Dear readers,

Firstly, thank you to those who reviewed the last chapter.

Secondly, I apologise for not posting sooner. This was written and I thought ready to go, but then it became 10000 words and really was 2 chapters and ended up taking a while to edit. I am hoping to have the next one ready to be posted on time next week. If not the week after at the latest, I promise! Please review and let me know what you think.

Happy reading.

Elle x.

...

Margaret added a final hair pin to the curls elaborately styled upon her head and stepped back to view the overall effect. She sighed at the sight of her heavy silk dress of black and lilac in comparison to the sweet pale of Edith's taffeta and lace. In truth, Margaret was fully aware that she would have looked ridiculous in the girlish style and colour of her cousin's gown, even if she had been able to wear such a garment, but that did not stop her from feeling a momentary flicker of jealousy. It would have been nice to be able to perhaps wear a royal blue to match her eyes or even a green. As it was, Margaret had only just entered half-mourning and was therefore tied to the black with lilac trimming she had finally chosen from those that could be made in time at the dress-maker's shop. Whilst the heavy material and dark colour was not what she might have chosen for a dinner party, she had been particularly fond of the scooped neckline. It was not off the shoulder, which Aunt Shaw was quick to remind her, would have been inappropriate, but was low against her shoulders and did compliment her mother's simple pearls rather well.

Edith and Henry Lennox had once absurdly complimented her on her neckline. Even amongst the weight of the grief she still continually carried with her, she found amusement in the thought that if she had been dressed in her current attire, she probably would not have questioned it and discovered their conspiracy quite so quickly.

"What do you think?" Edith asked, coming up behind her to preen in the mirror as she added the finishing touches to the matching pink ribbons in her hair.

"Pretty as a picture!" Margaret assured her honestly, any remnants of jealousy passing as she saw the happiness radiating from her cousin's very being.

"Do you really think so?" She asked biting nervously on her lower lip and gripping Margaret's arm, her fingers digging in through the thick fabric there.

"I do so want Maxwell to like it."

"He will love it." Margaret replied. Her cousin had always had a rather skewed vision of herself and doubted her appearance, nearly oblivious to the fact that half the eligible bachelors in London had spent the summer they had come out into society unable to take their eyes off her. Well, not completely oblivious, of course. She had been aware enough to flutter her eyelids coyly at them at every opportunity. Her insecurity had always made little sense to Margaret since for as long as she could remember Edith's beauty had been remarked upon by nearly everyone who met her.

For cousins, she and Edith did not look particularly alike. Edith's blonde curls and very lightly tanned skin from her time with her husband abroad, were set off prettily by sparkling blue eyes. Margaret's own eyes were blue but that was where the similarities ended. Her hair was brown, her skin pale, and whilst she too had been told frequently that she was pretty, her habit of conveying an air of haughtiness sometimes deterred potential admirers, if her aunt was to be believed. Of course, that was all so long ago now.

These days she was so frequently greeted by red-rimmed eyes- the tell-tale signs of how poorly she was sleeping. By the time her Aunt and cousin woke, the redness was usually fading, and her grief once again pushed out of sight- not gone- but hidden until she was alone again come nightfall. Now as she gazed at her reflection, her eyes were glassy, but not unattractively so, though a hint of redness was there should anyone care to look for it.

Edith giggled excitedly at her reflection and turned her attention to Margaret, who blinked away the evidence of her grief. Edith carefully adjusted the lace at Margaret's shoulders before standing back to appraise her and declaring without a hint of jest, "that neckline looks lovely on you." The timing of her words combined with the serious look on her cousin's face, sent her into a rare fit of giggles as she quite forgot the cloud of grief lurking in the shadows.

"Share the joke!" her cousin implored pouting, but Margaret shook her head, instead taking Edith's hand and spinning her so that she might admire the full effect.

"Ladies, Henry is here with the carriage!" Maxwell called them cheerfully from outside the closed door and Margaret's heart simultaneously leapt with excitement at the change of scenery the evening would bring and sank just a little at the reality of having to receive constant words and looks of pity from those who had heard about her parents.

