Mrs Thornton has visited Margaret to tell her how indecent her behaviour has been and how very glad she is that Margaret turned down her son when she had the chance of him. Things are going wrong at the mill. Thornton is fighting what he begins to know is a losing battle. It's time for Margaret to get a grip and try to sort things out. And now we totally depart from canon.

"It was a long and gloomy night that gathered on me, haunted by the ghosts of many hopes, of many dear remembrances, many errors, many unavailing sorrows and regrets." Charles Dickens

-OO-

Margaret visited the Mill after dusk but before the close of the working day. The mill yard was at this moment rather quiet, but shortly – she had timed it well – it would be teeming with workers like creatures streaming away from a fire. She slipped round the side of the house to where the factory sheds were, in the shadow of the great redbrick chimney looming over all, hoping to find Nicholas, but instead asked a passing stoker where she might find the Master.

"Think 'e's in packin' shed, Missus. Leastways thass where I last saw 'im," and he pointed it out to her.

The Packing Shed turned out to be another huge warehouse, dimly lit, furnished only with rows and rows of solid trestles covered in bales and yards and packages of snow-white cotton, flat and finished, in various states of muddle. She spied Mr Thornton down the far end; he had his hands hard down on the table and was leaning forward as he talked with some energy to a group of workers. No-one was interrupting him. Missing nothing, he had noticed her arrival, she saw his eyes flick her way, but he did not hurry. When finally he gestured them to go, they scattered off like little mice escaping a cat.

"What can I do for you, Miss Hale," he said with dry formality. "That is, I presume you're lookin' for me... unless you're wanting to sign on? God knows I could do with the extra pair of hands."

She tilted her head and fixed her eyes on his face: "Are they not working hard enough for you, Mr Thornton? After all, it's a matter of life and death getting cotton parcelled up and onto gurneys, I expect."

He went very still at that; drawing himself erect and looking at her unreadably. "It probably does seem amusin' to you, yes. Trivial, I've no doubt. Cotton that no-one wants to buy," he said after a moment. "But if we don't get this backlog filled, it's lookin' to me like we'll be foreclosed on before we can catch ourselves up. And the consequences of that might indeed be life and death for some, Miss Hale - " he stopped his own rising voice before he could really let fly.

She bit her lip, thoroughly shamed. "I'm sorry for my flippancy, Mr Thornton. I did not mean to make light of such a serious situation."

"You weren't to know. My troubles are no-one's concern but my own." He took a deep breath, seeming to make a conscious effort to break out of that world and into this one. He looked at her. "Presumably you've not come here to enjoy the atmosphere of cottonfluff and bankruptcy - ?" One quirked eyebrow invited her to speak.

"I wanted to talk with you, Mr Thornton. I am so tired of this. This – quarrel between us."

"All my fault, of course," beginning on anger again, the sensitive mouth twisting.

She persisted, "Not three hours ago, your mother insisted to me you are a man of honour – and you are, I know you to be. So -"

"My mother?"

This had been festering inside her for hours since Mrs Thornton's unexpected visit, it burst out of her: "Some time this morning I was surprised by a visit from your mother - who came to tell me how glad she was I refused you. Especially now I am apparently the talk of servants for my impropriety. But she was at pains to make it clear she never had liked me, even when I seemed decently behaved." Remembering it had made her angry all over again – this time her eyes were dry, blazing fiercely with the injustice and the rage she felt. "I am not worthy of you, apparently, Mr Thornton."

It was dark in the shed at this hour, the sun had long since sunk, leaving only a watery light through dirty panes, and only one small oil-lamp lit at the end of the working day. Their faces moved in and out of strange shadows as they stood, far apart, across the tables laid out with packages and bales, the end result of this mill's industry.

He gripped the edge of the table and stared at the window for a moment. "I'd not known she was intent on visitin' you or I'd've prevented her. I am sorry you had to hear that," he said quietly. "If that's how she spoke, then she spoke out of turn. And - " his chin sank deep into the high, unfastened collar of his white shirt as he turned his head to cast her a glance, "And I am sorry you left in distress the other day after my... unkindness. I also spoke out of turn." He paused a moment, reaching for a phrase, for a moment of true connection, and said quietly - "We have not been very good for one another, you an' me."

She sighed, her head drooping. "And I fear we are both too disturbed to speak well now. I had hoped we would remain more reasonable, but, as usual, we have inflamed one another. But I will not let this drop, Mr Thornton. I will not. I cannot have you and your mother so convinced in this... illusion of my dishonour. Which you hardly resisted. You seemed even eager to believe it."

"What else am I to believe? I thought you might explain. I waited for you to. It would have been so easy to clear up, if innocent." He wished he had not used that word. In his muddle of thoughts there were two Margaret Hales, one sweet and, yes, innocent in all, as he had always thought her to be; one far from it, impure and conniving; and yet there could only be one. It confused him so. His expressive face showed something of this, a pattern forming and reforming on his brow, across his flickering eyes.

"You refused, for anxiety about 'sparing another man's feelings'."

