Here we go! It's finally done. A Christmas story in March – what nonsense! But as somebody recently reminded me, Dickens tells us that we should keep the Christmas spirit with us all year round, so there we go.

Thanks again to all who have sent kind wishes amidst my health issues of late, and for those who have been patient in awaiting the end of this story. I really hope you enjoy it and feel it was worth the wait.

THE WOOLLEN OLIVE BRANCH

Chapter 6

From Before We Were Us

Margaret was running as quickly as she could, but it was tricky as she slipped and stumbled in the thick snow that hindered her legs from making significant strides, her skirts weighing her down and her toes nipping from the frost that nibbled at them like tiny white mice.

'Stop!' she called out urgently, but he did not listen. 'Wait, stop, I can't ─ I can't run!' she pleaded, faltering and falling forwards as she tumbled downwards, her gloveless hands diving into a glittering mound of snow and stinging.

When he still did not halt, despite surely being able to hear her distress, Margaret found that her sense of charity had reached its breaking point and her patience ran out.

'Mr Thornton, you will stop at once!' she shouted, coming to a standstill and refusing to make a fool of herself by senselessly chasing after him for a second longer, absurdly tracking him through the dark streets of Milton in the middle of the night. 'I demand it!' she insisted.

It was true that Margaret was ready to excuse his volatile moods of late, the poor man had a great deal to contend with, and so she appreciated that she should tread gently where his feelings were concerned. Nonetheless, there was no way she was going to tolerate his fits of temper if they were not explained, tantrums that were not only as contradictory as day and night, but came and went just as swiftly.

Shovelling her foot into the snow, Margaret kicked it hard, and a giant heap of the stuff went flying into the air in a spray of powder-like frost and pummelled Mr Thornton on the back with a thump. That did the trick, and he came to an immediate stop, even if he remained taut with anger, his back still turned away from her in unwavering resentment.

Oh! Oh my! She was quite impressed with herself for that.

Margaret huffed with frustration as she marched towards him like a man, sorry, woman, on a mission. 'That is better,' she muttered, dragging her hair away from her face, trying not to think what a dreadful fright she must look after this short yet stressful ordeal.

Finally, Margaret managed to catch up with him, her legs not nearly as long as his, and she preceded him, coming to stand a few yards in front of the mill master who just stood there, rooted to the spot like a black statue that starkly contrasted with the white of his surroundings.

She saw at once the conflict in his face. His nostrils were flared, his chin was jutted, his jaw was tight, but even if his eyes were seething with something akin to wounded pride, they scanned her with blatant concern when he caught sight of her, evidently troubled that she should be outside without so much as a stitch of clothing other than her negligibly thin dress that was made for an evening tucked up safe indoors by a roaring fire. John was about to insist that Margaret go back inside, to take her by the wrist and drag her there, or better yet, to collect her up in his arms as if she weighed no more than the parcel she had just given him and carry her, ignoring her shouts of protest and offended slaps.

In the end, he gave in, accepting that there was no way he could tell her what to do, not when she was clearly indignant already, so removing his coat, he stripped down to his waistcoat and shirt, and moved to place the heavy garment over her shoulders, gently pulling the lapels so that it covered her as fully as possible. She trembled under his unexpected tenderness, the brush of his fingers tingling her senses, but she did not mind it, not at all. Margaret could have objected, insisting that it was his and that she could manage just fine without his chivalrous assistance, but alas, her body was numb with the cold, save for the awful jabs of icy pain that pricked at her nerves, so she let him have his way, just this once.

With a winded breath that blew into the air like an obscure cloud and scattered, she said what she knew she must. 'Mr Thornton, I cannot think what I have said tonight that has angered you so, but I am sorry for it, truly I am. I will listen to whatever it is you have to say. I promise that I will not stop you this time,' she vowed, reminding him not so subtly of a day when she had prevented him from speaking what he wished. 'You shall be free to tell me all that you will, all that is in your heart, and I shall not flinch.'