"Coming Maxwell!" Edith returned brightly as Margaret gave one last critical look at her reflection.

Thankfully, it had been agreed that the four of them along with Aunt Shaw would travel the short distance to the Worthing's residence together, which relieved Henry of the embarrassment of having to be alone inside a carriage with her. However hard she had tried to convince herself that attending a dinner with a male associate was perfectly normal, a nagging voice in the back of her mind whispered that that was all well and good, unless you had rejected a marriage proposal from that friend, who might feel uncomfortable in that situation. The same voice liked to remind her that it had been terribly unfair of her to accept such an invitation when she knew full well it had only been because the information in the letter from Fanny had shaken her so.

Still, any embarrassment Henry might feel was clearly not affecting him too severely, if his constant presence at the house was anything to go by, but then they were never alone at the house. When Captain Lennox had suggested that they all travel together, she had rather pounced on the idea, agreeing wholeheartedly. She had felt immense relief when neither Henry nor Edith had any objections.

Margaret followed her cousin to the top of the stairs to where Henry and Captain Lennox were waiting, looking very smart in their dark evening suits. Both looked up appreciatively as the ladies descended, Henry's blush obvious in comparison to the darkness of his suit.

"I knew Henry wouldn't be able to keep his eyes off you in that neckline," Edith whispered with a smug smile, too loudly to be entirely sure the men would not hear her poor attempt at secrecy. Margaret glared at her momentarily before beaming at Henry, whose cheeks flushed deep scarlet as he offered her his arm. She took it lightly. It was going to be a long night if Edith intended to start down this path again. For Henry's sake, she was going to have to take her cousin aside and explain the delicate situation.

...

The Harley Street house was not a small residence, by any means. It boasted five large bed chambers, a sitting room, dining room, piano room, kitchen, scullery, and small quarters for the servants (of course) and two other entertaining rooms for good measure, but the Worthing's residence was truly something to behold. How many rooms it contained was anyone's guess, but it seemed to Margaret that she wandered through room after room, filled with beautifully dressed people gathered to converse in groups, and it never seemed to end.

Whilst Margaret abhorred the thought that anyone might consider her vain, she was a little pleased to see that her dress was not so drastically different to the style and shades of others and that every now and then she received appreciative glances, though none so many as her cousin. For a moment, she had nearly forgotten the sadness of the last few months, until the looks in her direction became pitying and were accompanied by poorly hidden whispers. This was certainly not the first party Margaret had attended where she had inadvertently become the subject of gossip. The feeling of judgemental eyes was one she had become familiar with at another dinner party, so long ago in another part of the country, yet it was somehow more uncomfortable knowing the attention was pity rather than a mixture of distain for her views on the poor and curiosity.

"Miss Hale!" She had turned towards the call, relieved to be saved from the direction her thoughts were headed, to be greeted by two nameless faces she recognised as friends of her aunt. One, a plump woman draped in a ridiculous amount of satin and lace, took her wrist in a manner she supposed was meant to be comforting. The awareness of the intent did not stop her from flinching at the touch.

"I was so sorry to hear about your mother," she had stated, in a manner that implied she was not sorry at all, "and your father, of course."

"Thank you," Margaret replied with a small smile that was more of a grimace as she attempted to push down the pin pricks to her heart.

"You must remind me of your father's reasons for moving the family North." She stated and Margaret stiffened at her words, her heart pinching uncomfortably.

"You have my sympathy, dear," the other chimed in. "Alone in such a place! I hear the house your aunt found you in was practically a hovel. Thank goodness your aunt…"

Aunt Shaw's arrival and her eagerness to relay her story of rescue, saved Margaret from the defence of Milton, Crampton and of her father that tasted sour as it formed on her tongue. Unable to bear the melodramatic tone of her aunt and the sharp gasps of shock from her audience and she relayed the small size (and in her eyes) impoverished state of Crampton, Margaret felt her cheeks flame with indignation, which she did not have chance to voice as Henry arrived to steer her from the group, keen to introduce her to a colleague of his, which he had spotted across the room. She was grateful for the inadvertent rescue but heard nothing of the conversation beyond the initial introductions. The mention of the house in Crampton had caused a wave of homesickness Margaret had never thought she would feel for the place that had barely had chance to become home. How different it was to the house she now found herself in! She had hated it in the absence of her parents- been desperate to get away from the sadness that lingered there, yet somehow, she craved the safety and protection it had provided for a short time, even with its unsavoury papers. Somehow, in her sadness Crampton seemed to her to be more like home than any she had found in London.

