Margaret manages to explain at last what has weighed so heavy on her.

-OO-

John Thornton had no hopes or expectations of this unexpected turn of events – he had long ago accepted that his unwanted love for this young woman was to have no happy ending – and he was only puzzled and anxious at the demeanour of the pale girl who sat so still and quiet in his office, staring unseeingly at the clock on the wall. It was clear she was not well.

"I am sorry I had to leave you so long," he said, closing the door behind him. "One of the maids is bringing hot tea for you... you look so cold." He moved to stoke up the stove, watched the flames flare up with yellow tips and then collapse into a red, simmering glow.

"Has my Aunt left?" Margaret turned her head to look at him, and when he affirmed it, she seemed to sink down in the chair as if bodily relieved of some tautness and strain.

"There's a reason you've no wish to go with her to London?" he asked carefully.

"I am not ready for London!" burst out of her. "I have things to do in Milton... and," she finished softly, "In truth, I can not face the ... atmosphere which awaits me in London. It is a sociable household, Mr Thornton, busy with people and children; and I can not – I can't – "

To his distress he saw her lower her head onto her arms and begin to cry. Quiet, hopeless tremors in silence, which moved him far more than Fanny's occasional bouts of tearless hysterical sobbing. He came near her by instinct; the most natural thing would be to take her into his arms, hold her, hush and rock and comfort her as if she were a little lost child, but of course he could not do any such thing.

He stood nearby and looked at her. "You feel very alone right now, I think," he observed gently. "You have had such sad things happen to you in Milton. I am so sorry, so very sorry – " Every word he said seemed to make her cry more. "Shall I fetch my mother to you, Miss Hale?" she shook her head – "or is there anyone else - ?" knowing with a sinking of his heart she had no-one else, her friend (Betsy? No, Bessy) had died – the maid (what was her name, Dixon?) –

"Would you like me to take you to the Crampton house? Your maid's still there, I believe, arranging matters?"

She shook her head again; and he cursed himself – of course she would not want to be there, with all her father's precious things around her, watching them be parcelled up like waste. It was hurting him like a sword in his gut that he couldn't help her, couldn't make things right for her, couldn't bring her happiness. There would be none for him but there was still hope for her. And he wanted it for her. He wanted it more.

"Nicholas Higgins' younger daughter, perhaps? Or Higgins himself - ?"

"No, no-one. I want no-one," she wept.

"Then I shall send for Dr Donaldson," he came to a decision, "You're so very distressed, Miss Hale, I think I must."

He was half way to the door but her head came up, "No, don't do that. I don't need a doctor, how could a doctor heal this – this great sadness? A doctor can't help me, Mr Thornton, he couldn't save my mother and he certainly could not bring back my father."

"I am sorry," she added after a moment. "I did not mean to bring you so much trouble."

"It's no trouble, don't even think it," he said with some violence. "I am only troubled because I'm not bringing you any comfort – not of any help to you -"

"You are, you are -"

Now she was feeling she had to apologise to him, which wasn't what he had intended at all! He cursed his own clumsiness in this; he so deeply wished he could be what she needed but in every way he knew he was anything but. He was the man who made her an unwanted, mortifying proposal of marriage. The same man who had spoken so harshly to her just a few weeks ago, avowing he regretted it and now disliked her as much as she disliked him. And then walked away, loving her more deeply and more fiercely than ever before.

She wiped her eyes, delicately dabbing with a scrap of cotton which she scrunched into a ball and stuffed in her sleeve. He was wondering if he could offer his own, larger, dry one when she said, "My aunt never really liked my father. She did not understand him, and she always felt my mother had not married as ... as she should have."

Thornton knew all too well what she meant by this. It was still a bitter taste for him, remembering his own doomed proposal to this woman here for whom he had not been gentlemanly enough. Used to being considered a good prospect in his own society, he had not realised at the time how wide the gulf must seem to her. He wished, how he wished! that he had never spoken to her in that way – his laughable hopes and subsequent proposal had brought them both nothing but unhappiness.

But she was continuing, looking at him almost with warmth: "You knew and loved my father; I know you understand the heavy loss of such a gentle, good, learned man. You always took time to visit him even when – even when it must have been difficult for you, I will always be grateful to you for that."

He was thankful for this opening and spoke of Mr Hale for a few minutes, of his love of books, recounting some little anecdotes of their lessons together – "... and, seeing I was not much likin' it, he said we must read at least five more chapters of the Symposium before we moved on, I always avowed to him it was revenge for me goin' on and on' in detail of the blueprints of Arkwright and Crompton – "

Unbelievably she was actually smiling, a ghost of a smile but one which reached her eyes, red-rimmed and wetlashed as they were. And she was sniffing, scrabbling in her sleeve for that handkerchief – this time he leapt forward and, with a little bow, proffered his own, which she looked at for a moment as if surprised and took from his hand.

"Ah, here's tea –" as the maid entered with a tray of pots and china cups – "no, leave us – Miss Hale can see to it," - giving her something to do.

"I hope you didn't mind me sendin' her off. I've not forgotten you pouring tea in Crampton."

"I was tired that day and did not make a good job of it. I had pressed and ironed all morning to help Dixon," she recalled. "I will try and do better today. I am glad you sent her away. Mr Thornton, I must tell you something. It is weighing so heavy on my mind."

He was thinking back to how she had looked that day, how beautiful she was, how she had fallen, tired, into a little sleep; how sweetly she had poured tea and handed him his cup, their fingers touching for a moment of bliss – for him: distasteful to her, of course. "You don't need to tell me anything. Whatever... strife has been between us... let's not dwell on it any longer, it's of no matter now."