"Mr Thornton. Could you not for once cease looking through that lens of your own where you think you see me but never quite do? It was not a man's feelings I was sparing, I did not say that. I said I wished to spare him harm. "

He was hearing her out but breathing hard now, a slick of sweat running down his cheek from under his hair. "You feared I'd have harmed him? Because I harmed Henry, who was daft enough to try word-games on wi' me, expectin' an easy win?"

"No, of course I do not think that. You know I do not." She took in two deep breaths, to calm herself. "I am going to say this very plainly, Mr Thornton. You have left me no alternative. Can you think of NO circumstance in which this situation, which is so clearly conflicting to anyone who would know me at all, could have been so mistaken?" She waited, then added, "for example, if you were seen with Fanny, embracing as she departed on a journey you knew she would never return from, by someone who did not know your circumstances?"

He was a quick-thinking man. She watched him arrive at some understanding, rapid movements of his eyes under his lids along with his thoughts.

She turned away from him, staring at the oil-lamp flickering on the wall, "Why do you always think the worst of me?"

"I could ask you the same thing. Why you do not like me and never have."

He remembered that. Word for word. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth and looked ruefully into his face. "I am ashamed of saying that. It was not even true at the time."

In the soft strange light, her eyes looked dark and shining. He was silent, his eyes creased and frowning, his fingers folding and unfolding at his sides, this quick-acting, decisive man thrown into uncertainty by the trial of this conversation, which he was not armed for tonight.

She said urgently, for she was quite determined they would lay these difficult things to rest before another daybreak:

"Think, Mr Thornton. As I said to you in Crampton, I have a better opinion of you than you do of me, now. I don't dislike you any more. How could I, when you have been so kind to my poor parents?"

He paused at that, then: "It is that, is it, which has earned some approval from you?"

"Oh no! Not just that." She paused, gathering her thoughts, she had to get this right. "That, and – seeing you as you are."

She had no speech prepared, but it all unfolded as naturally as if she had been thinking on it a while, revolving these impressions in her head, a kaleidoscope of the man and this the final picture that had formed -

"The Mr Thornton who talks of the wonders of the world with so much curiosity, eager for knowledge. Who is so clever with this, all this – "she gestured around her – "with great machines and the complexities of trade. A man who has looked after his mother so well she glows with pride. A man who earned my father's love and friendship by just being himself. A Master who does his best for his workers, such as my dear friend Bessy; that your precautions were not soon enough for her were not your fault, and they may save tens or hundreds in future, I understand."

She could see she had astonished him; he had not expected things to take this turn. Even now he was testing out her words against what he knew, seeing if they could be made to fit.

"That is how I think of you now. So you can see, Mr Thornton, how I have changed. Mr Higgins says Stevens deserved your anger and even your violence, for risking the Mill and its people in the way he did so carelessly. I now understand perfectly what kind of a man you are," her voice rose – "but just when I came to that understanding – then you... judged me in the way you have, and you judged me harshly and wrongly. And now I'm asking you to cast off your false impressions as I have done, and then can we not see if we can be friends?"

He was trying to take it in. "This seems a strange place to have this kind of conversation," he said inconsequentially, looking off to one side, just as during another struggle he had once talked of the colour of fruit...

She lifted her chin, looked around at its gloomy simplicity, nothing here except that which needed to be. "I like it," she said. "It is an – honest place. I have grown to love this Mill, for all it represents and the people in it."

He acknowledged that with a glance. "It's one I feel at home in, god knows, I see little else than these vast an' dusty places. But you would be more comfortable seated, surely."

He took her into an office she had never seen before, with a desk, and a chair, and bare, whitewashed walls – "the overseer's office," he said as he went to light the lamps. "The former incumbent thought he'd leave this doomed ship of mine before it hits the rocks. So it will be your Mr Higgins' office next week – if we're still 'ere beyond Tuesday." The sudden burst of light as the lamps flamed up cast a strong clarity into the room; now they were out of the shadows they could see one another better. She in her fresh white blouse, he rumpled and dusty after a day of work. The maiden and the honest working man.

"I am so glad you have given Mr Higgins work. He will repay you, I know," she took a seat in the chair he held out for her.

"An' that he already has. He works overtime off his own head, tries to chivvy 'em to workin' sharp an' fast. Doin' all he can an' more to get us through this rough patch. Loyal to me, which I hadn't expected..."

He ran a hand through his hair, paced around the tiny room. It had thrown him to have moved so abruptly from one mood to another - at one moment so intense and the next, talking of these littler things. And he was feeling unwell, time and work and stress catching up on him, but he could not bear to show weakness in front of her. His mother had always been very firm on this. He was not allowed to be tired. He must never be ill. It was not manly.

He turned back to her, taking a deep breath – "Where is this conversation headin', Miss Hale? I am glad you think better of me than you once did. I apologise for misunderstanding – for the conclusions I jumped to. And for my mother's harsh words – " He realised he was going to have to sit down, quite soon, and she was in the only chair. He took two steps back, unobtrusively feeling for the support of the wall. He thought he had covered everything in that short speech, which had been difficult to come by in the labyrinthine fog of his thoughts. She would feel she could go now, surely.

