Hi All, I hope you all had a lovely Christmas and have a great New Year when it comes. Okay, so, a couple of things about this story. Firstly, yes, it is a Christmas story, and yes, it is being posted after Christmas – oops. I had fully intended to get this done well in advance, but with the festive period being so much busier this year than I anticipated, as well as spending time with immediate family I haven't seen in two years due to Covid, I just didn't have the chance. And secondly, I know I always say this, but this chapter is majorly rushed, again mainly because I've had to snatch the odd 5 minutes here and there to get it written, so it is really basic, and you'll definitely be able to play a drinking game with all the mistakes. But never mind, I can come back and make it better another time, and hopefully you will enjoy it all the same, and I hope to have the last two chapters out over the next few days.

God bless you all in 2022!

THE WOOLLEN OLIVE BRANCH

Chapter 1

From Before We Were Us

Breathing heavily in a state of anxious anticipation, Margaret Hale was careful to ensure that her fingertip alone, the most miniscule of measurements, was permitted to pull back the edge of her lace curtain as she peered out into the street below.

Her chest was tight.

Her stomach was churning.

Her head was light.

Her skin was burning.

She felt ill, she felt dreadful, she felt alive!

Margaret could feel it, that oh-so familiar feeling that only ever happened when –

What was that?

A voice?

No, she thought not.

A shuffle?

Perhaps.

A cough?

Most likely.

Oh! Why was it so hard to tell?

She shook her head, for it was her own fault, of course it was.

Margaret would be much better placed to learn all she wanted to know, if only she would go –

There!

There it was again.

It was definitely a noise. It was a positively distinctive noise, yet at the same time, it was a hopelessly indistinctive noise, something she could make neither head nor tail of.

With her body stiffening, Margaret made sure that she stood as still as a statue, not a bone, nor a muscle, nor a nerve being permitted to so much as twitch. Here she waited. She…

No! This would not do. This would not do at all.

Twirling round on her left foot, because every detail is imperative at a time like this, Margaret came to face the door of her bedroom, a door that was firmly closed, she had made sure of it. Sucking her bottom lip, she thought carefully, very carefully, and then, finally, after the briefest of moments spent in nervy calculation, Margaret took a deep breath and nodded resolutely.

Yes!

She would go. There was no other way around it.

Striding across the room as if it were the most ordinary thing to do, even if it were indeed the most ordinary thing to do, Margaret snatched the handle of her door and flung it open radically, all before she sneaked out into the corridor, her every intrepid step just that little bit more hesitant, even if they were somehow more hopeful by contrast.

Creeping towards the landing, Margaret was wary of the floorboards that creaked, threatening to give her position away with their betraying Judas squeaks. Reaching out, she took hold of the railing, and there she leaned over, her hands coming to rest on the ledge, her knuckles turning white as she unconsciously gripped it for dear life. With ears as astute as a rabbit's, she listened, every noise the house offered a clue that Margaret's senses soaked up.

And at last, her recklessness, her bravery, if you will, they were rewarded.

'Thank you for coming,' came a voice, one she knew extremely well, but it was not the one she was eager to hear, prompting her nails to tap irritably on the varnished wood of the landing.

No reply…

Oh! They had to be talking to somebody – anybody! It was inconceivable that one would be thanking oneself for attending one's own house. That would be quite mad!

Still nothing…

Ah-ha! There it was. She was sure of it. Tilting a little further over the ledge, Margaret slanted her head so that she could catch more of the conversation, even if the angle was terribly uncomfortable, the rung digging into her ribs and causing a welt to take up residence. She was not accustomed to being nosy, so all of this snooping felt most unnatural to her. Margaret valued her own privacy, and therefore, she likewise respected other people's. But still, there were some occasions that cried out for a little rule breaking, and this was most definitely one of them.

So why would they not speak up?

They were doing it on purpose. To vex her, to annoy her, to…to hurt her.

But no, they would not do such an unkind thing.

That is, he would not…would he?

Surely he did not know she was here. Or that is, he probably knew she was here, but not that she was here. As in, he would know Margaret was in the house, that much was allowed to be true, this fact could not avoid being divulged. But what he did not know, and more critically, what he could not be permitted to find out, was that she was closer than he thought, on the very next floor. Only, this time, she was standing right above –

'Oh!'

Margaret gasped and clapped a silencing hand over her mouth as she hurled herself backwards. Tripping over her skirts which were bunched beneath her feet, she stumbled, albeit quietly, and then she curled up into a ball and huddled, hiding as she knelt beside the skirting boards.