Thankfully, dinner was served quickly, an elaborate affair, in which she was seated beside Henry with Captain Lennox and Edith opposite them. The latter seemed to have no intentions of forgetting her quest to make Margaret and Henry feel as uncomfortable as possible with numerous remarks on how a handsome a couple they made, and how lovely it would be for them all to live together one day, which could leave Margaret with no doubt of her cousin's wish to see her neatly married off to Henry. Thankfully, it was Edith's husband who, perhaps sensing his brother's discomfort, diverted the conversation back to more agreeable topics and the conversation flowed easily for the rest of dinner, as they discussed how quickly Sholto was growing, the location of the Captain's next deployment and a particularly interesting court case Henry had been working on.

When at last the meal was concluded, it did not take long for Edith and Captain Lennox to leave the group and join in with the after- dinner dancing, giving Margaret a moment of respite. Henry had been drawn into conversation with a group of lawyers from his firm and Aunt Shaw had deserted them to join a large group of extravagantly dressed older women, including the two from earlier in the evening and who appeared to Margaret to have been gossiping about everyone else, from almost the moment they had arrived. Thus, Margaret had been left to her own devices and was instantly accosted by people she could not name offering her more condolences. She was under no illusions. Whilst they seemed to hold some sincerity, Aunt Shaw had hardly kept her opinions on the relocation from her, and it was becoming abundantly clear she had not kept her opinions from anyone else either. Margaret had no intention of supplying them with more information on her father's dissention from the church. Instead, ignoring the familiar ache of grief in her chest at the mention of her parents, she had found an empty seat to occupy, and time lost all meaning as she focussed her attention on the couples engaged in a rather energetic waltz.

As her gaze averted to the floral decorations, neatly arranged around the room and the splendour of the dark oak furniture pieces, it occurred to her that perhaps the residence was not so much larger than any of the other London houses she previously had reason to visit. It just seemed that way as it had been so long since she had done so that she had quite forgotten what houses of this sort looked like, having only the Milton residences and Harley Street to compare them to. Of late, she had been fairly successful in refraining from thinking of Milton and the people she had left behind and something thick caught in her throat as one particular house and another party came to her mind. She had been so sure a London society gathering would be the perfect way for her to put to rest her thoughts of Milton once and for all, for London was far superior in its social offerings. Now she could see that she had been incorrect.

London. This place and these people were like an alternate reality to her now, as she watched the guests interact as though they had no cares in the world, when she had so many. How was it that here there could be so much wealth and opulence, when a four-hour train journey could reveal the very opposite? The deprivation and misery of the Princeton District was so at odds with Margaret's current surroundings, that she could hardly believe that it had been real, that the suffering she had observed there could truly have happened, be happening still, although she could no longer see it. She had seen the suffering and blamed the rich of Milton, but now as she gazed around her, she could see that the society she had returned to was part of the problem. When her eyes had first been opened, she had resented the mill owners for their wealth and success, when so many around them had so little, forgetting that her own family and the world they had once functioned within was at the crux of the problem. Was she too a part of the inequality now? The very dress she wore tonight had cost her aunt enough to feed the Higgins family for a week at least, probably two weeks, even with the Boucher children among them. Just thinking of them, their suffering and the painful fate of poor Bessy, her only true friend besides Edith, made the decadence around her seem trivial and completely devoid of meaning. How could any of it hold any attraction for her now when it was so at odds with the experiences of those she had come to love?

Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to get away from it all- away from the pretence and needless extravagance, away from her own feelings of regret for her judgement of the mill owners and away from her own guilt for being part of the problem. It was easy enough to slip away from the crowds and out of a door leading to a small terrace, where the evening air offered her some welcome relief from her muddled thoughts as she gratefully collapsed into a bench overlooking the dark gardens.

The cool evening air calmed her nerves, though the immaculately groomed shrubs and lawn before her only served as an antithesis to the wild and untameable greenery she had found in the hidden corners of Milton. No wildflowers like she and Bessy had once picked together on the walk to the Princeton District lurked here. Sharp pins pricked behind her eyes as she remembered those last few days with Bessy and she dropped her head to her hands as though it might lessen the weight of it all.

The chatter and music that still reached her from the party inside seemed to dampen into a dull lull as the memory of another dinner party flooded over her. A memory that lurked in the recesses of her consciousness and sometimes threatened to remind her of events she wanted to forget, slowly washed over her...

...

"Would you care to dance, Miss Hale?" Her eyes had followed the line of his hand extended towards her, up the darkness of the arm of suit jacket, and across the broad shoulders of the man before her, finally stopping to focus on Mr Thornton's face.

She felt her mouth drop open in surprise. Why would he offer to dance with her after her words at dinner? Margaret had not intended to insult him, only to defend Nicholas Higgins and her friends from the distain of the other mill owners, which was so evident in their belittling comments on the strike. She did not regret her words. She would say it all again, but she was well aware that she had embarrassed her father by contradicting his friend and the rest of the company. Even she could not help but recoil a little from the piercing stares she had continued to receive from the other guests, despite the fact that dinner was over. Ever since dinner she had yearned for time to pass with unnatural speed so that she might persuade her father it would not be impolite for them to take their leave.

"I fear I should get my father home..." she had said, with a concerned look towards her Papa, who rubbed a hand across his tired eyes and slightly ruddy cheeks.

"Do not worry on my account, Margaret," Papa had tried to reassure her, "I will be fine for the duration of one dance!"

Thus, she had no suitable reason not to accept Mr Thornton's invitation despite her misgivings, and had reservedly taken his bare hand, shivering a little as she felt the soft skin of her own slender fingers touch his calloused ones for the second time that night. She swallowed hard as the foreign feeling lingered this time, unlike the fleeting meeting of their hands in their earlier handshake. Though she tried to clear the troubling thought from her mind, she was extremely aware that despite the many dances she had shared with young men during her time in London, this was the first time she had known a man's hand to have callouses. In honesty, this was the first time someone had clasped her hand with skin on skin in such a hold at all. Gentlemen in London always wore gloves when they danced with young ladies, as she also often had, yet no barrier existed between their skin now and as he pulled her closer to him, taking her waist, Margaret avoided meeting his eyes, instead picking a spot on his jacket, lest he notice the scandalised blush that had surely risen to her cheeks.

As someone began to play the pianoforte, they moved together, slightly stilted at first until they found their stride and fell into step. Her eyes dropped, drawn to his polished black shoes as he began to lead, gently but firmly setting the pace in time with the music and she had no choice but to follow. His eyes were on her face, she could feel the heat of his gaze burning into her skin, but she would not give him the satisfaction of meeting them.

"You think me unreasonable."

His deep voice finally shattered the awkward silence. There could be no doubt that he was referring to his rebuttal of her campaign on behalf of the workers over diner.

"I do not think of you at all," she replied, coolly, silencing the part of her brain that spoke in her mother's voice and told her not to lie. How could she not think of him, when he had riled her so, been offended by her refusal of his handshake, which had distressed her father, and seemed to wish to prove her wrong about his workers, thereby insulting her friends?

"I do not doubt that, Miss Hale." He replied solemnly, unperturbed, "but tonight at dinner, your facial expressions suggested otherwise..."

Margaret had tilted her chin up in defiance. He was right, of course. She thought he was utterly unreasonable, but she would not give him the satisfaction of knowing her mind.

"You think me unreasonable," he repeated, unaffected by her haughtiness, "but I do not refuse their demands out of pure spite as you seem to think. They ask for too much money..."