"But I must tell you. You know well that I lied. I said to Mr Mason that I was not there at Outwood that night, I declared it more than once and vehemently, and yet you (and he!) both know I was there. But..." she hesitated, biting her lip in her anxiety – "when I told you the secret was another person's, that was the truth. Mr Thornton, in telling you this I am betraying a confidence and putting another person at risk, and as a magistrate you may feel it your duty – "

He interrupted, "We are speaking only as... friends, today. If you must tell it, no-one else will hear a word about it, that's my promise an' I'll hold to it."

She began to speak: about Frederick, the mutiny, the exile, the visit to his dying mother, the needful dash from a tiny rural station outside Milton –

"He was your brother," Thornton breathed, when her jumble of words came tumbling to an end. She had not told it well, starting in the middle, back-tracking and muddling beginnings and ends, but he saw it straight now.

She nodded. "So you see – that is why I couldn't tell you. And you see now, don't you – I was not behaving improperly – not in the way you thought – " her voice so urgent, her eyes so anxious.

"I don't believe I ever thought it, after the first moment." The lie had puzzled and even offended him; but to imagine her, Margaret Hale, making a secret assignation at night to embrace so intimately a young man in public... that had never rung true for him at all.

"And when I kept you on the doorstep... when you came so kindly to bring fruit for my mother – "

" - it was your brother who was there in the house." He had been so hurt by that, hurt and angered that now she did not even trust him past the threshold.

Those big, clear eyes in her delicate heart-shaped face lifting to his, so sincere, as she began to speak, spilling out her feelings in the relief of his knowing now the truths he could not have guessed at:

"Mr Thornton, it has been a torment to me lately that I have behaved so wrongfully to one who was at all times so kind to my beloved parents. It has preyed upon my mind as an injustice of the most... severe kind. And," she swallowed, a pulse jumping nervously in her throat, "also, it has worried me that I seemed to you... not the woman you had thought." There was a silence, which he could not think of any words to fill. She finished, with some emphasis, "So, you see... I could not bear to leave Milton with you still thinking so badly of me."

Why would it matter to her if he thought badly of her? His heart actually missed a beat – stalled – then thumped like a blow in his chest.

He said deeply, very quiet and calm, "Don't think about it any more. I did not behave very well, myself."

No. No 'thanks'. You must imagine what I must think... Any foolish passion I may once have had...

He took a deep breath. "Come, Miss Hale, let's not charge each other with our past mistakes," he said, with a little half smile. "We both have things to regret, I daresay, but it's all straightened out now. I understand, and there is no need to worry about it again." She was smiling back at him, a small, uncertain smile, hovering on relief. He added, as an afterthought, "If there is anything I can do about your brother and his situation – we'll think on it another day."

He was a man of influence and power. She looked at him wonderingly. "You'd do that for me?"

I'd give her my heart and whet her a knife to cut it with, does she not know that?

She was so vulnerable today, she had put herself under his care in such desperation. He could not and would not take any advantages of her today, even though he sensed there were some he could take, even if only to hold her in his arms, such a sweet, tormenting desire, in the guise of comfort and a friendship begun. Even if only to tell her...

He would not sleep easy on it if he let fall any one of the words he was barely keeping in check.

Yet almost ironically he cursed himself. She considered him not quite a gentleman, he knew well enough; but she would never know the battle of honour he had just won against himself, against potent opposition from his yearnings. It was, if she only knew it, the most gentlemanly thing he had ever done.

He inclined his head, formal and polite. "If anything can be done by me, it shall be. You have my word on it. We have let our tea go cold, but no matter. You should rest now; would you like to go into the house, Miss Hale, or is there another matter - ?"

She lifted her head and looked him straight in the eye. "Would you take me, after all, to Nicholas Higgins? He will think I have left without saying goodbye."

-OO-

If Nicholas and his daughter Mary were surprised when their friend Margaret turned up with than the Master of Marlborough, they managed to show no sign of it. There were hugs, many tears and a few smiles.

"Are ye not leavin' us then, Miss Margaret?"

"Not at present, Nicholas... for now I'll be with Mr Thornton's mother at Marlborough House."

Nicholas only nodded. His eyes did pass to the Master momentarily, but his expression was only thoughtful. Which was just as well, for emotions were running so high in Thornton and he was having to keep himself under such tight rein he was ready to explode – if Nicholas looked for even one second ... if he glimpsed there even a moment of speculation – but it did not happen and he felt shame for ever having thought it might. He had been told that Nicholas was a firebrand; what he had not been told was that he was an honourable man, but he had worked that out by now for himself.

He shook Nicholas' hand at the door while Margaret, even summoning a cheery little word and a rhyme for the children, was still with Mary. "You've always been a good friend to Miss Hale," he said quiet and deep. "She needs her friends close at present. Come by and visit her while she stays with my mother, if you can. She will be glad to see you."

"Aye, and I'm not the only good friend she has, seems," Nicholas said with a friendly gleam. "Look after her, Master, will yer? She's a special young lassie. Something's not right, she doesn't seem 'erself." He added, "An' thanks, but I can't see Mrs Thornton givin' me much of a welcome if I turn up at her parlour in me work boots!"

The Master said, with a little narrowed frown, "My mother will make any friends of Miss Hale welcome, make no mistake, I'll not take any conflict on that."

Nicholas watched them, two feet apart, walk up the narrow alley, "My my, Mary, Master growin' a backbone where the auld dragon's concerned, that's something to see – an' all for the sake of her!"

-OO-