"Your mother works hard to turn you away from me," she said with a flare of anger. "But then we know, she approves of Miss Latimer. If only she knew, you have managed to turn yourself away from me with no help from her."

Because he was so tired, he had hoped they had got past challenges and were moving towards farewells. But it seemed she had not yet finished with him after all. He leaned on the wall for a breathing space, shoved his hands in his pockets, and looked at her, picking up the thread again. "Why do you talk so much of Miss Latimer, Miss Hale?"

"Perhaps the same reason you speak so often of Mr Lennox!" she retorted sharply – which fell like a rock into a glassy pool.

He said after a moment, "Miss Latimer means nothing to me."

She burst out with, "Yet she hangs on your arm at every chance, and looks up into your eyes smiling, and you smile back down at her, so easy of manner!"

This she had certainly not intended to say. But seeing him with the woman on his arm at his sister's wedding had sparked off something she had struggled with more bitterly than she should. After all, he could walk out with anyone he wished, he did not belong to her -

He had wanted to belong to her.

Once upon a time he had begun on asking her if she might want him, too. His manner had been ... hesitant, endearing, with a sweetness about it. Fumbling his way through words that were difficult to find.

But not only had she told him that she did NOT want him, she had told him she did not even like him – how she must have hurt this sensitive, highly-strung man. She bit her lip, worrying.

He was answering her, making a small, impatient gesture. "I scarcely notice she is there. Smiles an' words which don't matter come easily."

"You have no thought of marrying her?" This was a ghost she had to lay to rest, and she had been so very honest with him herself; it seemed a fair question, but she dreaded his answer. The chair she sat on was so hard, no comfort at all. She shifted imperceptibly.

"No, Miss Hale, I have no thought of marrying Miss Latimer," he said, with emphasis on every word. "Indeed," he added, "I know now I'll likely not marry at all."

"Mr Thornton," she said with exasperation, "Those sound like the words of a martyr, not a hero. You are not at the age yet where you can say such a thing and mean it."

He managed a small smile, at the irony of it. "I'm no-one's hero, Miss Hale."

She had been letting her eyes run over him, taking in his shirt, soft and starchless after a day of wear. And those shadows around his eyes, which had not gone away in this brighter room. She had suddenly realised from something about his manner that he was longing for her to go but lacked the energy to force it. All fight had gone out of him. He was simply waiting for this to end.

She was shocked at the sudden realisation that he looked ill – his skin so pale he looked ghostly, smudges of fatigue under his lashes, restless on his feet, breathing fast and light, unable to settle.

"You look so tired. Do you ever leave work for sleep?"

"There are problems here, Miss Hale, as I'm sure you've picked up on. And then this – " his helpless gesture encompassed everything between them, focussed down now to this moment in this room.

Her father, nodding by the fire, unwilling to give in to sleep. His words becoming more of a ramble than sense. How she would pick up his fallen book, and take his glasses from his hand, and softly urge him out of his chair and to bed...

"Mr Thornton. You are not well," she said gently. "Forgive me; this is the last thing you needed today. I should not have put you through it."

His fingers pressed into his eyes. "Don't concern yourself about me, Miss Hale. I have a ... headache that is all. It is not an illness. They go, after sleep."

She stood up and went to him. She hesitated for just one moment, then took his hands down - taken by surprise, they put up no resistance - held them in her own and looked into his face. "I have to ask you something. It is the last question I promise. Do you believe me? That the man at Outwood was not and could never be what you thought he was?"

She waited on his answer, anxious butterflies fluttering inside. On what he said next, everything hung, everything. If he still thought she was the sort of woman at ease in any man's arms...

She was swimming in and out of his focus. He felt the sweet pressure of her small hands, steadfastly giving him her strength, her comfort, but it could not help him, no-one could. "Yes, I believe you," he said, almost inaudible. He was having to breathe carefully, not to intensify the dull vague pounding in his head that was making him nauseous, and dizzy. Abruptly he was back at the Great Exhibition. The rhythmic haul and release of great pistons, hissing as to force steam through narrow channels. A giant hammer, waiting to fall. To crush a bale of steel, or halt, juddering, on the shell of an egg –

He swayed. She steadied him. His eyes came open, pinprick pupils flying wide and dark.

"Mr Thornton," she said urgently. "I will leave you now... I see you need some time alone. Will you visit me in Crampton tonight? I know you are fit to faint right now. But find one more piece of courage and come to me in a little while. I give you my word, you will have no more trouble from me today," and her smile for him was sweet as he had never seen it before, promising him some comfort he could not imagine, but in his place of utter loneliness he clung to that promise throughout the maelstrom hour of pain and sickness to come.

-OO-

Author's notes:

This was a tough chapter to write and possibly to read. But it has to be - they have to face up to all these canonical misunderstandings sometime before they can move on! and that is the last chapter of J/M conflict... the next chapter is my favourite, poor Mr Thornton gets some comfort he so desperately needs, so stay with me till then :)

Thank you in advance to anyone who takes the time to leave a reivew, I am always thrilled to get one.