Had he…had he seen her?

Margaret could feel her palms sweating as she refused to let her hand slip from her mouth, lest she make so much as a peep.

As cautiously as she could, she slanted her body closer to the railing, letting her eyes peer below.

Nothing. Nobody.

But she was sure she had just seen…she could have sworn that…

Ah! There it was again. She had been right.

A shock of thick, black hair came into view once more in the hallway below. That is, the hair was not alone, not unaccompanied, of course not, for such a thing would be ridiculous, because hair does not just wander about by itself.

Oh! Margaret could have scolded herself for even thinking such silly thoughts. She was a grown woman, a sensible person, so why was she behaving like such an inexcusable fool?

However, Margaret did not have time to think about this, because at that precise moment, the hair moved again, and this time, a face appeared instead, glancing upwards, looking towards her, directly at her.

She backed away for a second time, the spindles of the railing casting vertical shadows upon her features, and Margaret could not help but feel they were mocking her, implying that by hiding away here, by confining herself so, she was creating a prison for her sorry self to languish in, an irony that was all too true.

'Is something the matter?' the first voice asked, the only voice, really, since that was the only one she had heard thus far, even if she knew that another did indeed exist.

'Aye,' came a reply, and that single sound alone felt like the seductive exuding of melted chocolate dripping inside her, the warmth so delicious as it oozed into her every crevasse, sticking to her bones, sliding down her nerves, stimulating her through and through.

'I thought…,' but then the second voice, the far more thrilling voice, faltered, unsure of itself.

What came next, was an excruciating silence, and Margaret feared that her heartbeat, so loud and intense, could be heard booming throughout the house.

Even although Margaret could see nothing, she could feel everything, a pair of penetrating eyes boring through the structure of the Crampton dwelling as they searched, combing every inch of timber and brick, scrutinising the very spot on which she squatted.

'Never mind,' was the final verdict, one that was delivered sharply, rather gruffly, and from what Margaret could tell, the head had moved once again, the face no longer looking upwards towards her, but instead, it was forward facing, towards the door, no doubt towards an uncharted future, a future she had been told she had no hope of featuring in.

But there was no time to think about that now, not when the two voices were back at it, talking once more. Only now, they were drifting, they were shifting away from her, further and further away, and so, she was forced to stand up, and this time, Margaret's daring was even more daring, causing her to tiptoe along the passageway and take a few stealthy steps down the stairs.

There she sat, her knees tucked beneath her as she crouched like a cat in wait, and there she would stay, for now, anyway. It felt like an age of nothingness, only a few wispy words floating into her ears every now and again, their accuracy difficult to discern.

'I can't find them anywhere. Have you seen them?'

'No, I have not, but I will let you know if I do.'

'Can I not lend you something? You will freeze.'

'Do not worry, I am hardier than I look.'

Then it all went quiet, their conversation maddeningly indiscernible, but then, all of a sudden, Margaret detected the patent sound of the front door closing, and as quick as a flash of lightning, she was up and off.

Dashing back towards her bedroom, Margaret made her way to the window, and there, throwing caution to the wind, she tore back the curtain in full, the sunlight blinding her for a moment, leaving her quite dizzy and disorientated. Finally, once her vision returned to its full clarity, Margaret found herself staring out at the busy world which still went on about her. It was strange, because she knew that nothing had changed, not really, not in the grand scheme of things, but as far as Margaret was concerned, nothing would ever be the same again, that is, not unless her whole world was returned to order and set right, and only one person could do that.

Feeling a ball of sadness swell inside her, Margaret sniffed. It was true, everything had ceased to matter the very moment he had –

Margaret leapt back from the window, letting go of the curtain, the net cloth falling back into place, and she held a hand to her belly, the butterflies within fluttering so frantically that she could scarcely draw breath, their tiny wings leaving her feeling faint. Even although she had stepped away, Margaret could still see through the thin veil of her curtain, the delicate material like an obscure screen that gave her a concealed view, whilst at the same time, denied anybody on the other side the same furtive right.

Yes, there he was.

He was standing there, just standing there, on the steps, gazing up towards her, snow falling all around in a cluster of a thousand snowflakes. He could not observe her, for Margaret knew that nobody could see in, because she had tried and failed before to see into her own bedroom from the street when the curtain was drawn. Nonetheless, there he stood all the same, for quite some time, his eyes fixed, his expression blank, but the steady rising and falling of his masculine chest was enough to tell her of the turmoil he was feeling within.

Well, at least she could still make him feel something.

But then he was gone.

