Dear readers,
I have been playing around with some different styles of narrative and have played around with some new ideas and this story was born. I have written the first 5 chapters already in an attempt to released new chapters more regularly than my last North and South story! This chapter is really an introduction to the premise, but I sincerely hope you enjoy it and please do review. I love to hear your thoughts and ideas, good or bad, and even if we clearly don't agree.
Happy reading,
Elle x.
...
Snow fell softly from the darkening sky, settling like a blanket over the empty courtyard at Marlborough Mills. The accompanying house, loomed over the peaceful sight, dark and brooding, as though refusing to surrender to the snow's cleansing infiltration, which had so far only managed to grasp hold of patches the tiled roof. For once, the Milton wind was calm and still, casting an unsettling spell of silence over the usually noisy place. Nothing moved. Everything lay still as though in a deadly slumber on that cold, Sabbath afternoon.
A lone carriage broke through serenity, driving dark lines into the white, untouched canvas and clattering through the large mill gates before coming to a standstill in the centre of the open space- a dark blot, staining the sea of white.
Hesitantly, a black silhouette emerged from the dark stain, delicately yet resolutely carving a pattern across the space between the carriage and the large wooden door that marked the entrance to the house.
Behind it another shorter and rounder figure trailed behind using small quick steps and a sharp voice pierced the air as it shrieked across the expanse, "We must be quick, Margaret! Are you sure a letter would not suffice?"
The first figure replied with only a sad shake of her raven bonnet, before it raised a small pale hand to the door and determinedly rapped the door knocker.
After a moment's pause, the door was swung open a by blonde haired young lady in a deep purple dress- a splash of obnoxious colour completely at odds with the colourless scene, who curtsied elaborately, and, after a muffled conversation, she stepped back to allow the two people into the house, closing the large door quickly behind them.
...
Obediently, Margaret Hale followed Fanny Thornton down the familiar, narrow hallway, attempting to stop her body from shivering now that she was out of the piercing grip of the cold air. It was to no effect, for the tremors that wracked her body were not solely the ill effects of the bitter wind, but also an unstoppable sign of her grief. Her heavy black skirts oppressively rustled against her legs as she walked and her high lace collar choked her as she tried to stifle the overwhelming sadness that threatened to break free- had been desperately trying to break free since she had heard the news of her father's death and which she had suppressed at all costs. Her dress of black was the only outward sign of her mourning she would allow. As for the shivering, she seemed to have little control over that. She could not-would not however, allow herself to break now.
"Mother, Miss Hale is here..." Fanny Thornton announced as she entered the large sitting room, "she is returning to London and has come to bid us farewell."
Margaret Hale lingered at the door, book clutched in hand, unsure whether she should enter without being invited in. The dark handsome furniture and deep red drapes that adorned the room now seemed brash and intimidating rather than warm and rich as she had once thought them to be. However, the decision was quickly made for her by her aunt with a sharp elbow to the ribs and a scoffing, "well, go on then. Don't dawdle in doorways, Margaret!"
Mrs Thornton, who had evidently been addressing some correspondences, rose from where she had been sitting at a desk upon her entrance, setting a stack of letters aside.
"You are returning to London today, Miss Hale?" she asked without offering for either uninvited and probably unwanted guest to sit.
"Yes, this very afternoon" Margaret explained, trying not to cast her gaze towards the couch where she had once lay bleeding and unconscious and had thus been inspected by Doctor Donaldson under entirely different circumstances. Automatically, as she replayed the memory, her hand rose to touch the small scar on her temple, which told the tale she had tried so hard to forget and had kept hidden from both her parents.
"You see, my aunt..."
"I must get Margaret back to London as quickly as possible so that she might forget this place and the sadness my brother- in-law brought the poor girl and my sister in bringing them here..." Aunt Shaw interrupted, as Margaret gestured towards her, launching herself into the tale of how her sister's family came to reside in Milton, yet Margaret did not hear more than her opening line, surrendering the conversation without protest. Mrs Thornton countered her aunt's verbal cascade by inviting the woman to sit and requesting for tea to be brought in.
