-OO-

I know times are gettin' hard
But just believe me, girl
Someday I'll pay the bills...
We'll have the life we knew we would
My word is good

– (Hey there, Delilah)

or, in the words of Mr Dickens

Annual income 20 pounds, annual expenditure 20 pounds ought and six, result misery. '

-OO-

Bell visited the Master of Marlborough in his small office at the Mill. This difficult conversation could not be put off any longer. He came straight to the point:

"I've looked at the books, Thornton, and it's clear there's not enough come in to pay next month's rent, though I can see you've covered the payroll. Which is good! We wouldn't want any difficulties with the hands for the next tenant – well Thornton, no need to look at me like that – you don't need me to tell you you're in a difficult situation here."

"As you say. I've no need of you to tell me that," with black, black sarcasm.

"Forget the Mill for a moment. What are your intentions regarding Margaret, Thornton?" Hands behind his back, he walked around the gloomy, dusty room, fastidiously glad he did not have to run this ghastly place himself.

Thornton's head shot up and he transfixed him with a hard, dark stare. "Is that any of your business?" Now that particular name had been spoken he had come awake a bit, looked as if he were arming up to be dangerous, possibly as if he were preparing to run Bell through with his sword.

"Well...yes," Bell told him with a sorry smile. "First, I am her godfather; second, as his executor I have looked over Mr Hale's will and there is not much for her. A few hundred pounds a year."

"What are you suggestin'? That she's in danger to starve or walk the streets?" Thornton's sneer would have stripped the skin off a crocodile. "No-one's going to let that happen, Bell."

"I'm suggesting... that what she doesn't need... is a husband who is himself without resources."

"A man prepared to work every hour at any thing will never be without resources," Thornton snapped, earning a glance of surprised respect.

"But you see – to be plain about this – I can see Margaret has formed an attachment to you... would you agree with that, Thornton? Ah, I see you will not discuss it – well, that is my impression and I am not often wrong."

There was a silence. He had put the other man into a temper he could see, the scowl was dark and furious, his pen tapping up and down on the desk.

Bell leaned over it and looked right into the man's narrowed, angry eyes, and spoke with emphasis: "I'm thinking... if you want the best for Margaret... if you truly care for her - you should put aside any thoughts of marrying her. Release her from any arrangement that might have been made.

Thornton said angrily. "Does Miss Hale get a say in this, Bell?"

Bell seemed to be brought up by short by that for a moment, eyeing him speculatively: then he resumed, "Thornton, she is young. She will feel the pain of it, to be sure, you know how young women lose their hearts to a pretty face, but if you explain your attachment to her is not long-lasting... "

"Oh yes, very easy. I can't see any problems with that at all," Thornton shot back, tilting him a violently sarcastic glare. "Would you care to give me the words to use? Cos all the ones I'm thinking of... she'd not believe me."

"...she will get over it with time, and be happy as any of us ever are, with a more... suitable man. Give her a chance of a comfortable marriage with someone well set-up, and kind."

"You have someone in mind of course."

Bell sighed, a little ashamed of himself for secretly enjoying watching Thornton seethe with jealous rage. "Imagine it, Thornton. Margaret, so delicately brought up. Wearing a pretty dress – a little faded now, a little over-mended - awaiting the return of a husband who comes home late smelling of the mines, and dirty... black hands, and nails... grimy to the pore. Or after a day following horses with a shovel - "

"That's the future you see for me, is it?" Thornton said, deadly. "I 'ad no idea your opinion of me was so high."

"Perhaps she will have to work at Slickson's mill, herself – "

"Never."

Bell eyed the man speculatively, tapping his cane up and down thoughtfully, then appeared to decide to speak: "At this point, I am wondering perhaps if I could make you a financial inducement – a tidy sum – to 'make your excuses and leave', as it were - Ah - no? All right, all right, sit down, man! Violence to me is only going to make things worse for you, you fool!" he backed off rapidly. "Well, have it your own way, Thornton." He went to pick up his hat, dust off his gloves, stiff with mournful reproach, turning as he got to the door.

"I have appealed to your sense of honour," he sighed theatrically. "I shall leave you to think about that. And Thornton – I know you. I am strangely sure you will do the right thing. "

-OO-

The darkest hour of his life. Squatting like a stamped scorpion in the ruins of it all. The least of it and yet the worst was the destruction of the little warmth and hope he had been allowing to build, knowing that while he had lost everything he had worked for here, at least he was going to see her tonight. She would want him there and he would come and they might spend another evening like the last. Gentle with one another. Comforting her in her sorrows, as she had tenderly helped him with his so he could sleep.

Now he could not see in all conscience how he could go to her at all, or, much worse, if he could find the courage, he must go, only to tell her – to tell her that, after everything which had passed between them, he was going to leave her; that they would never be alone together ever again.

Because Bell, of course, had been right. It had been a fool's dream to believe he could somehow make everything work out. What had he been thinking? He could not, would not, settle upon her a year of miserable poverty. Not even a month. It was enough that he faced years as the laughing-stock of Milton, for folk love nothing more than to glory in the downfall of someone high; he could not put her through that as well.

He realised with bitterness he could not even tell her that. For what would she say but – he knew her now - 'nothing matters except we should be together'' looking up at him with her big soft eyes, and he was not sure he would be strong enough to go through with it. He would have to be swift; and cruel. He had been so before - any foolish passion I might once have had...... he could do it again, it should come easily once he got started on it.

How funny that she had once, long ago, accused him of being lucky. Blessed. Last night he had been given what he wanted most in the world. And immediately he had lost it.

He did not even notice the several interruptions he had in this terrible hour – the supervisor, come to report to him that one young miss had been sent home, in great distress with her monthlies; the complaint of a boiler-man that the tongs needed replacing as there had been a small burn to a stoker's hand – all this he dealt with with a grim-faced efficiency and a dark, deep demeanour that caused more than one to comment that 'things must be very 'ard – Master looked like he had the devil on 'im today - like he'd looked into a fiery coach to hell and realised he was holdin' a ticket– '

Eventually, as sounds and people died away with the slow falling of dusk, he realised he was very tired, as he often was lately, though usually he drove himself through it. It did not seem to matter than he should struggle any more. He laid his head on his forearms, and slept.

-OO-

Author's notes

It really is ok. 10 mins, I promise, and he'll be right as a trivet again. Ouch though! I really can't bear John to be sad... Margaret always seems so much more resilient to me... anyway, very soon they are both going to be the happiest people in the world...!