He had sighed, his shoulders wilting, and after putting on his hat, the man strode off along the street and out of sight, never once glancing back, even if her gaze never once deserted him, forever remaining loyal to his retreating shadow.

It was as Margaret stood by the window, her heart full of an incomprehensible combination of regret and relief, that she detected the thud of familiar footsteps coming up the stairs, their steady plod a sound she had known since childhood. Scurrying away from her lookout post, Margaret snatched up some sewing and went to sit in a chair at the far end of the room, her head bent low as if in deep concentration.

A moment later, her door creaked open, and then a head popped around the frame. This same head had tuffs of thinning hair, the strands peppered with white and grey. A little lower down was a wrinkled face on which the most obvious display was a pair of thin-wired spectacles perched upon his nose, circles of glass which enlarged a set of soft, blue eyes.

At first, his absent minded gaze trailed around the room, but then, when he eventually saw her, the visitor smiled. 'There you are, poppet,' he said wistfully.

'Good evening, Father,' Margaret replied, her eyes still trained on her needle, the sharp stem of silver flying deftly back and forth through the thin fabric of her handkerchief, her stitches untidy, her trembling fingers unable to calm themselves.

The smile that had been on Mr Hale's face spread, so much so that it reached the creases of his cheeks and settled within, profound lines which spoke of a man who had lived many a year, tell-tale signs of age, much like the rings in a tree trunk. Margaret was grateful to see him beam so, since to her mind, her father smiled all too rarely these days. It was true, Mr Hale was low in spirit, his heart unable to join in with the joy of the season, but despite this melancholy, he was thankful that while he had been forced to say goodbye to his son and wife this year, albeit in different ways and for different reasons, he still had his Margaret, and he prayed daily that she would never be taken from him.

Licking his dry lips, he casually announced: 'We were just talking about you.'

Margaret stilled at once.

'Oh?' was all Margaret manage to pronounce, a prickly flush sprouting on her breast and extending along her arms and neck.

Mr Hale nodded his head sagely as he went to stand by the window, his hands clasped behind his back as he tapped his toes together, a peculiar habit his own father had done when addressing his children on matters that made him uncomfortable.

'Yes, yes we were. Mr Thornton noticed your absence…again.'

Margaret shuffled awkwardly in her seat. 'And what did you say?' she asked, trying her best to sound utterly disinterested.

Even although she could not see it, her father creased his brow in confusion, because what many people did not know, was that while Mr Hale was vastly intelligent, he was also a terribly simple man with a terribly simple way of thinking, and so, he could never quite get his head around anything complicated when it came to human interactions.

'Why, the truth,' he said plainly. 'What else would I tell him? It is Mr Thornton, after all. We need never hide anything from John.'

Margaret ducked her head down even further, the very same blush now making her face as red as a strawberry. She wanted to tell her father that he was wrong, that sometimes one did have a need to hide things from Mr Thornton, but not out of deception, no, but out of an unselfish desire to protect him, to do right by him. To be sure, because while some would assume that a man of such courage and intelligence as Mr Thornton required no safeguarding whatsoever, they would be most wrong indeed, for it is the most noble of men that compel this defence, given that if he were to be sullied by a crisis of conscience, especially on her behalf, it would be too much for either of them to bear.

'Besides, he is so exceptionally clever that I doubt anybody could ever hide anything from him,' Mr Hale went on, proud of his favourite pupil and his sharp wits. He often felt sorry for Mr Thornton. He was remarkably well-informed, but for reasons that were not his fault, he had been unable to attain the education he deserved and so sorely wanted, and so, the Oxford scholar felt it his privileged duty to do whatever he could to help him achieve his academic aspirations, even if this meant just sitting and talking with him by his fireside once a week.

'No, I suppose you are right,' Margaret agreed, thinking on how Mr Thornton had that uncanny ability to suss everything and everybody out, no detail being too insignificant to escape his shrewd attention. Margaret thought that, out of all the people in the world, she should know this of him better than most. He could do that to her, work her out, almost like he could see right through her, a skill that was both unnerving and thrilling all at once.

'At any rate, I told him that you were not well today. That you had a headache. That you were not yourself,' Mr Hale continued.

She paused. 'And he did not mind?' Margaret checked, shame gnawing away at her. Her father was correct, she had not been herself of late, but if truth be told, she had been perfectly well, certainly well enough to receive company, but alas, she just could not bring herself to be in the same room as him, not since…not since….

