Updated/edited chapter 5. Final chapter out tomorrow!

You will see some quotes from Gaskell's North and South italicised in this chapter.

THE WOOLLEN OLIVE BRANCH

Chapter 5

From Before We Were Us

Margaret had been disconcerted by Mr Thornton's request that she escort him out. It was not so much that he had expected that she should do so, because it was entirely normal for her to accompany him to the door and politely see him on his way. However, despite their well-practiced routine, there were two things which did not rest easy with her and left her feeling a trifle unsettled.

For one, she was surprised that he should want to be in her company at all. He had been so cross and curt with her in recent months, in the wake of his proposal, or perhaps better termed as attempted proposal, followed by his happening upon her at Outwood Station in the arms of another man, and lastly, and most severely, his hurtful yet somewhat understandable surge of censure when he had told Margaret he doubted her trustworthiness. After all that had passed between them, she could not divine why Mr Thornton, this man who had revoked his interest in her and severed his regard for her almost entirely, should ask her to remain in his presence, when surely, her presence was distasteful to him in every respect. Surely it would only serve to remind him of his humiliation at her unripe hand, not to mention his lucky escape from being entangled with a woman whom he now reputed to be lacking in credibility and morals, two imperative pillars of character that he took most seriously indeed.

But it was not only that, no. The thing which threw Margaret the most, was the way he had said it. Mr Thornton was, without question, a man who liked to assert his will. It was perhaps his rich and resonant voice that gave him that overbearing trait, or perhaps it was his physical stature, or it may have been his eyes, the way they pierced people and hooked them like a fish caught on a line, and no matter how frantically they squirmed under his penetrating gaze, they were at his mercy until he chose to set them free. That is perhaps why Margaret had not looked at him as often as she might over the span of their attachment ─ no, that was too strong a word. Acquaintance? No, that was too weak, to be sure, too inaccurate. Association, then, that would have to do. At any rate, while he may have supposed it was down to indifference on her part, she could vouch that he had entirely the opposite effect on her. The unvarnished truth was that Margaret was afraid of becoming ensnared by Mr Thornton, the only problem being that it had already happened, and it was far too late to turn back, that particular train having left the station already. She did not know how, she did not know when, nor even why, but left it had, carrying her to strange new places.

However, there had been something different tonight, something altogether unforeseen in the many rehearsals she had played in her mind of how tonight would go. Margaret had witnessed his domineering ways in play, but never before had he asserted his inherent sense of authority in the Hale's home, considerately opting instead to leave his impression of officiousness behind at the mill gates. To be sure, Mr Thornton, while he had been gruff with her in the past, blinkered in his assertions of how he believed she should respond to certain situations in order to preserve and promote his own views, had never once been dictatorial, showing that he respected Margaret's independence. Therefore, his uncustomary insistent tone this Christmas Eve had unnerved her. Margaret had been tempted to say no, to defy him as a matter of both habit and principle, but alas, she found that she could not, so she had submissively gone with him.

Almost as soon as he had made his decree, Mr Thornton nodded to his host, and then began to walk out of the room and head towards the stairs without so much as glancing at the daughter. Margaret, as if under an inexplicable spell, rose to her feet too, trailing after him wordlessly, obediently, one might say. They continued down the stairs in silence, his head doggedly facing forward, naturally assuming that she was following his lead, even if he could not hear her with her graceful steps.

When at last they reached the bottom of the stairs, John stopped as his attention was stolen by a twinkling of light off to his side. Moving towards one of the downstairs rooms, like a moth gliding powerlessly towards a flame, he paused in the doorway as he looked upon a most magnificent and magical sight indeed: the Christmas tree.

'Do you like it?' came a quiet voice from behind him, an unmistakable hint of hope honeying it.

Now it was John's turn to be startled. Only once before had he heard Margaret sound so meek and mild, and that had been the day he had shouted at her most mercilessly, just a few paces away from where they stood now, the very spot sullied by his spite. With his heart twisting tenderly, John recalled the way his temper had broken under the strain of his onerous jealousy, and he had near enough accused her of being a wanton woman as his slurs borne of nothing more than misery, spewed forth from his mouth like devastating lava.

That conversation still filled him with inconsolable remorse, keeping him awake many a night as he thought on how he would take it all back, if only he could. He had been a bully, and as for Margaret, she had been radiant in her punishment, more beautiful than he had ever seen her with her head hung low and her cheeks aflame under the fire of his scrutiny and scorn. It had taken every last scrap of self-denial John had to tear his eyes away from Margaret and continue up to his lesson, each step weighing him down like lead, his legs fighting to return to her so that he might prostrate himself at her feet, cling to her skirts, and beg her forgiveness.

