him, "We've met."

"How did you like Marlborough Shipping, my dear?"

When Margaret didn't answer John stepped forward, "I had to break up a fight between two of my drivers while she was there."

"Break up a fight?" Margaret raised her chin, "I watched you threaten a defenseless man with a gun."

"Did you really?" Richard asked, looking surprised.

John ran a hand through his hair, "I did what I had to."

Margaret looked at him without any attempt to hide her disgust, "Any decent human being would never threaten an innocent man—"

"Tom Boucher is a bully and he was drunk," John interrupted. "The greatest danger to my men and their livelihood is substance abuse. I don't tolerate it. What you saw was a warning."

"It looked more like a threat."

"It was." He folded his arms, "The gun wasn't loaded."

"Is that supposed to make me think better of you?" Margaret scoffed, a mocking smile on her face.

"Think what you like. How I choose to run my business is my business."

"Well, he's not the only one who's a bully."

John narrowed his eyes but was cut off by the short insistent ring from his phone. "Excuse me, Richard," He nodded to the older man and put his hat back on. He pulled out his phone and turned his gaze down on Margaret, "Miss Hale."

She drew herself up and walked past him. John watched her go as he answered the call, his eyes keeping track of her until she turned the corner. Williams was right—she was a fine woman to look at. More than fine, if John were being honest, which he wasn't inclined to be at the moment.

But Margaret Hale was also a firecracker with a damn short fuse.