Surprise! ? Have this chapter earlier than expected, because the next ones may take a bit longer to edit anyway.

I have to say that this is one of my personal favourite chapters, I had such a BLAST writing it!

It's also kind of a key chapter that will steer the story into a bit of a new direction. Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.

Hidden Truths

January brought more snowstorms and the air was so chilly, that anyone who could afford the luxury of staying indoors would choose to do so. The house staff was busy keeping the fires going all day around and still, the cold would seep through the windows and stone walls into the house.

All of this did not keep Margaret from visiting her father daily and trying to raise his low spirits with her company.

On one particularly windy afternoon, Margaret had just entered the courtyard through the green gates, after her usual visit to Crampton, when she passed two young girls who were standing outside the spinning room, huddled together and wrapping their thin shawls tightly around themselves against the cold.

They seemed to be on a short break and were apparently catching some fresh air. They had not seen her pass, and just as she had turned the corner of the building, she caught some snippets of their conversation, which caused her to stop dead in her tracks.

"I pity 'er. Wouldn't want t' be married to the master, of all people", one girl said.

"Well from what I've 'erd she didn't want to marry 'im, but she had to, because o' what happened at the riot, that day", the other chimed in.

"Wha' a foolish thing t' do, really, and now she is payin' the price, poor woman. Can ye imagine what it must be like to share a marriage bet with 'im? I'd be scared out o' me wits."

This was answered by a giggle. "Well he's quite 'andsome, ye have to give 'im that."

"Yes, bu' also quite scary. Ye know 'ow he often bellows down a' everyone from the landin' of the weavin' floor. D'ye think he yells at her as well?"

"I dunno, I hope he doesn't, for she is such a kind young lady."

"I daresay she's indifferent to 'im", the other pondered. "Can't imagine that they'd 'ave much to say to each other. If I were her, I'd avoid bein' in the same room with 'im, whenever I could."

Margaret had heard enough. Tugging the edges of her shawl tighter around herself, she swiftly made her way across the courtyard and back to the mill house in long strides.

She rushed up the stairs, and a moment later, the door of her room fell closed behind her, as she flung herself into a chair, angrily tearing down her shawl and bonnet and flinging them onto her bed with some force.

Her breathing was a bit heavier than usual, and the inside of her cheek hurt from where she had bitten it. She did not even know why she was this angry. They were just two young, silly girls, speaking about things they knew nothing about.

'How dare they talk of us like that? They don't know us at all! Is this how people on the outside perceive our marriage?"

The things they had said about John aggravated her even further. He had done nothing to deserve such harsh judgment. He had never treated her with disrespect, had never raised his voice against her.

Apart from the one disagreement they had had about visiting Bessy, right at the beginning of their marriage, he had never forced her into anything she was not willing to do.

In fact, although she would not go as far as to claim that her marriage was an incredibly happy one, it certainly was not an unhappy one. She felt quite content with how things were. She had grown used to them, and even though she and John were not as close as some other couples might have been, she was fond of him.

He was well-versed and good at what he did, he was a good listener with a pleasant sense of humour, and above all else, she knew that he genuinely cared for her well-being. He was a good man.

Then there was this peculiar sensation she felt every time he was physically close to her, but she would NOT think about that, instead focussing her attention back on her anger about those girls.

'How dare they?'

Then, another thing they had said struck her.

'Can't imagine that they'd 'ave much to say to each other.'

Margaret let out an angry hiss.

Of course, they talked.

They talked of many things.

Of the mill, and the canteen, and her father's health. They talked of the weather and the latest news of Milton, and of how much money Fanny had spent at the draper.

'We don't talk about anything of consequence.'

The thought hit her with some force. They had been married for over eight months now, and she had never truly made the effort of trying to get to know him on a deeper level.

Oh, there were many things she had learned about him. She knew how he took his tea, and that he was rather fond of ginger biscuits, she knew that he liked to read the "Daily Examiner" and that he went to the Gentleman's club at least once a week for meetings with the other mill owners.