He had a way of speaking to her tersely, it was a talent he possessed, roused by the unfamiliar passions she stoked within him. John knew with a contemptuous spasm of contrition that he had been offhand in the way that he had demanded she show him to the door tonight. It had been rude, no way to speak to a genteel young woman, and while John knew that he could never manage Margaret like he managed his men, even if he wanted to, he had been guilty of discourtesy, all because he had to see her, he had to be near her. For all his pain, he longed to see the author of it. Although he hated Margaret at times, when he thought of that gentle familiar attitude and all the attendant circumstances, he had a restless desire to renew her picture in his mind - a longing for the very atmosphere she breathed. He was in the Charybdis of passion, and must perforce circle and circle ever nearer round the fatal centre. John had to know more about what Margaret meant earlier when she had talked of friendship so vehemently. Even if he had wholeheartedly agreed with everything she had said on the subject, it had still been the oddest thing he had ever heard. Why had she said it? Why had she said it to him? And why had she said it to him tonight, of all nights?

Casting his eyes down, John saw Margaret standing by his side, her hands folded across her midriff, her shoulder a fraction of an inch away from his upper arm, a section of bear skin teasing him with its creamy smoothness. He marvelled to think of how small she was. She was little, but oh, how she was fierce. Shakespeare must have somehow been imagining her when he had penned those immortal words. As Margaret stood beside him, enthralled by the tree, John took this opportunity to study her thoroughly. It occurred to him that he had never been afforded the chance to observe her from this intimate angle before. She had always stood before him, opposite him, ready to do battle, but now she was beside him, and there she had chosen to be, for now, at least.

It made him think of marriage, the way that a man and wife stand side by side in church, and should they love each other truly, they will stand as one throughout the joys and woes of life. If he and she had wed, they would stand like this often, he would make sure of it. They would talk, laugh, whisper, sharing secrets, smirks and smiles, her head on his shoulder, his arm around her waist. Measuring her with nothing more than his gaze, John decided that she was the ideal size for him. He had never thought this before about anybody, because for a start, he was too tall for everybody, but when it came to Margaret, his calculations told him that she could nestle snugly into his hold, rest her head on his chest, and he could place his chin on the top of her hair, and so they would fit together perfectly, just like a jigsaw puzzle. Or better still, a made to measure part, such as for one of his machines, because just like his Spinning Jennies, John was beginning to realise that he could not function without this one crucial part that made him tick, that made him work, that kept him right, that made him whole, and that was Margaret.

John felt a pang to consider how else they would fit together perfectly. Emotionally? Sexually? Intellectually? While there was no denying that the two of them were like chalk and cheese in almost every regard, John was convinced that God had made them expressly for the sole purpose of loving each other, and so he had no doubt that while they may be mismatched in terms of breeding, grace, appearance, and a hundred other trivial things, when it came to the heart, they were the same.

As his eyes swept over the contour of her face, John found himself transfixed by the wonder of her own eyes as they stared ahead at the tree, sparkling like jewels, precious jewels that he longed to gaze at him with equal admiration and undivided affection. Lifting his head to follow her example, he sensed his heart stir to look upon such a heavenly sight. The tree stretched high, almost brushing the ceiling, its branches held out as it uncomplainingly took the weight of dozens of candles, baubles and other trinkets. The glow which exuded from it was hypnotic, the flames winking one after the other, sending rays of light and shadow dancing gaily around the room. John had no time for frivolous fancies, items that were ornamental opposed to useful, but for once, he could say that he genuinely approved of this decorative shrine, and he was glad that he had acquired it for her as a private and personal Christmas present.

'Aye,' he said at last, in answer to her question. 'I like it very much.' He could tell how much time Margaret must have spent festooning it, and it filled him with a rare sense of contentment to think that she had taken such care and pride in something he had given her.

Margaret had that way about her, a capacity for leaving everything she encountered that little bit more beautiful, an effortless talent that flowed from her feminine fingers. But it was more than that. While many women were artful and accomplished in turning ugly or humdrum things into beautiful ones, Margaret did something even greater and harder to achieve; she made them homely.