She raised her eyebrows at him in disbelief and rolled her eyes.

"Come, Mr Thornton. Despite your protestations, they are not unreasonable. They only ask for enough money to feed their children."

Surely, he could see that! If he was to simply put aside his stubbornness and pride and walk for a moment in his worker's shoes, the matter could be resolved entirely. Her confidence faltered just a little as his eyes found her own and held their gaze. His expression was unreadable, certainly not unkind, or angry, which she would have expected from him, but unnerving, nevertheless.

"And what do you suggest I do if I do not have the money to give them?" He asked, in earnest, a passion she did not know he had the ability to display filling each syllable. "If the wages they demand would bankrupt the mill, what should I do then?"

Margaret opened her mouth to answer, but found she had none to give. Of course, the mill owners had the money to give the workers the raise if they wanted to. They had to, didn't they? The profits they made from the work performed by the likes of Bessy and Nicholas far outweighed their outgoings, that was how business worked, was it not? Yet, as she studied his face curiously, Margaret found no trickery or deception there, only true interest in what she had to offer. For a moment, Margaret did not speak, pondering how to answer, if what he was saying was true.

"You should speak to them," she concluded after considering several options, "honestly and with consideration for their position. There must be a solution that would suit both parties. If you cannot meet their demands, you must make them an agreeable counter-offer."

Without taking time to think it over, he shook his head, throwing them a little off rhythm. "I have already raised the workers' wages as much as I can afford, yet they insist it is not enough!"

"Then you must meet with the union leaders..." Margaret continued, despite the grunt of protest that met her suggestion, "show them the accounts and be frank with them, and I know they will listen..." she ended almost pleadingly.

"Meet with the leaders of the union?" repeated her words, his incredulity lacing his words, and infiltrating his features, "Margaret, they are troublemakers, insistent on prolonging the strike. They do not care to see the accounts. It would mean nothing to them..."

His eyes bored into hers relentlessly and she met them with equal ferocity, unwilling to back down to his stubbornness and pride.

When they had stopped dancing was a mystery to Margaret, yet she found herself stood stock still, though she still gripped his shoulder tightly with one hand and clasped his other as she had when they danced. Somehow, they had moved closer together so that their chests nearly rested against each other, rising and falling rapidly in their mutual agitation and suddenly the hand he still clutched her to him with, burnt through the fabric of her dress, scalding the skin beneath.

"It might surprise you to hear, Miss Hale, that watching the suffering of others gives me no pleasure." His voice was dangerously quiet, and Margaret was sure that had she been any further away from him, she would never have heard it. If she were to only lean forward a little, her upturned forehead would touch his cheek. It suddenly seemed to be difficult to inhale enough air, as though she had been running and he appeared equally affected, his own breaths quick and shallow, from either despair or desperation.

"I have been there. I know what it is to live on air and very little else..." he whispered, and his words brushed against her ear as he leant down to her. She shuddered involuntarily at their caress and her arguments died before they could pass her lips. He had told her of his childhood and the hardships he had faced once before after a similar altercation, and she swallowed deeply as her stomach fluttered uncomfortably at hearing of it again. As she studied him now, she could see the pain of some memory pass across has face and so she said nothing, diverting her eyes to their still joined hands. They might have remained that way forever, had the music not ended, bringing her to her senses.

"And yet you live in comfort, whilst they have nothing!" Her own words were uttered equally quietly as his had been, but he stepped back from her as though she had shouted them, her hand falling redundantly from his shoulder and the other dropping from his clasp.

Before walking away, she delivered her final blow: "There is always a way if you wish to find it, Mr Thornton..."

...

"Margaret! Are you alright?"

The deep voice of Henry cut through her thoughts. Margaret swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat and blinked the last traces of the memory away.

"Would you care to dance?"

Her eyes focussed on the image of Henry Lennox stood before her with his hand outstretched and her heart dropped.

"Henry, I…" She began hesitantly, her mind racing as she pondered how to refuse him without causing offense.