'On the contrary, he minded very much,' Mr Hale asserted adamantly. 'He seemed most anxious to fetch a doctor for you. I believe he stood up more than once determined to go, but I said there was no need, and he eventually sat back down, but he never quite settled. He had a whole host of questions about your health, such as why you had been ill for so many weeks, suggesting that you might be sickening for something, but I said that you were well enough, just a little tired.'

Margaret unconsciously leaned her head to the side and rubbed her chin against her shoulder shyly. How thoughtful he was. She could not imagine anybody else of her acquaintance taking so much trouble over her welfare, and this thought made her feel dreadfully guilty for causing Mr Thornton so much unease. Margaret knew that he was not concerned for her sake, no, not when he had made it clear that she was nothing to him. All of Mr Thornton's disquiet would undoubtedly be for her father's sake, she knew that, of course she did, but all the same, the idea that he was thinking of her tenderly at all was enough to give birth to a fragile bud of hope in Margaret's heart.

'To be sure, John noticed your absence as soon as he arrived,' her father wittered on, repeating himself. 'He remarked that Dixon let him in again this week. That she took his hat. And then he mentioned it again when you were not there to serve us tea.'

Margaret scowled at this. 'I am not a servant!' she snapped.

Mr Hale chuckled good naturedly. 'No, indeed not, my dear. But I must say that Mr Thornton did look sorry when I said you would not be joining us for his lesson.'

'I cannot think why,' she grumbled, still annoyed by the thought that Mr Thornton was expecting her to serve his tea like a maid, but then again, she may have imagined it, but Margaret was sure she had spied him smile to himself once or twice when she poured his cup and handed it over. Actually, now she came to think of it, he had smiled every time she had done this, his attention filched the moment she began the preparations, his body leaning forward expectantly, his eyes transfixed on her hands, his own larger ones extended out in mute entreaty as she approached, that long pinkie of his always skimming along her skin by accident.

'It is not as if I contribute anything,' Margaret added hotly, her fingers tingling at the recollection of his touch, something which now felt like a distant memory that faded further away with every passing day that they were separated and estranged by their quarrels. 'I am sure Mr Thornton would hardly notice if I was there or not,' she said miserably, thinking on how she thought of him constantly, always wondering what he was doing, what he was thinking, whether or not his thoughts ever fell upon her.

'That is not true,' her father countered, intrigued by a cart of vegetables which trundled along the street, a wonky wheel making it wobble precariously from side to side, spilling the contents onto the dirty road. 'You have a lot to offer, Margaret, you often share your opinions and thoughts on our texts and topics.'

A sarcastic laugh erupted about the room. 'And Mr Thornton disagrees with me at every turn.'

Her father simpered to hear his daughter speak with the naivety of youth. Long may it last, thought he.

'But he enjoys it, I know he does,' he insisted. 'You can disagree with somebody, my dear, and still appreciate their point of view and feel stimulated by their conversation,' he lectured, knowing all too well that his daughter always assumed that discord meant disharmony, when in fact, it was often the basis for a healthy discussion, and if one nurtured it properly, it was also the foundation of a fond friendship.

'I have noted that Mr Thornton is always so much brighter and engaged when you are there.' Then there was a strained hiatus, after which Mr Hale quietly added, 'But in the past few weeks, Mr Thornton has seemed…distracted…disinterested, almost, and it is not like him, not like him at all.'

Margaret looked up as she heard her father trail off, a forlorn withering to his words as the end of his sentence sagged with sadness.

'You sound worried, Papa,' she ventured cautiously.

Mr Hale sniffed soberly, his own head lowered in solemn contemplation. 'I am afraid to say that I am. I am worried about him, very.'

Margaret stopped at once, and her features swiftly drooped into a frown. Putting down her sewing, she rose from her seat and came to stand beside the elderly man, a man who had aged so much over the past few months alone, more so than she had seen in all her nineteen years, but then again, that was no surprise.

Placing her hand on his arm, Margaret allowed her fingers to gently curl around his sleeve and tighten in loving reassurance. 'Father?' she pressed, her voice gentle and serene.

Mr Hale sighed. 'I may not be the most observant person, Margaret, you know I am not,' he said honestly, 'but I cannot help but feel there is something bothering Mr Thornton. He is…changed,' he concluded, unable to think of a more precise word.

The daughter nodded. 'People change,' she reminded him. 'I have, I think…I hope,' she went on, thinking on how her perceptions and prejudices had been challenged since coming to Milton almost a year ago. When once she was impetuous, blinkered in her views, and too ready to argue, Margaret found that these traits within her had matured and mellowed. Oh! If only she had been more steady, more willing to listen and less eager to judge, she could have seen the worth in him, in a man who was honest and honourable to a fault, and it pained her to acknowledge how bitterly she had let him down by way of pitiful thanks.