John laughed, a short, sarcastic laugh, and he let his head fall back as he gazed at the moon that was full and bright, his expression difficult to read as he contemplated how small and insignificant he was compared to the immeasurable universe that stretched above him. These constellations had surely witnessed many a scene as they lay belly-down upon their canopy of black clouds. Some dramas would have been wretched, some cheerful, some with happy endings, some with tragic ones, and he wondered what the stars made of him tonight, whether they were mocking him for his foolishness, or whether they wished upon themselves that his humble hopes would defy all impediments and prevail.

'Why did you make me this scarf?' he asked at length, his attention once more returning to her, not that it had ever truly been elsewhere, his eyes fierce and incisive as they fell upon her sad face, casting a spell and remanding Margaret in place to answer his all-important question.

At first, Margaret was distracted. She was hurt that he did not put on her scarf, instead allowing the frost to settle on his neck and melt into pools of frigid water that seeped into his skin. It made her cross to think that Mr Thornton would rather be ill than wear her gift, but she had wounded him tonight, although she did not know how, so Margaret forgave his refusal to accept her offering, given that she too had once refused him, and much more harshly. She still believed that he did not like it, but whether he was slighted by the modesty of its creation, or the identity of its creator, she was yet to find out.

Shrugging her shoulders, Margaret did not know what to say. 'Because I could not bear for you to be cold!' she answered simply, because it was absolutely true. She had hated the thought of him walking about town, always busy, always diligent, always unselfish in his pursuit of doing right by others, never once thinking of himself and caring for his own needs. Mr Thornton may have been a strong man, but even strong men need a little shelter from the bitterness of this world.

'And because I was sorry. I wanted to offer you an olive branch, and I have nothing else to give,' she professed, holding out her empty hands and feeling hopeless. Margaret understood that she had nothing Mr Thornton needed, nothing he wanted. No money to relieve his plight. No skills to appease his labour. No words of certainty in the future to both confront his fears and comfort his hope. However, there was one thing Margaret could give him, no matter how worthless it might be, and that was her unconditional friendship.

'And from what little I know, friendship is about giving, not what you get back. It gives honestly and openly without expectation. It is not selfish. It is not grasping. It keeps no records of what is owed or spent, of what has been done right and what has been done wrong. It is flexible in times of turmoil, and it is persevering in its loyalty, recognising that people are flawed but still worthy of human compassion and comfort. It just wants to bestow whatever little it has, and it does so freely and gladly besides. And I made it for you because I wanted you to know how I feel about you.'

John's breathing was now so disturbed that he could scarcely draw breath. 'And how do you feel? About me?' he whispered, his voice deliriously uneven as he took a cautious step towards her.

Margaret sniffed as her nose began to snivel. 'I care about you,' she confessed, no longer ashamed of admitting it. 'That you have come to mean so very much to me. I cannot pretend to understand it all. In fact, I can barely understand it at all, try as I might. I can hardly recollect how, when or why you took up such a special place in my heart, but you have. Indeed, there is so much of you there, that I wonder if there is any of myself left,' she laughed, a hand kneading the top of her breast where her awakened heart beat fiercely. She thought of him so often these days, that Margaret half wondered whether, after all, she was him, or he was her, it was all so strange.

'You have embedded yourself there, I fear, never to be removed, and do you know what, Mr Thornton? I am glad of it! It both scares me and fills me with such security to know that I will always have you here, close to me, no matter how far away you may be in every other sense.'

She thought on how her heedlessness had erected an uncompromising wall between them, never to be dismantled, she feared. They would never be truly close in any way. He would continue to think of her with derision, his disgust slowly giving way to apathy over time. They would barely see each other when he married, his time rightly taken up with his new and expanding family. And while Mr Thornton did not live far away now, one day, Margaret would be sent away from him permanently, she knew it. When her father died, hopefully many years from now, she would be packed up and packed off like a bequest and sent to live with Fred or Edith, her family obliged to take care of their spinster relative, and then, she would never see him again, her memory the only way of recalling his face.

Because of this impending dread, Margaret found herself staring at him. She had usually shied away from his discerning gaze that repressed all his feral feelings for her, but not tonight. Tonight she would look at him boldly and unblinkingly, memorising every inch of that face that characterised to her mind the very definition of handsomeness and honour. John was unsettled by her stare, but he matched it, negating to look away as he stepped closer, dangerously nearer.