But were those really the things that defined him as a person? Could she really claim that she knew her husband well? Or that he, in turn, knew her?

With a pang, she realized that she had never asked him anything about himself that went beyond the surface. Was she not supposed to know what her husband thought and felt?

Even if their marriage was one of convenience, they would spend the rest of their lives together, and suddenly Margaret felt as though in many aspects, they were still strangers to each other.

A few months ago, this would likely not have bothered her too much. At the beginning of their marriage, she had not desired to know much of him at all, but they had grown closer over time. He had become a dependable part of her life, and as such, she suddenly felt almost left out.

Margaret was still pondering these thoughts when it was time to ready herself for dinner, and before she left her room to head downstairs, she made the conscious decision to do something about this situation.


"Are you busy?"

He looked up from the book he had been reading, sitting in one of the comfortable chairs by the fireplace, in his study.

"Not particularly, is there something you need?"

Margaret quietly closed the door behind herself and slowly slid onto the chair across from him, facing him.

"I want to talk with you."

"I'm listening."

She shook her head. "No, John, I really want to talk with you", she told him, throwing a glance at his book. He caught her meaning, closed it, and put it down on the near side table. Then, he folded his hands in his lap and looked straight at her.

"You have my full attention, Margaret, what is the matter?"

She grasped for words for a moment, unsure of how to begin. Feeling slightly self-conscious, she decided to just speak from her heart.

"John, I have been thinking about – about you and I." She saw him frown, suspicious at the slight tremble in her voice, and she immediately feared that this conversation was already off to a bad start. Quickly, she rushed on:

"I – I mean, we have been married for three quarters of a year now, and – I know ours is not a typical marriage, but I – I sometimes feel like we don't know each other very well."

She paused, looking up at him unsurely, to find his face a picture of utter confusion. This was not making things any easier.

"What I meant to say is – we do talk, often, about many things. Just never personal things, and – oh", she sighed, burying her face in her hands. "I don't know how to explain this properly", she confessed.

"Margaret!"

His voice was soft and a little concerned. She felt his hands on her wrists, gently pulling them away from her face to look at her, then letting go of them quickly, afraid to have overstepped his bounds.

"I am not sure I caught your meaning", he told her cautiously, not wanting to cause her any more distress.

"I heard some young spinners talking today", she blurted out. "About the two of us. How ours must be a dreadful marriage, because they don't think that we have anything to say to each other."

He stared at her in bewilderment for a long moment. "Margaret – those are just silly girls, they don't know what they are speaking of. Please do not trouble yourself with their talk."

She shook her head vigorously. "I don't. It is just that I felt that there was some truth in it. There are so many things I never bothered to ask you, and now I feel like – I almost feel like I did not make an effort", she confessed.

"What is it you would like to know?", he inquired earnestly. She looked at him for a long moment.

"I – I don't know."

She felt stupid.

John reached over to the side table and slowly poured himself a glass of brandy, swirling it around for a moment before taking a sip.

"Well, Margaret, feel free to ask me anything", he said then, looking straight at her.

"Anything?", she wondered.

"Anything you feel you need to know", he nodded. "You can ask me, and I shall ask you something in return. If one of us does not want to answer, we don't have to. Does that sound agreeable to you?"

She was not sure how she felt about his proposal, but could hardly decline it, since it had been she herself, who had started this conversation.

"Alright", she mumbled, leaning back in her chair and thinking for a moment.

What could she ask him? Now, that she should, it seemed as though her head had been wiped clean of any thoughts.

Eventually, she decided to start off with something safe and innocuous.

"What's your favourite colour?"

He furrowed his brow slightly. "I don't think I have one."

She raised her eyebrows at that. "Of course you do, everyone has a favourite colour, John", she shot at him.