She smiled and looked up at him, her soft features as pretty as a picture, only, he was honoured to be so close to the real thing. 'Thank you,' Margaret whispered, her head tilting towards him, and for the briefest of moments, John could have sworn that she was about to lay her head against him, but much to his disappointment, she suddenly halted and held it still.

John peered down at her once more. He was about to ask what for, perhaps even to contradict her in some pointless way so that he might protect his pride, but he stopped himself. He knew what she meant, and while he was used to being modest in his offerings, preferring to give quietly without expecting thanks, he found that he craved her acknowledgement of his kindness, her recognition and gratitude for his thoughtfulness, so he held his tongue.

He could have stood there with her for hours, lost in a trance of festive delights, but Margaret started to move away and wander towards the front door, the hem of her dress skimming his foot as she departed. John's heart sank. Ah, so she was thankful, but keen for him to go, all the same. Very well. He should not be surprised, he supposed.

Nothing more was said for several minutes as Margaret fetched John his hat and coat. He could feel an icy wind sneaking in through an open window, and he shivered, intensely aware that he was about to be sent forth into the wilderness that was the unforgiving Milton winter without his gloves or a scarf to fortify him. He was used to adverse Decembers, but this had been the harshest he had ever known. It was almost as if the weather had sought to afflict him on purpose this year. After the strike, John had told himself that trade would soon pick up and that he and his fellow masters could dust themselves down and forget this whole sorry business. However, that had not been the case. It had proved to be a cool summer and autumn, and so, cotton clothes, which nobody wanted to wear, apparently, had seen a decrease in necessity, and as a tradesman, he relied on the very concept of supply and demand to earn his bread and butter.

Nevertheless, that was not the only reason John was reluctant to depart. Not only was it cold outside, but it was cosy right here, with her, the two of them standing close in the confined hallway, their body heats radiating into the restless air and warming them both as the vapour of their breaths danced upwards in opaque clouds and mingled as one. It always happened like this. They both went about their days as people with normal temperatures, but then the moment they drew close, a wildfire kindled inside them, and before they knew it, they were scorched, hot and bothered by the knowledge that the one they yearned to hold close was near, the only problem being, that they each wrongly assumed that they alone were stricken with this consciousness.

It was while John was thinking this, that he was distracted by an unfamiliar sensation, a pair of pretty eyes watching him intently. With an embarrassed scowl, he was irritated to realise that he had in fact finished adorning his clothes some time ago, and for the past minute and a half, he had been standing there like an imbecile, staring off into the distance with a vacant expression that made him appear a few grapes short of a basket of fruit. Good grief, she'd think him a halfwit. Trying to reclaim his diminishing self-possession, John coughed self-importantly to clear the air.

'Miss Hale, I…I have been meaning to speak with you,' he started, frustrated to hear himself talk and to heed the detached tone that detracted from the purpose of his address. 'It was good to see you again tonight,' he said honestly, but with no small measure of hesitancy. He had to remind himself that this was the first time they had spoken alone since his speech denouncing his love for her, so every encounter since then had not only been infrequent, but overseen by others, so there was every possibility that Margaret had been holding back her anger towards him for speaking to her so offensively, not only once, but twice. John readied himself for an assault of her dander, or worse, the chill of her unreserved disinterest, but surprisingly, neither were hurled his way.

She did not respond, and it appeared as if she had no intention to. Margaret merely lifted a finger and traced it along the wood of a nearby sideboard, as if inspecting it for dust, the lithe column sweeping along a horizontal path at its own leisurely pace. John had to look away. He could curse himself, but he felt like a boy of no more than fifteen, rather than a grown man of nearly thirty. Everything Margaret did had the power to enthral him. Every move of her body, no matter how innocent, fascinated him and provoked a primal hunger that lay deep beneath the surface, a door that he had never dared open, only now, he longed to fling it ajar and release all that repressed need upon her. He had lived in famine, and Margaret was his feast. Consequently, part of him was relieved that she did not have to endure such an indelicate onslaught of affection just to satisfy him, his want of her too intense for any one person to bear. How John longed for Margaret to take that finger and run it along him, along the lines of his body so that she could learn him well and know him better, if only it would help her discover the good in him.

John determined to try again, only, this time; he would be bolder. 'I was starting to believe that you were avoiding me,' he ventured, and he saw the way Margaret's finger abruptly stopped, and she guardedly drew it back to her side, as if his words alone had wounded it, triggering him to wish he could snatch it up and kiss it fervently in hope of curing her ailment of angst inflicted by him and his careless mouth.