'I was wrong about you. I see that now,' she said, her eyes mapping his face and thrilling him as if she touched him there with her own dear hands. 'I judged you harshly, and for that I will always be ashamed of my naivety and my pride, for which I have no excuse, and now must pay the price. But while I can be quick to anger and judgement, one of my other faults is that I am stubborn,' she said zealously, her eyes animated, 'and I vow to stubbornly be your friend, every day for the rest of my life, John Thornton, regardless of whether or not you want me as your friend.'

John sighed, the noise that emitted from him boisterous and aggrieved, as if she had driven a knife straight through his heart. 'Stop saying that!' he bellowed, the sound cracking like thunder in the frigid sky.

She was dismayed as she wobbled on the spot, mirroring the unpredictable moving of his own form as he spun away from her and combed his fingers through his hair in agitation. Margaret was terribly confused. She had never been particularly diplomatic with her words, but at least she tended to know when she was inflicting pain, whether that be intentional or incidental, and she had tried hard, so very hard, to be kind to him tonight, so why was he so unhappy?

'Saying what?' she asked, inept to guess.

'Friend!' he snapped, spitting it back in her face through gritted teeth. 'That odious word. I hate it! I do not wish for us to be friends!' John decreed, shaking his head adamantly.

He was so incensed, that he did not see the little colour that was left in Margaret's cheeks drain away as she listened to him, her face tremulous and aghast, as if he had just struck her.

'Then what do you want?' she whimpered, at a loss to know what else she could give him. Was it nothing? Was that the answer? Did he want nothing from her? Nothing with her? Nothing to do with her? Oh! She prayed not, because that would be too much to ask, too much to give.

'I am not marrying Ann Latimer.'

The fact spilled out of his mouth like a blundering splutter, and Margaret froze, unable, although not unwilling, to believe her own ears.

'Why not?!' she interrogated rudely, astounded by this revelation. 'She is right for you; you are right for each other. I am sure she will be honoured to be your wi −'

John groaned loudly. 'Heaven help me!' he cursed, sick and tired of her ingenuousness. 'Because I love you, Margaret!' he let slip, gesturing towards her.

It was almost as if the whole world went quiet, and the two of them were all that were left awake. Margaret's mouth fell open and hung quivering in bewilderment.

'You what?' she breathed.

'You heard me. I ─ love ─ you,' John repeated, stalking towards her, his steps so calculated that it was almost terrifying, almost as if he were daring her to run from him, testing her against the strength of his ardour, because if she could not bear the intensity of it now, God help her if and when he unleashed the full force of his passion upon her. But Margaret did not budge, she held her ground valiantly, and God! – how he loved her for it.

'Why?' she had to know.

Moving so close to her that their noses almost touched, John came to stand before Margaret, his gaze holding her in place, the heat of his breath falling upon her face and warming her through and through. He thought about how he had tried impulsively to be near her on the day of his proposal, when he had rounded the table to come to her, but she had evaded him and withdrawn, so it excited him more than he could describe to find that she did not flee now.

'You say you are stubborn? Well, so am I! I am as stubborn as stubborn gets, it is what got me this far in life. And I have never, never, been as stubborn about anything as I am about loving you. You ask me why I love you, and the answer is God alone knows. You are infuriating, Margaret, you are insufferable. You are impossibly perfect, despite being a nightmare of a woman who haunts my every waking and sleeping moment,' he said tersely, tortured by his longing for her.

'I cannot escape you, I cannot get over you, struggle in torment as I might. You give me no peace, yet I know that you alone can bring me it. You drive me mad, but the devil take me, I am yours, and always will be. You are imprinted on my soul, and I am no longer whole without you. Everything I do, everything I think, and feel, and am, they are all governed by my love for you, my one defining wish being to make you happy and to selfishly ask that you make me happy in return. You see, you are too good, dear heart, you say that friendship and love are noble things, and I am sure you are right, they are righteous in their pure form, but I am too hungry a creature for such decency, and I crave your undivided affection to be the recompense for my faithful and fond devotion for all our days. I could no more stop loving you than I could stop breathing, for without my hope of you, I would die.'