He swirled his brandy around in his glass, looking down at it attentively. He had never given it much thought, it had not seemed very important.

"Black?", he said eventually. She gaped at him in an unsatisfied manner. He briefly glanced down at his own black waistcoat. "It goes well with everything", he explained hastily.

"Black is not a colour, John. You will have to come up with something better."

"Alright then, green", he decided.

"Why green?"

'Because you wore a green dress to the dinner party last spring, and it was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen', he thought, but aloud, he said:

"Are you going to question everything I say?"

He saw a small, embarrassed smile flicker across her face, as she dropped her gaze for a moment.

"Of course not, I'm sorry. It's your turn now to ask a question, I suppose."

"What's yours?", he asked. "Your favourite colour?"

"Yellow!", she told him without hesitation. "It reminds me of the beautiful roses we had in Helstone."

He nodded, apparently satisfied with her answer, and she thought of something else to ask.

"What's your favourite childhood memory?"

It was something deeper, and she, therefore, felt a bit more satisfied with herself.

"Hm", he muttered, once again swirling around his drink, thinking.

"I think it must have been spending time with my father", he eventually said in a quiet voice, staring off into the distance, as though remembering something.

"Before Fanny was born, my parents would sometimes take me on outings as a child. We would go to Heston, to the seaside for the weekends. We would look for seashells, and my father would sometimes put me up on his shoulders and run along the shore, and I'd spread my arms and pretend that I was flying."

He actually did spread out his arms a little to show her, his left hand still holding his brandy glass.

She saw a small smile playing about his lips, and it sent a curious, warm sensation through her. He seemed so much more approachable when he was like this, and she wondered why she had never before tried to get to know this side of him.

She had never pictured him as a boy. What he must have been like? A little lad with a shock of black hair and bright blue eyes, laughing and shouting with joy as he rode along the beach on his father's shoulders.

The mere thought was so endearing, that Margaret could not keep the smile off her face.

After a few moments, he looked at her earnestly again. "It's my turn to ask a question." She nodded.

"What is your biggest fear?"

Margaret did not have to think about this for long: "Losing the people I love", she told him without hesitation. "Losing my mother and my friend, Bessy, was the worst thing I ever experienced", she murmured, looking down, crestfallen. "I think I could not bear losing anyone else."

Her words were followed by a moment of silence.

He put down his glass on the side table and leaned forward, reaching out and putting his hand on top of hers, where it was resting on the armrest of the chair. It was a warm touch, and consoling in a way. She raised her eyes up to his, which were gazing at her with some deep expression she could not name. Slowly, Margaret turned her hand, until her palm was facing his, and then she wrapped her fingers around his with a gentle squeeze.

They stayed like this for a few seconds, before he slowly pulled back, leaving her feeling bereft of his warmth. She swallowed hard, taking in a little breath to steady herself, and then looked away.

"Alright then, my turn", she muttered quickly.

"If you could make one wish, any wish, and it would come true, what would you wish for?"

Something in his face changed at her words.

It almost seemed like he was tensing up a little, shifting in his seat.

John knew instantly what he would wish for, but he could not tell her.

He frantically searched for something to say.

"I would wish for the mill to be safe."

It was the first thing that came to mind, and it seemed reasonable.

Something about his answer seemed slightly off to Margaret, even though it was one that should have made sense.

He suddenly seemed a bit uncomfortable, and she fought the urge to probe into him and inquire further.

"What was the nicest thing anyone has ever done for you?", he asked quickly, trying to steer her attention away from the last question.

He succeeded.

This time, it was Margaret's turn to wriggle about in her chair uncomfortably. The moment the words were out of his mouth, she knew the answer, but it felt too personal. She chanced a glance at him from underneath her lashes, seeing him look at her expectantly.

Oh, what did it really matter? Here she was, trying to get to know him better, and for them to be more open with each other. What could possibly happen if she was honest with him?