Fanny finally urged Margaret to sit upon the very couch she had thus far avoided looking at and Margaret obliged with trepidation. As she had known it would, the memory of the embarrassment she had felt upon overhearing Fanny conversing with a maid about herself and Mr Thornton, alongside visions of her regrettable actions that day, came back to her the instant she sat upon it. They thought she had thrown herself upon him, in some calculated, elaborate display of affection she did not feel or want and the embarrassment then had been excruciating. No embarrassment remained now, only a bitter sadness. Even after everything she had faced as the consequences of her decision to protect him, Margaret still did not truly regret her actions. The events that followed, however, were a different matter. She suspected she would regret all that followed for a very long time to come.
"We were all sad to hear of your Father's passing, Miss Hale." Mrs Thornton broke away from Aunt Shaw's sharp tongue and turned her back on the woman. "John in particular will miss their lessons," she offered truthfully by way of as much of an olive branch as she could muster.
"Thank you." Margaret accepted it for what it was. The simple words all she could muster for her own part.
The last time she and the formidable woman had conversed, it had ended in offense and downright annoyance for both parties, and they had not spoken since. One fateful morning after the death of Margaret's mother, Mrs Thornton had called upon Margaret at Crampton and quite chastised her for her supposed inappropriate conduct- something that was both unwarranted and unfair, since she knew full well part of her judgemental words related to Margaret's rebuttal of her son's proposal, which she had not asked for (no matter what impropriety the woman had read into her innocent actions) and the rest for being seen with Fred at the station. If she deserved to be reprimanded, then it was for lying about her whereabouts that night, but not for her actions. She had done nothing untoward. In order to clear her name, she would have needed to betray her brother and she had been unwilling to and in truth, did not see why she should have to. Of course, Mrs Thornton did not know she had lied. Only one person had knowledge of her true transgression, and he was glaringly absent.
"I had hoped I might be able to thank Mr Thornton for his kindness towards both my mother and father in person," she said, trying to hide the yearning she felt to speak with the stern mill master. A large part of her wished never to speak nor hear of him again, yet another, more dominant portion reasoned that he had been kind to her family and even to her, until recently. Then there was Plato, the volume she still clutched, which she had been unable to bear parting with and which seemed somehow to belong with him here, not in a box in Harley Street with her. Her father would have wished it to be so. For some unfathomable reason, that had been enough to draw her here in person, rather than posting the item as her aunt had encouraged.
This was to be her final memory of Milton before she walked away forever.
"I am afraid my son does not have time for many social pleasantries during the day. He is otherwise engaged." Mrs Thornton explained in an apologetic tone, that was at odd with the facial expression accompanying it, which suggested Margaret should have known better than to hope to see him at home- and all things considered perhaps she should have. Of course, he was not there.
"Even on the Sabbath?" Margaret asked dejectedly, knowing the answer and all too aware that Hannah Thornton was watching her with unrelenting scrutiny.
"Even on the Sabbath. He accompanies me to church as is proper and then returns to work," the older woman stated proudly.
"I should have thought he would be able to spare a few minutes to see Margaret if she wishes to relay her thanks..." Aunt Shaw bristled, squaring her shoulders, her annoyance plain to see. "Lord knows she has suffered enough since coming to this dirty place."
Too tired and weak for an argument, Margaret stayed characteristically quiet and simply willed her aunt to stop talking as she rose from her position to peer out of the large windows overlooking the mill yard.
"John spends far too much time with boring and unimportant paperwork at that dirty mill. He is such a stick in the mud," Fanny proclaimed, rolling her eyes and was met with a swift rebuke from her mother.
If anything, the snow had become more determined and the trail of darkness that she and the carriage had caused was beginning to be painted over. Soon it would be restored to its brilliant virgin white. She had never thought of the mill yard as beautiful, never really considered it at all, but now in the falling snow it could easily have rivalled any of London's most impressive parks. Margaret watched it fascinated her mind numb to the mumbled chatter behind her and thought of how at odds it was with the image of the bustling mill yard she had come to know, since her first experience of it so long ago.