John then retreated ever so slightly to give her room to breathe, the space that decorum dictated he must. Lifting up her scarf and holding it firm in the narrow disparity between them, so close that the wool stroked both his cheek and hers, he asked her once more: 'So, I ask you again, Margaret, why did you make me this scarf?'

Nodding in defiance, Margaret took a step towards him, closing the gap between them, her chest just touching his and no more, the precise amount too small to measure, the sensation igniting irrepressible embers to burn in their breasts. 'Because I love you,' she told him fearlessly, 'and because I have nothing else to give you to show you how I feel.'

John panted. 'You could give me yourself.'

Margaret gasped, a sharp shock of chilly air filling her lungs. 'I beg your pardon?!' she challenged, affronted by the idea that he would suggest such a thing. 'Mr Thornton, I know you think me wild, but I am not that kind of woman ─'

'Marry me!' he proposed abruptly, before she had a chance to finish her train of thought.

Margaret's lips parted, and John struggled not to stare at those flushed petals that were reddened by the cold, his own lips instinctively edging nearer and wetting for want of her. Her breath hitched. Oh my! She had not thought he would ask her, not so soon. She had assumed that they might spend some time rebuilding their relationship, starting from the beginning, but then again, after all they had endured together, how could they ever go back? However, Margaret had other concerns on her mind that overtook her desire to reply one way or the other.

'But how can you still want me? After everything that has happened? After everything that we have both said and done? None of it can be taken back, I know that, and so do you,' Margaret questioned, convinced that the mistakes they had made, the misunderstandings they had shared, would be enough to rupture even the most enduring of bonds.

'I don't care what you've done. I only care about you,' he told her, seizing one of Margaret's hands and holding it intimately, his large fingers curling around her small ones and protecting them from the taciturn bite of the night. Margaret was revived by the sensation, previously unaware of how cold she had been, and it gave her the courage she needed to know that she could find such wholehearted refuge with him by her side.

'I know you, Margaret, I trust you, I believe in you. All these weeks, I have not doubted you, only myself,' he confessed, his eyes searching hers. 'I have never truly disbelieved your goodness, only my own worth in the face of your grace,' he went on, gently gripping her hand, his thumb sweeping back and forth affectionately. 'Just tell me, should I fear him?' he asked, closing his eyes and swallowing thickly as he awaited her answer, and Margaret stared up at his dear face, one sketched with pain on her behalf, and how she wished she could take his head in her hands, kiss him well, and still his suspicions and sadness once and for all. 'I am not asking you to tell me who he is, or what he meant to you, only that it is over, and that I shall never have to see you in his arms again,' he flinched, the memory of it too harrowing to imagine, yet too vivid to dispel.

Continuing to study him with his closed eyes as he anticipated her response, one which would irrevocably decide his fate, Margaret smiled to herself. She found it strange to think she held such a poetic power over another person, and one who was much stronger than she in every way. But she knew that she would not abuse her sovereignty over him, no, never. Gently prizing the scarf from his hand, she began to wrap it around his neck, ensuring it was snug and tight in the hope that the cold would never get to him again. Then, raising her hand, she pressed a palm against his cheek, and all at once, John's eyes fluttered open in disbelief. Staring deep into his soul, Margaret allowed the empathy she felt for him to pour from her.

'I promise that you have nothing to fear from him or any other,' she vowed, and when she saw that he was about to reply, most likely to counter her pledge with another question spiked with insecurity, she bravely shuffled forwards and burrowed herself in his arms, relieved to find that they opened instinctively for her, and after a moment of hesitation, or more likely surprise, she sighed contentedly to feel his arms envelop her, drawing her further into his embrace.

'And as for being in anybody's arms, Mr Thornton, John, I shall always – always, wish to be in yours.'

John's breath shuddered deep in his chest to hear her speak so, words that were so delicious they must surely be fictitious. He was dreaming, that was it. But then as he felt her grip onto the muscles of his arms and cling to him reassuringly, he felt her sincerity, and he knew she was real. He felt her thirst. He felt her anxieties. He felt her desire. He felt her love, and it was then that John knew that this was no dream, but the most blessed of truths.