"Don't trouble yourself, Margaret," Henry assured her with a skewed smile, and she sighed in relief. "I only wished to appease your cousin. She has been insisting that I ask you to dance all evening, despite my reminders that it would be improper, since you are still in mourning." He shook his head, with a shrug of his shoulders towards the windows behind her and Margaret turned to see Edith pouting from inside the house and mouthing something indistinguishable to her companion before disappearing back into the crowd of people, leaving Henry and Margaret alone.

To her surprise, instead of heading back into the house in the wake of her cousin, Henry took a seat beside her, carefully brushing the satin of her dress from the bench.

An uneasy quiet settled between them and Margaret shivered from the cold.

"We should not be seen out here alone, Henry," she stated, standing and straightening her skirts, all too aware of the damage that could be caused by gossips who may misinterpret a man and a woman alone together.

"Would there be any truth in their gossip?" He asked, quietly and seriously making Margaret freeze, confusion coursing through her. His green eyes regarded her with an eagerness that caught her off guard.

"Henry…" Margaret stammered, "of course not… you know that!"

Eyes lowered, Henry nodded and for a moment they both breathed in the evening air in silence. Margaret was acutely aware that Henry was watching her, his eyes studying her face intently, causing her to blush under the heat of his gaze.

"Your cousin wishes for me to ask you to marry me," he said eventually- his voice shaking a little, as though breathless. After a pause, he added, "I think you know I want that too."

Margaret finally turned to face his stare, seeing the truth of his words reflected back at her. To her dismay, Margaret felt tears spring to her eyes as for the first time she allowed herself to comprehend the reality of her situation. She was an unmarried woman, who had been out in society for a few summers and who had no prospects besides the man before her. Without her parents she was completely reliant on the generosity of her aunt, who would not deny her, of that she was assured, but she also knew she was a burden. At some point, she would have to marry. She could not live with her aunt forever and with no money to speak of, where was she to go? She belonged nowhere and to no-one. What if Aunt Shaw decided to accompany Edith the next time Captain Lennox was stationed over-seas? Would they invite her to accompany them? Or was she destined to be alone once again? Would any man's offer of marriage ever be agreeable to her or should she accept the friendship Henry so freely offered? It was not the love match of her parents- what she had hoped for since she was little- but it was something real and she could do a lot worse.

Finally, Margaret could no longer stop the tears from falling.

"Margaret, forgive me! I should never have mentioned..." Henry scrambled to find his handkerchief to hand to her.

"I need time Henry," she managed to choke in response to Henry's hurried apology, refusing his handkerchief and pulling one from her own pocket and dabbing embarrassedly at her eyes.

"Of course!" he replied, clearly surprised but delighted not to have been entirely rebuffed. "I would not rush you when you are still grieving your parents!"

"You have been such a support to me these few weeks…" Margaret began, her ghastly tears obscuring her view but not enough for her to miss the elated smile gracing Henry's face, "I cannot promise you anything and I cannot pretend to feel something for you that I do not. I will not lie to you."

Henry's smile faltered, his shoulders slumping just a little. With a deep sigh, he composed himself and attempted to assure her.

"I did not mean to imply I was making you a proposition. I hoped only that we might continue to be friends and that perhaps, one day your feelings will change? However, I am well aware that they may not and I will not hold it against you." His words trailed off a little sadly and Margaret nodded her agreement.

To her shame and relief, they were interrupted by the door swinging open, and an enthusiastic "There you two are!" prompted Henry to leap up from his seat beside her.

"You have both been out here so long, we were starting to wonder what was keeping you!" Edith proclaimed happily, oblivious to Margaret's distress.

"Margaret is tired," Henry informed Edith, still blushing, but attempting to appear unaffected. "Perhaps you would allow me to accompany you all home, for it is getting rather late."

"No need, Henry" Edith assured him. "Maxwell and I were just saying we should go. Perhaps you could walk with Margaret, and we will leave separately..." she said pointedly, tilting her head towards Margaret. For the first time, she noticed Margaret's distress.

"Are you quite alright, cousin?" She asked concerned.