Without warning a dark reflection loomed up behind her own in the window and Margaret felt a shiver pass down her spine as she realised that if she only took a step back, she would collide with its owner. For a moment, her eyes locked with the dark shadow's own cloudy orbs in the snow-smeared mirror and she felt her breath momentarily hitch in her throat.
"Miss Hale," its voice brushed softly past her ear, and Margaret spun around to find the person who she had so sought towering over her, a mere foot away.
She had not seen him properly since the day she had rejected his proposal. Not closely, like this. Only from a distance, across a crowded road or in a large group. Since that awful day, she had taken lessons with her father far less frequently and when he had she had made sure to be making calls elsewhere or have some other task to excuse her from his company. He had never given a reason why, but Margaret knew nonetheless. It was because of her.
Aunt Shaw had made it clear from the beginning that it would be inappropriate for her to be present at her father's grave side, but she had insisted on attending the church ceremony element of the funeral and had seen him there, alone at the back. He had offered his condolences briefly as she had left the church and that was the last she had seen of him, though Mr Bell had informed her that he had been present to see her father laid to rest. That had given her some comfort. At least two of his friends had been there to say farewell, though she could not.
Now that she could see him clearly once again, for all that his expression implied cold apathy, his eyes were piercing and filled with unaired questions. Questions she knew would remain unspoken and unanswered forever.
"You are leaving then?" his words should have been a question, just one of the many, but instead it was a simple statement, laced with resignation.
Margaret nodded lightly, taking a step back from him, unable to hold his gaze any longer. Instead, she fixed her attention on the book she still clutched to her abdomen and the paleness of the white skin of her cold hands in contrast to the harsh black lace, which adorned her wrists.
Silence fell between them and when Margaret dared to glance at the man before her, she found that he too had directed his attention towards the leather-bound volume in her grasp.
"I brought you father's Plato" she explained self-consciously, holding it out to him as an offering, with a hand slightly shaking. "I think he would have liked for you to have it."
She watched his face twitch as some flicker of emotion crossed it, before the same blank expression resumed its place.
"Thank you, Miss Hale. I shall cherish it, as I shall cherish the memories I have of my friendship with your father."
Swiftly, he extended a hand to accept her offering, his larger one brushing against her own much smaller one for less than a moment. The innocent but intimate feel of skin on skin stole her breath away as it had numerous times in the past- as she had handed him his tea, whilst he conversed with her father- and time seemed to still. Margaret realised with an odd feeling of emptiness as she studied his long fingers against her own, that such a moment would never again exist between them. Those moments along with the chapter they belonged to were over.
The urge to grip onto his hand and pull him away from other eyes and ears to a place where no other could overhear them was almost overwhelming as her heart implored her not to miss this chance- this one last chance to disclose what had been haunting her, plaguing her conscience for weeks, months since Fredrick's fated visit and hurried departure. Though the thought of disclosing her brother's secret to anyone, let alone a magistrate still troubled her deeply, it could not be denied that Fred was safely back to his life in Cadiz (though blissfully unaware of their father's demise) and now there was nothing to prevent Margaret from clearing her name in Mr Thornton's eyes at least. She would still leave Milton in a cloud of sorrow but at least she would not have to mourn the loss of her reputation in the opinion of someone who had become so important to her father, and even her mother in her final days. If he could only know that the man he saw her with was Fred, her brother, and he had not witnessed some illicit meeting between lovers as she knew he assumed! Yet what could she do? It would be completely inappropriate to request to speak privately and besides, she doubted whether he would want to hear from her since he seemed so utterly disgusted and disappointed with her. And so, the moment passed and as her father's beloved Plato slipped from her hand to his, Margaret Hale missed her chance and helplessly watched as the man who had once proclaimed to wish to marry her turned from her disinterestedly and walked away, taking her last chance of redemption in his eyes with her. With a sinking heart, Margaret watched him leave her and the hand which had clutched her last lifeline now fell uselessly to her side in his wake.
"Margaret, we must leave now or we shall miss our train!"