Taking a finger and crooking it under her chin, John encouraged Margaret's head to tilt upwards so that she looked at him once again, her eyes wide and charming as they sparkled with a trust that he would never betray. He was distraught to see that her nose, her darling little nose, was turning blue, and he settled that he must get her inside soon. But before he did, he took the corner of his scarf and rubbed it lightly against the bridge, warming it, and bringing it back to life. He knew he would wear her gift always, no matter what other attire he decked, and no matter whether the skies snowed or sweltered, around his neck her scarf would proudly be.

'Well then, Miss Hale, tell me, will you have me?' he murmured against her cheek, his bristled jaw stroking her and scraping along the silky softness of Margaret's porcelain skin.

'For my friend?' Margaret giggled, and John found himself chuckling too at her playfulness.

'Yes, first and foremost as your friend,' he agreed, bumping his forehead against hers. 'Always your friend. But will you not have me for your husband too?' he asked, an unmistakable fear lurking beneath the surface of his bravado. 'I promise to look after you, my love. I will always put you first, and treat you right, you have my word.'

'Yes,' she sighed happily as she ran her tapered fingers along his shirtsleeve, the material growing damp from all the snow that was landing on it, revealing taut muscles beneath. 'Yes, I will marry you, John, if that is what you are asking,' she whispered, and she felt him sway against her.

With his lips grazing her ear, John could hardly speak. 'Truly, Margaret? Do not toy with me, I beg of you. I could not bear it. Are you saying you will be mine?' he had to know, his hand sweeping down her back and pressing her firmly against him, terrified that she would leave him any minute now.

Margaret smiled once again and copied his action, her hand resting on his back and holding him closer to her still, her fingers tracing his spine. 'I already am, John. I always was,' she divulged, rejoicing in the way he moaned into her hair.

Amazed by her revelation, John held onto her for dear life, afraid that she was some taunting apparition of all he yearned for, a hallucination that would disappear at any moment. His arms were splayed across her back, one grasping her waist, the other caressing the base of her neck and playing with the loose wisps of brown locks that hung thereabouts. He had to be mindful not to break her, the strength of his love overpowering enough to crush her.

'Do I have your permission to call upon you tomorrow and speak with your father?' he requested impatiently, thinking that if they were quick about it, he could be a married man by his thirtieth birthday in March, perhaps even on the day itself if she approved.

Margaret was about to dreamily agree, lost in the euphoria of his adoration, her senses made giddy by the peppery aroma of his natural scent, but she then blinked and shook her head.

'Tomorrow?!' she repeated with an astonished pitch. 'But, my love, tomorrow is Christmas Day!' she reminded him, the two of them having clean forgot.

John grinned, thrilled beyond words to hear her address him with such unbridled affection. 'Aye, I know, my darling. And what better day to ask for the thing I want most in all the world?' he teased, relishing the way Margaret skewed her head in confusion, and then blushed beautifully when she understood him.

'And what might that be, Mr Thornton?' she teased in return, draping her arms around his neck and delighting to hear him groan with euphoria to find that her hands were there once more.

His mind returned to that chaotic morning when Margaret had flung her arms around him in defence before the rioters, and how he, consumed by concern for her safety, had not allowed himself the chance to savour the sensation, even although despite the disorientating drama of those few seconds, John had still acutely felt her touch. Oh, how John had wished with all his might at that moment that Margaret had hurled her arms around him through choice and not out of necessity. But now, such longing faded away into insignificance, because here she was again, with no threat of terror to overrule her actions, her arms around his neck of their own free accord, and there he hoped they would remain for the rest of their lives together.

Reaching into his coat that lay on her shoulders, John retrieved the stem of mistletoe that he had stuffed in there earlier during his heated departure. Holding it high above their heads, he gazed down at her as she gazed up at him, their eyes twinkling like stars, the fluffy snow falling onto their eyelashes. With their lips creeping nearer, he smiled, and she did too, all before he sweetly whispered:

'Well, Miss Hale…what I want is very simple, and very near, and believe me when I say that it is very special, and that this humble man shall always love it with all that he is, for it is very, very dear.'

Yes, you are right! There is a shout out to "Emma," in the last two chapters, my favourite Austen novel.

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