She drew in a slow breath. "It was when you made no demands of me on our wedding night", she confessed in a very low voice, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks at her own confession.

He sat, unmoving, and she saw him frown a little, as though he was pondering her words.

"I was terrified that night", she admitted in a slightly shaky voice. "Not of you", she rushed to add, afraid that she might have offended him. "Just – of your – of everyone's expectations."

Her cheeks were burning like fire now, and she stared intently down at her own hands, which were clasping and unclasping in her lap in a nervous manner.

It was a lie. A white lie, she tried to convince herself. She had been afraid of him, afraid of what he might do to her. She had not known him then, had not known that she could trust him with her life, as she did now.

"I would not have known how to go through with it, and when you told me that I did not have to, it was as though the heaviest weight had been lifted off my shoulders."

'No, Margaret, don't cry!", her mind screamed. 'Don't make such a pathetic fool of yourself!'

She quickly wiped a hand over her eyes, blinking at the sudden emotion that had gripped her. It took her a few seconds to be able to look up at him again.

He took a generous sip of his brandy, still regarding her with a thoughtful expression.

"You are welcome", he then told her calmly.

Margaret wished she could have seen into his thoughts at that moment. There was something in his eyes she could not quite read. Then, a second later, it was gone.

"It is your turn to ask a question", he stated, reaching for the flask near him to pour himself another glass.

Suddenly, a question came to her. She had never thought about it before, it seemed so personal, and yet, she could not help but ask:

"Have you ever been in love with someone?"

There was a spluttering noise, and then John started coughing, having choked on his drink.

"Are you alright?", she asked worriedly, sitting up straighter in her seat, ready to dash over to him and pat him on the back, should he require it.

He nodded, taking a moment to regain his composure and wiping his hand across his chin a bit self-consciously, as he put down his glass. She gave him a moment to catch his breath, and then, she waited for his answer.

John's mind was reeling with so many things he would have wished to say to her at that moment:

'Yes, I have been in love!'

'I am in love with you!'

'I want you, I need you so much, but I cannot have you.'

'You are right here – so close, and yet so unattainable. And it is slowly killing me.'

'I am dying a little more every day, just from looking at you.'

'I cannot sleep at night and I am working myself to death during the day, to keep myself from thinking about you constantly.'

'The mere thought of you makes me physically ache.'

'And I cannot tell you any of this.'

"So?", Margaret asked carefully. "Are you not going to answer my question?"

'To hell with it all!'

"Yes", he told her simply.

He saw her eyes widen slightly, in a mixture of surprise and curiosity. She was perfectly oblivious to his predicament.

"Really?", she uttered. "What happened to her?"

He looked down at his hands.

"She did not return my feelings", he then told her in a low voice, hoping that the pain in it was not too apparent.

Margaret was thrown off guard completely by his answer. She was not sure why she had asked the question, and she had certainly not expected him to answer in the affirmative. She had never regarded him as a man who was prone to romantic sentiments or to fall easily for any woman.

"I'm sorry", she heard herself murmur. His eyes shot up to hers for a moment, and there was something very raw and painful in them. Margaret felt a lump in her throat and swallowed, trying to get rid of it – but it was to no avail.

"Do – do you love her still?"

A second later she wished to take back her last words.

It seemed that the colour had drained from his face, and as his hand reached for his glass once more, it appeared to be trembling a little. He threw back the whole of the brandy at once, put the glass back down a bit unsteadily, and rose to his feet.

She watched him walk over to the window, where he stood, his back turned to her.

"I would rather not answer this question", he then said in a slightly hoarse voice.

Margaret just sat, stunned.

She felt as though someone had slapped her right across the face.

He loved another woman.

He did not have to say it out loud for her to know. It was evident enough in the raw pain in his voice, and the way he was holding himself, his shoulders slumped slightly, his head bowed in defeat.

He was in love with a woman who had not returned his feelings, but who he longed for still.