'I am sorry for it, for the way I spoke to you then,' he confessed lamely, realising that his regret was no good now. It did not absolve anything. It did not resolve anything. But at least he could try. 'I am more sorry than I can say, I just need you to know that.'

Nonetheless, much to his astonishment, Margaret's head jutted up, and her eyes met with his, searching him questioningly. 'You have no need to be sorry,' she told him directly, evidently amazed that he should imagine such a thing.

John too was caught off guard. But he would be careful, because last time that she had said that he did not need to feel the way he did, that is, that he had nothing to be grateful for, their conversation had taken an unpleasant and unfortunate turn, resulting in him picking a fight with the woman he loved during what should have been a romantic proposal. Passionate, it had been, that was true enough, but in all the wrong ways.

Still, she was wrong on this occasion, he knew that for certain. 'Aye, I do,' he asserted flatly, countenancing no argument this time. 'I was unforgivably discourteous. I should never have spoken to you like that, most especially in front of Mr Bell and your father, when you presumably felt unable to defend yourself. I was out of sorts, so while I do not expect you to forgive my childish impertinence, please know that I regret it, and I promise never to speak to you like that again, ever,' he swore, the speed and fervour of his timbre escalating as he went on, dissatisfied and discouraged by the fact that Margaret looked away from him and towards the floor, rendering it impossible for him to gaze into her eyes imploringly so that the sincerity of his heartfelt message could stream out from his soul to hers. It was just like that night when she had chosen to look at her confounded sewing instead of him. If only she had looked up, even for a second, then she would have known how sorry he was then and there.

He waited for her response, and at length, Margaret nodded. 'I understand. You were unhappy. You were upset about the mill.'

John took a noticeable step back, and his neck creaked to the side with swift force as he disclosed his confusion. 'The mill?' he repeated in incredulity. What the blazes did the mill have to do with any of it?

Shuffling from one foot to another, Margaret raised a hand and began to rub her arm, her shoulders hunched together as if she were a cornered animal. John could not understand it. She had never been shy around him before. He was so accustomed to her disdain, that he had no idea how to manage her distress. For so long, John had prayed that Margaret would bestow upon him one of her sweet smiles or cheerful laughs, but she had not, and now, as he stood before her tonight, he found that he would gladly go back to the days of her intolerable aversion, if only she would not look so sad.

She had been different ever since his proposal, diffident, he would say. John told himself that it was perhaps to spare his pride further insult, only, that was more insulting by default. He could not stand this newfound timidness in her, it made him want to wrap her up in his arms and hold her close to dispel whatever fears or gloom beset her. He had to step back again and again, distancing himself from her so that he could not do what he ached to, and that was to take Margaret by the shoulders and shake her, demanding that she look at him, and better yet, love him.

Picking nervously at the skirts of her dress, Margaret conceded: 'Yes, my father and Mr Bell, they have explained that things have not been easy for you since the strike. They said that the mill is not doing as well as you would like.'

It was all true. Ever since her father had spoken to Margaret of it two weeks before, she had sought Mr Bell out and pressed him for the facts, not relenting until he told her everything, even being called a bulldog in her own right, a veritable match for Thornton himself. With rising concern, she had listened painstakingly and noted Mr Bell's wary tone, which contained a foreboding warning that if the mill did not recover within the succeeding months, it may have to close entirely. Margaret had been shocked, and after bluntly asking this and that to see what could be done, she had come to realise that poor Mr Thornton must have a merciless burden on his shoulders, so she was more than ready to forgive him his previous outburst.

It had taken up all her time since then, thinking about it long and hard, robbing her of concentration by day and sleep by night. Dixon had quite given up with her, muttering and moaning that the young miss never did anything useful these days, she just sat there and brooded. There had been one afternoon when Margaret had said she would peel the potatoes, only, an hour later, she realised that she was still on the third one, a spud in one hand and a knife in the other, both suspended in mid-air. Her mind had ambled off to contemplate how Mr Thornton had been required to shoulder the weight of the world once before, and how unfair it would be if he were forced to bear such a millstone around his neck again now, after all he had achieved, after how hard he had worked to change his lot and take his rightful place in life. It occurred to her that he would benefit from the steadfast support of somebody to console his concerns, a woman, perhaps, a wife, maybe, and as a tug of war between hope and fretfulness played out inside her, Margaret wondered who that lady would turn out to be. Well, she had wondered then, but now she knew, but she would not think on that, not just yet.