Bobbing his head from side to side in deliberation, Mr Hale knitted his eyebrows pensively. 'Yes, people do change, that is true enough, but not like this, no. And even if they do, one would hope it is for the better, but John, Mr Thornton, he seems to have altered for the worse,' her father explained woefully. 'I fear, my dear, that all the light has gone out of him.'

Without even realising it, Margaret found herself tightening her grip on her father's arm, her grasp tensing as her apprehension grew. 'Tell me.'

He shook his head, unsure of where to start. 'He is restless, that is for sure. When he enters the house, he is always looking about him, into rooms, as if he is searching for something he is missing,' he began, scratching his head, unable to fathom such peculiar behaviour. 'When he sits, I can see him looking to the door constantly, and if not there, then his head jerks up at every flutter from above. He is inattentive, his attention is always preoccupied, and he cannot seem to focus on anything. I am sorry to say that he has lost all enthusiasm for his learning, strange, since he is a natural scholar, and always found such contentment in it before. Indeed, as I was leaving the dinner party at Marlborough House, the same one you attended, Mr Thornton asked me whether he might increase the number of his lessons and come twice a week instead of once. He was most keen, I remember it clearly. But now…,' yet Mr Hale could not finish the sentence, his voice dwindling.

She waited, trying her best to be patient. 'Now?' she encouraged.

There was a lengthy interval while Mr Hale thought, then, finally, he sighed again, his shoulders slumping as he settled on his conclusion. 'I think that John is sad.'

Margaret startled, her eyes widening in distress. 'Sad?!' she echoed.

'Yes, that is the only way I can describe it. He is…unhappy.'

She could not explain it, but she felt a balloon of unrest expand inside her, overtaking her body, leaving her incapable of feeling anything else, Margaret's only care now being the here and now, wondering and worrying what her father meant.

'And what do you think the cause might be?' she reflected aloud, afraid of his answer, but she had to hear it, she had to.

'I do not know, I honestly do not know,' Mr Hale responded truthfully, a hint of frustration to his reply to know that he was not competent when it came to working people out. 'I wish I could ask him, but I am not adept to making such enquiries, and as for Mr Thornton, he is so very private that I fear he would take offence. No, all I can think is that it is to do with the mill.'

'What is the matter with the mill?' she asked, a little too abruptly, trepidation taking over her manners.

'I believe it is struggling, that he is struggling,' Mr Hale revealed.

Margaret could hardly believe her ears. 'But how so? Mr Thornton is so very clever, so very capable, so why on earth should he be struggling? No!' she rebelled, unable to accept such a thing. 'I imagine that he is merely busy. He may be overwhelmed with orders at the mill and finds his time in high demand, both there and at the court. He is an important man, after all. Yes, it is most likely a matter of stress and not distress,' she went on, more to herself than anything else, trying as best she could to pacify her own reservations about his welfare.

Her father snuffled to hear his daughter defend Mr Thornton so fiercely. 'Perhaps, my dear, perhaps.'

Margaret was about to return to her sewing, but before she did, she suddenly took her father by his hands and held them close. 'I hope…I hope you have told him that we are always at his service, Papa?' she questioned. 'Mr Thornton has been so very kind to us, all of us, and I should hate him to think that we are ungrateful, that we do not care for him in return. I hope he knows that we are his friends, and will therefore always be here to offer him a helping hand, no matter how modest it may be, no matter what happens.'

Mr Hale lifted a hand and cupped his daughter's cheek. Staring into her eyes, ones which were endearingly earnest, he bent down to leave a kiss on her forehead. 'What a lovely young lady you are, my girl,' he praised, thinking on how proud her mother would be to see their Margaret now, so grown up, so gentle.

Still, his serious demeanour soon returned. 'However, I am sorry to say that there is probably little we can do. If his troubles are related to business or finance, then we neither have the knowledge nor the means to assist. And if it is an affair of the heart…well.'

Margaret swallowed thickly. Oh, yes, perhaps Mr Thornton's sadness was down to a broken heart after all, she had not thought of that. Nevertheless, if that be so, there was nothing she could do to help, not when he had told her that his heart was none of her concern. While it hurt Margaret to think that Mr Thornton may care for another, she knew that he deserved to know contentment, to have a home filled with love, especially at Christmas, and so, in her heart of hearts, all she wanted was for him to be happy, even if that meant she never could be.