"Yes. Just feeling a little overwhelmed. It has been quite a different evening than I have become used to." Margaret blinked back any remaining tears and smiled in a manner she hoped was assuring.

Thankfully, Edith seemed appeased and with Henry's declaration that they should leave as they arrived- together in the carriage she was saved the prospect of walking home with Henry.

Margaret was quiet on the way home, her attention focussed on the passing streets through the distorted vision provided by the carriage window. Her thoughts steadfastly focussed on fog which had settled over London and the glow created by the streetlamps and anything other than the man opposite her, the one who had managed to infiltrate her thoughts tonight and who's good opinion she would never have.

The side of Margaret's face began to burn as they neared the house as one's often does when under close scrutiny and Margaret turned to find the source of the heat to be her cousin's analysing gaze. Edith's eyes were wide and curious and dropped from her face to the handkerchief still clutched tightly in her hand. Self-consciously, she tucked it into the pocket of her dress and with a weak smile, returned her attention to the outside world.

With a brush of his lips against her hand, Henry bid her goodnight and promised to return the next day at his usual time for breakfast. To her surprise, Edith made no attempt to accompany her upstairs as they once would have to help each other undress and gossip about the events of the evening and Margaret was surprised to find she was glad of it.

In the safety of her chamber, as she finally pulled the last few pins from her hair and thanked Mary for her help in undressing her, Margaret felt the nightly crush of loneliness hit her.

Now in the darkness of the spare room in Harley Street, she once again felt the absence of her mother, who after the last dinner party she had attended, insisted her daughter tell her every detail of the evening, despite her illness and the doctor's visit. Now, no-one cared to ask her about the events of the party, and there was nothing to tell. Not that she had told her mother everything of that night. It was not that her dance with Mr Thornton had not been note-worthy enough to tell, but rather that the defining moment had been their argument, which Margaret was still agitated by and would sooner have forgotten. As for her Papa... she suspected he had been a little embarrassed by her, yet he had not mentioned her outspokenness, and seemed oblivious to conflict she had shared with the man on the dancefloor. Instead, he had only expressed his sincere thanks to her for accompanying him and offered to read her a portion of Aristotle.

The direction her troubled thoughts had taken only served to remind her that her tears earlier had not been a fleeting moment of histrionics. She had no-one left. Not really. There was Fred, whom she wished more than anything could return to her, but he could not now, and even with Henry's best attempts, might not ever. Of course, she had Aunt Shaw, to whom she owed a great debt for taking her in, but the woman seemed to exist in another world to her now, one so at odds with her own. Edith too seemed somehow out of her reach. Tonight, had highlighted the void between them and now that she saw it, Margaret was unsure she would ever be able to unsee it. Instead, she screwed her eyes shut and tried to empty her mind of the sadness she knew was fighting to break through as it always did as she tried to chase sleep.

Since receiving Fanny's letter that morning a month or so ago, Margaret had not thought of Mr Thornton or Fanny or Milton at all, simply wiping them from her recognition. Her first mistake had been the comparison of the house to that of the one accompanying Marlborough Mills. Once she had allowed one memory of that place, one memory of him back into her thoughts, the image of him the day she left in the snow-covered mill yard, seemed imprinted on her eyelids and every time she tried to sleep, he was there. A mere foot away from her in the sharp coldness, his words binding them in mutual understanding a way that both comforted her and taunted her each time the realisation that she would never again feel that momentary acceptance washed over her. It was madness to think like this, of things past, of things that could not be. She knew she must look to the future now- she had been advised of this numerous times by her Aunt, but her mind refused to heed her pleading.

Frustrated, she tossed and turned, seeking comfort from the bedding she sought to bury herself in. There was only so long she could function without meaningful sleep, so, with as much resolve as she could muster, Margaret pushed all thoughts of Henry Lennox, her parents, Milton and the master of Marlborough Mills from her mind and finally drifted into a fitful sleep, in which she re-lived a dance she had nearly successfully forgotten, her partner morphing into Henry half-way through and Ann Latimer glaring at her from the side-lines.