However, John, unaware of her compassionate interest in his predicament, thundered to hear this. 'Good God!' he raged, steam near enough whistling out of his ears. 'How does everybody know my own business better than I do?' he objected, thinking that he may as well hand in the towel, resign himself to his bed and his books, and let the likes of Mr Hale and Mr Bell manage his affairs for him.

He was so inordinately riled, that John did not see the look of contrition written across her face. 'I am sorry,' she mumbled.

John's head whisked round to gauge her mood, and as he saw her lip wobbling, he could have punched himself squarely in the face for his unforgivable insensitivity. Here he was trying to apologise for his past tactlessness, only to go at it again with her, all hammer and tongs.

'No, no, I am the one to be sorry,' he sighed, raking his fingers through his hair in the way he always did when he was stressed. However, John did not do it for that sole reason, but to stop himself from taking her hand and clutching it tight in the hopes of offering some inadequate reassurance that she was not at fault in the least. 'You are the one who has nothing to be sorry for.'

Peering up at him, Margaret's face suddenly took on a new bloom of hope as something within her fizzled, awakening her and affecting the vessels of her blood to judder with an invigorated sense of life, flushing her cheeks with colour.

'Does that mean we can be friends, then?' she asked tentatively, an innocent childlike quality to her appeal.

Eyeing her for what felt like an age, John thought on this. His features were stern and set, making it impossible to read the conflicting thoughts that confounded him. Nevertheless, if one were to look closely at his eyes, those narrowed flints of metallic, they would be able to see the torrent of indecision and insecurity that waged a fierce battle behind those films of impassiveness.

'Is that what you want?' he countered at last, himself unsure of his own answer.

The truth was that John did not know what to say to her in response. Did he want to be friends? Yes, he did. And then again, no, he most decidedly did not. The vulnerable part of him longed for her friendship, for her approval. Had he not just walked here this very night thinking that he had forfeited whatever was left of her good opinion? Yes, he had. Therefore, it would be the most unexpected and cherished Christmas gift in the world to find that Margaret Hale, the woman he had never before pleased, was willing to like him enough, respect him enough, to call him her friend. It would be better than nothing, it would be a lifeline, a chance for him to bask in her warmth and not be left to shiver and perish in the bitter and barren void of her disdain and disinterest. Yet, at the same time, it was not enough, and he knew it never could be.

John knew that he could never truly be satisfied with Margaret's friendship alone. His feelings for her were too manifest, too passionate to allow mere friendliness to connect them slackly as they travelled through their days in parallel paths that never merged. They would forever be acquaintances, nothing more, nothing less, blandly passing the time of day and bearing witness to their disengaged lives that were disentangled by the glue of requited love and longing.

He would go about his business, lonely, fruitless, building nothing more than an empty empire, and she, Margaret, she would meet someone, give her heart away, marry, have children, and possibly even be taken away from him to some happier place. Drowning in grief, John would be forced to watch helplessly from the side-lines, trudging a solitary road that would never lead to her. No, it would not do. He yearned for a stronger bond, a more sacred tie that would bind them as one for life throughout thick and thin. He wanted to tell her that her friendship was worthless to him, because in the end, it would suffocate him, her niceness, her politeness, her insufferable indifference, and over time, the desperation he felt to hold her, kiss her, know her, it would become too much, and he would shatter from the pressure of it all mounting up inside him, unable to find release in the form of calling her and making her his wife.

As he wallowed in these dark thoughts, John's eyes were bowed to the ground, but his head nudged upwards as he heard her say something, the earnestness in her voice endearing enough to break the desolate spell that he had cast upon himself and spat on him from above like a rain cloud, soaking his soul and saturating it with melancholy, disintegrating its stores of hope until they washed away into the gutters of his self-doubt, drains that ran deeper than hell.

'I have something for you,' Margaret announced, and turning away, she bent down to retrieve something from a cupboard compartment in the sideboard.

John watched with intrigue as she bent down and rummaged around, her tongue sticking out of her mouth slightly at an angle as she did so, a comical spectacle that would have made him laugh if he were not feeling so tired and tense. At last, she pulled out a brown package tied with a blue ribbon, a self-satisfied look on her face. John's eyebrows then rose voluntarily to graze his temple, articulating his unmistakable surprise. He had completely forgotten about the inexplicable parcel that Margaret had fetched and squirreled behind her back as she carried the tea tray downstairs. It was funny to recall how engrossed he had been by this mystery not half an hour before, only now, John was more gripped by an acquisitive curiosity than he could say to hear that it had something to do with him.