Bewildered, Margaret turned to see Aunt Shaw marching purposefully towards her. "Say goodbye to your friends and let us leave this place."
Mrs Thornton watched her carefully as she recomposed herself and tightened her raven bonnet and Margaret felt her cheeks flush.
"I wish you well, Fanny," she bid the girl sincerely before turning to her mother.
"Mrs Thornton, thank you again," she offered to the woman with a nod.
The brooding figure lingering by the door seemed to stand even taller as she finally turned towards him, her eyes lowered piously to the floor.
"Thank you for everything you have done for both my parents... It meant more to them and me than you know." Her tone was expressionless and guarded, but the words were truthful.
Without further acknowledgement to him and without waiting for any indication that he had heard her, Margaret bowed her head to his mother once more, raising her hand in a half wave to Fanny, who wished her goodbye. With that, she followed her aunt out. Her boots echoed loudly on the tiled floor of the hallway and louder still in her mind as she sought to escape the stifling atmosphere of the house and its occupants and emerged into the cleansing purity of the piercingly cold air.
The tracks they had left in their wake upon arrival had now disappeared entirely and the only disturbance to the picture was a set of small foot prints left by Aunt Shaw, who had already reached the carriage and was attempting to clamour her way inside.
As soft wet flakes fell across her vision, Margaret paused amongst the stillness. The tops of the buildings had surrendered and now lay covered in freshly fallen snow. No longer did they appear dark and unfriendly. The snow had softened them somehow.
"Miss Hale!"
A deep baritone voice pulled her from her reverie and sent her turning towards him like the moon to the tide.
Mr Thornton strode towards her with purpose, stopping before her.
"Whilst I have been fortunate enough to still have my mother here, and have no experienced the pain of losing both parents so quickly, I do know what it is to lose someone without being granted the chance to say goodbye."
The sincerity she found written on his face, combined with the soft, comforting tone only served to cause the tears that waited just beneath the surface of her composed exterior to spring forth and swallowed heavily to stifle them, attempting to blink away the few that had escaped from her eyes so that he might not see.
Undaunted, he stepped closer, so that his frame towered over her.
Hi voice was low and personal as he spoke, "I know what it is to grieve a parent. To feel like your heart is breaking and cannot go on. To fear that you cannot carry the load any longer."
At the affinity his words evoked, something inside her broke.
"Does the pain ever go away?" she asked, her voice cracking as she brought a hand to lay at the space in her chest, which ached as the thing that troubled her most of all- thought of her father passing hundreds of miles away from both her and Fred, with no-one beside him as he slept- gipped her heart and cruelly twisted it.
"No." The honest answer came softly as he moved closer, as though afraid someone might overhear them, "but you will learn how to bear it better and find peace with it in time..."
A soft sob escaped her throat as Aunt Shaw's face appeared from the opening to the carriage, urging her to hurry up.
"Goodbye, Mr Thornton," she bid him farewell through her tears, extending a hand for him to shake one final time. His lips upturned almost imperceptibly as he took the proffered hand gently in his and Margaret's heart leapt into her throat at the softness of his touch in what was more of a lingering caress than a handshake.
A gentle wind swept a stray curl from the confines of its hair pin and without a word, Mr Thornton brought his free hand to sweep it behind her ear, his eyes widening in unison with hers as they both realised what he had done.
"Miss Hale..."
"Margaret!"
One utterance of her name was whispered into the wind, the tone imploring and the other an exclamation of annoyance.
"Coming!" she replied to the louder voice, snatching her hand back from where it still resided in his. Without a word, she spun on her heel an made a fled his presence for the safety of the carriage.
He did not try to follow her.
"What were you and that manufacturer talking about?" Aunt Shaw asked as the horses moved begrudgingly into life and carried them away from the mill, away from Milton and away from him, making no attempt to hide her nosiness.
"Grief," she lamented, wondering whether, if she chose to look back, she would find him still stood there, watching her retreat. In the months ahead, the question would haunt her but Margaret Hale would never find out as, perhaps from cowardice or perhaps from bravery, she could not bear to look back and see.