Returning to hover before him, Margaret held the parcel possessively in her hands. She gazed at it for a while, as if inspecting it, or perhaps deciding whether she did indeed wish to part with it after all, the contents being her primary and most private companion for two weeks, having grown fond of it in the interlude. After a moment's hesitation, she nodded to brace herself, then lifting her eyes to him, she also lifted the parcel, indicating that he should take it.

Reaching out, John did as he was bidden, aware that as he clasped it, his fingertips bumped hers, and the pair of them convulsed, waves of static shock shooting throughout them. John did not know whether he was supposed to open it now or wait, but for a man who knew all about staying power, he found that he was as impatient as a child on Christmas Eve. Gripping the smooth paper, John began to rip at it, far more greedily than gentlemanly, until, finally, the wrappings fell away, and he was left standing with something entirely unanticipated in his hands.

It was blue. It was soft. It was beautiful. It was a scarf.

Holding it up, John stared at it, his eyes attentive as he studied it avidly, and in his rapt silence, he did not notice the way Margaret nibbled her lip nervously, struggling to assess his reticent reaction, unforthcoming as it was.

'It is not much, I know,' she acknowledged, suddenly feeling terribly silly for giving him something so pitiful as her unexceptional efforts when he could have bought something much more splendid and fitting for a gentleman of his standing, 'but ─'

'You made this?' John interrupted, his query sharp with insistence as he eyed her seriously. 'For me?'

Margaret sniffed self-consciously as she smoothed down the creases in her skirts. 'Yes,' she admitted, as quiet as a mouse, unsure of whether he approved or disapproved of this fact.

Now that she thought on it, she realised how ridiculous it all was. How could she explain herself? It was not every day that an unmarried woman gave an unmarried man a present, especially when they were not related. Besides, he had given her a tree, a magnificent symbol of Christmastime, and she had returned Mr Thornton's generosity with favouring him with nothing more than a meagre scarf that had more slip-ups to recommend it than merit.

Nonetheless, John's appraisal was quite different. Returning his attention to the scarf, John turned it over in his hands. It was perfect in its imperfection. It was lengthy and thick, but not extravagant in either way, and the material was robust yet delicate, promising to wrap his neck in woollen warmth. There were tiny holes here and there marked by frogging, nothing really, but it was charming to think, rendering it seamless to his eye, because it told him that Margaret, despite her flawlessness, could make mistakes. The thought that she had made this with evident care caused his heart to gallop in his chest, and while his former self would have doubted that true forethought had been knitted into its folds, loop by loop, there was a demonstration of dedication to every purl. However, there was one detail which interested him the most.

'And the colour?' he asked, his eyes darting up to meet her own before swooping back down, secretly trying to compare and contrast the two, his report telling him that they were an exact match.

Sensing his scrutiny, Margaret ducked her head and examined the hem of her dress, vexed to discover that there were smudges of dust and dirt smeared across the base when she had tried, for once, to make an effort tonight.

'Dixon said it was your favourite, or so she heard you say, but I may have got that wrong. If it is not to your liking, then you need not wear it,' she allowed, saddened and disappointed by his dislike of it. Margaret knew it was not an exceptional scarf, but she had at least thought it would meet with his satisfaction and be adequate to complement his modest tastes. If she had known Mr Thornton would be this particular about it as he near enough nit-picked every stitch away, then she would not have bothered.

Huffing to herself, Margaret moved around him and made to open the door so that this awkward interview might promptly come to an end and she could retire to her bed to try and forget it all in what would doubtless be a fitful sleep. But before she had completed her task, she paused, and spinning round, she leaned against the wood, trapping him inside. Fixing him with a determined stare that both excited and unnerved him, she ventured to ask:

'May I say something?' her eyes focused with the rigour of solemnity.

John's expression was an odd one, coming across as a bewildered mien that fell somewhere between interest, puzzlement and amusement, unsure of which emotion to settle upon. 'You have never sought my permission before, Miss Hale, so I see no need for you to seek it now,' he replied, his tone a mixture of sincerity and tongue-in-cheek playfulness, his eyes flashing with the flirtation of it all.

However, Margaret, dear girl, in her innocent naivety, did not understand his jest, and took his comment as one of ridicule for her impertinent ways. Nonetheless, she would not be daunted, so with a glowering pout, she continued.

'I know a great deal has passed between us,' she opened, her eyes wishing to instinctively droop to the ground in demure mortification, but she refused to let them do so, instead, she directed them to stare at a grain of dry skin that had formed in the corner of his eye and let that be her focal point.

'As I say, a great deal has transpired, a great deal that is unhappy, but I want for all that to stop. I know that it has all been my fault,' she proclaimed, and John's head tilted to the side as he regarded her with intrigued confusion. 'You have been nothing but generous to my family and patient with me as I've struggled to find my way here, and I have repaid you with prejudice and false accusations against your character, none of which you deserved. I cannot take it back,' she said sadly, clearly upset by the obstinate fact, 'although I wish with all my heart that I could. But I promise that I shall try and be better, that is, if you will have me, for your friend.'

John was dumbstruck, unable to respond. He had come here tonight with the intention of apologising to her, not for it to be the other way round. He knew Margaret to be a gentle and munificent sort of woman, but one who was resolute in all that she said and did, so once she had said or did what she said or did, then she would not unsay or undo it. Therefore, while her cruel retorts on the day of his failed proposal still echoed in his ears, he had never once dared to hope that she might regret a single word of her fatal rebuttal to his declaration, short as it had been.

Lost in a myriad of jumbled thoughts, he was still trying to work out what he thought to all this when she announced: 'And there is something else.'

John's eyes slanted, unable to fathom what else there could possibly be. 'Go on,' he incited, more suspicion than enthusiasm to his invitation.

Turning away and taking his unruly heart as she went, Margaret returned to the sideboard and bent down again to retrieve something else. This time, when she returned, she held an artefact that was much smaller and less distinguishable close to her stomach, covering it charily with her palms and firmly scrunched fingers. Taking a few deep breaths, she finally let her hands fall, and there, she revealed two gloves, a pair, both long, both black, both leather, both his.

John examined them carefully in the dim light of the hallway, his preoccupied gaze roaming across the familiar skin of the material with all its well-worn tarnishes of time and labour. His mind knew fine well what they were and whom they belonged to, but his heart, his wounded heart, it could not begin to understand why she should have them, nor why she was holding on to them so compellingly, almost as if her fiercely protective grip spoke of a special bond between her and these simple gloves, as if she were saying goodbye to a friend, knowing that duty dictated that she must part with them forever. Trembling, Margaret squeezed them tight once more, and then gradually, she raised them up to him and placed them on top of his scarf, letting them go, taking her hands away with a slow and sad wilting, the act more symbolic than he would ever know.

'I wish you well, Mr Thornton,' she said in a hushed and quivering whisper.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Margaret readied to say what she knew she must, what she had been building herself up to say for the past three hours, ever since she heard her father welcome Mr Thornton into their home tonight. During those minutes, she had overheard something that she had long suspected, but until now, had refused to believe was true.

'Miss Latimer is a fine lady, in every sense of the word, and she will make you a fine wife, finer than I ever could,' she said, disparaging herself. 'She is beautiful. She is accomplished. She is obedient. And she knows the ways of Milton. She will never disappoint or disgrace you by being opinionated in public and headstrong in private. I only hope that when you are wed, you shall not forget us,' she requested with a forlorn lilt to her usually clear-cut voice.

'Father so enjoys your visits, and I do too, because despite my absence of late, I have missed you,' she admitted, a blush inflaming her cheeks like splashes of scarlet paint. 'So please, do not forget us altogether, although I am sure you will be busy, what with your new wife, and with your family that will surely come, all of whom will be your priority now, I am certain of it. Some men would not pay such responsibilities much notice, but not you, Mr Thornton, no, you shall dedicate yourself to their happiness every moment you are awake, I know it,' Margaret added with a fond smile, thinking how there could be no finer husband or father on Earth than him.

'But who knows, maybe next year, we shall see you here again, and we shall be able to welcome Mrs John Thornton to our humble abode? And perhaps even your baby together. Oh!' Margaret exclaimed, her body shuddering at the thought of it, but she quickly sniffled and smiled in a way that was too merry to be genuine as she tried to mask her pain. 'A baby is just what this house needs,' she went on, elevating her watery eyes upwards as she peered at the upper floors, rooms that would remain as barren from the bud of a child as her womb was doomed to be.

'I am sure yours will be quite lovely,' she affixed, her gaze flitting up and down him surreptitiously, aware that it was perhaps improper to point out such a thing, her angst-ridden mind daring to imagine it, tormenting her with dreamy visions of a handsome baby boy with black hair and blue eyes.

'So, you see…I wish you well, Mr Thornton, from the bottom of my heart, I wish you well,…as my friend,' Margaret concluded, finishing what had been the most distressing homily of her whole life, but one which she needed to say, needed to let drain from her, not only for his sake, but her own, all so that she might be bled of the poison of repentance and shame that had infected her for too long.

There was an interval of silence, in which neither of them said a word, their heartbeats the only sound that could be heard, loud as they were, hammering amidst the hush that deafened the space between them.

Then, all of a sudden, the air whipped up into a frenzy as John hissed: 'Friends, indeed!'

Margaret startled, and her doleful eyes climbed the length of him to meet his own, his quaking body rigid with rage.

'We are not friends!' he condemned with a scoff. It was frightening really, he did not shout, but Margaret rather wished he would, because there was something altogether eerie about the way he spoke. It was quiet, yet not subdued or dulled, but rather, it was more potent, more powerful, more passionate than ever. 'We have never been friends, and we never can be,' he told her, his eyes burning fiercely.

'I do not understand!' she cried. Margaret had no notion of what she could have possibly said to incense him so. She knew that she had been guilty of tossing thoughtless words his way in the past, but tonight, she had tried, she had truly tried to be good, to be gentle, to be generous in all she said, desperate not to hurt Mr Thornton further.

Taking a step towards her, swaggering with the strength of his emotion, he leaned in closer, eclipsing Margaret with his shadow as he refused to let her go without learning the uncompromising truth. 'I shall tell you exactly what you are to me, Miss Hale −'

But he did not have the chance to say what he wanted, his testimony dying on his lips as Margaret flew away from him, retreating backwards with staggering steps and knocking into the sideboard, her eyes wide and wild with alarm.

'No!' she resisted. 'Pray, do not say another word,' she begged, reminding him with a brutal stab to his raw heart of that day, not so long ago, when she had forbidden him to continue. 'Think very carefully before you speak, Mr Thornton, because once you do, you cannot take any of it back, and I should hate for you to regret its saying, and I, its hearing.'

Again, there was silence, the two of them panting as they stared at each other in the darkness, the flickering lamps casting disturbed shadows upon their faces, illuminating their despair and snatching it away like the blackened claw of grief.

At last, John took a step back, defeated, and then he nodded solemnly. 'Very well,' he assented without emotion, 'as you command, my lady,' he said with a derisive bow of his head.

Picking up his hat, gloves and scarf, John readied to leave, but as he did, he looked up and spied a single stem of mistletoe peeking out and hanging down amongst a mass of ivy. Glaring at it, he reached up, and with one swift swoop of his hand, he snatched it down, crunching it in his grasp, his contorted face hiding the pain he felt as the needles speared his skin. He had changed his mind. Earlier this evening, he had been working himself up to believe that he could accept the idea of Margaret being with somebody else, so long as she was happy and secure in life, but not now. A venal and cynical resentment had taken hold of him, and all John knew was that if Margaret did not love him, then he would be damned if he would sit back and watch her love another. He knew how she would love. He had not loved her without gaining that instinctive knowledge of what capabilities were in her. Her soul would walk in glorious sunlight if any man was worthy, by his power of loving, to win back her love.

Swerving on his heels, John heaved open the door, and marched out into the wintry night, turning his back on this house and all the hopes it had hitherto contained, vowing never to return.

Margaret watched in dismayed stillness as he walked away, his footsteps trodden into the previously unblemished snow, depicting the way she had trampled over his heart before, never to be untouched again, forever to be tainted by the mark of love. She was stunned, and it was not until the belligerent wind that billowed in through the open door nipped at her cheeks that she realised that they were stinging with water from the salty river that leaked in unseemly gushes from her eyes. Rousing herself and regaining her senses, Margaret wiped away her tears, and she suddenly sprang forth, running out the door.

Twisting her head, she searched the street frantically, her vision impaired by the snow that fell in fluffy yet dense clusters. Shielding her eyes with her arm, Margaret squinted, and then, much to her relief, she saw Mr Thornton, halfway down the pavement, not far from the corner that would steal him away from view. Closing the door behind her so that Dixon or her father would not be alerted to her absence, Margaret rushed down the steps and hurried after him, her feet promptly turning wet and miserably cold as she struggled to sprint in her silken house shoes that were made for comfort, not warmth.

'Wait!' she called out after his retreating form. 'Mr Thornton, wait, please!'