A woman who was not Margaret.

A sharp sting of pain, somewhere in her chest, almost made her flinch physically. She did not know why it hurt so much, but it felt as though she was dying inside.

It seemed she had not been the only one who had been pushed into a marriage with a person she had not wanted. For her, it had merely been the feeling of not wanting to marry this particular man, or any man for that matter, but for him – it must have put an end to his hope of one day being with a woman he truly desired.

A woman, Margaret could never be. She felt a sudden strong pressure behind her eyes and blinked, swallowing hard, trying to force down her tears.

"John-", her voice quivered, "-are you unhappy in this marriage?"

There.

She had said it.

It was out.

Oh, how she wished that she had never started this conversation. How she wished that she had never known.

He slowly turned around to her, his hands clasped behind his back, and his face a picture of barely concealed agony. It was all the answer she needed, as she jumped up from her seat.

"Margaret, I-"

"I should go", she whispered, still fighting her tears. "It is late and I am tired. Good night, John."

Without waiting for a response, she spun around on her heels and darted out of the study, through the entrance hall, and up the stairs to her room. She locked the door tightly behind herself and fell onto her bed, as the tears came with a force that threatened to choke her.

And then, Margaret cried and cried.

She cried for John, for having been deprived of his chance at happiness by her careless actions on the day of the riot.

And she cried for herself – for all the things she had lost, or would never have.


For a moment, John thought of running after her, of telling her…he did not know what he would tell her.

He stood, rooted to the spot, staring at the door that had fallen closed behind her, in shock.

He had hurt her, he knew, although he was not sure how, or what he could have done differently. How he had sworn to never give himself away, to never let her see his pain.

'Blasted game of questions. I should not have suggested it.'

He turned back towards the window to stare out into the darkness of the night.

Slowly, he lifted his hand, put his fist against the cool glass, and leaned his head against it, closing his eyes.

For a brief moment, it had felt as though she was opening up to him, coming to him, asking him about himself, telling him things of herself that were deeply personal.

And there he had gone and ruined it all.

'I can never let that happen again', he told himself silently.

'I can never again let her see what's in my heart.'


They never spoke of that evening after that. They just went on with their lives, pretending that it had never happened. He treated her with polite courtesy, as he had always done. They spoke of the weather again, and of other meaningless things.

And yet, something felt different to Margaret.

Whenever she looked at him now, she wondered about that other woman.

Who was she, and what had she done to break his heart and cause him pain? Would she have changed her mind, had he not married Margaret? Would he have stood a chance with her?

She was torn between his pain and her own. She did not even know why she felt hurt in the first place, and it was not something she wished to ponder too much. She had always known that he did not love her, and it had never bothered her.

Why now?

Did it bother her?

It did, she admitted to herself one night, when she was lying awake, as she had so often, since that night.

Margaret clenched her hand into a tight fist and hit her pillow with some force, letting out a frustrated groan. She had spent the last hour thinking of him. Why on earth could she not get him out of her head?

It seemed that, over the past few weeks, she had grown increasingly aware of him. Whenever he entered the room, she could sense him before she saw him. When he was working next to her, or reading the paper, she could not help but let her eyes wander over to him repeatedly, watching him.

In the evenings, she often found herself standing by the window, looking across the courtyard to his office, waiting, and when the door finally opened, and he stepped out to make his way home for dinner, her heart would give a nervous little flutter, she could not explain.

Whenever they spoke, she hung on his every word, noticing for the first time, how pleasant the timbre of his voice sounded, especially when he was amused about something, and gave this delightful little chuckle, with that pleasant glint in his eyes.

Worst of all was his touch.

Whenever his hand took hers for a brief moment, there was a tingle, that shot up her arm, and after he was gone, she almost imagined that she could still feel his skin against hers.

When he was sitting near her, she had to fight the urge to reach out to him.

She remembered those few times she had been close to him:

Their wedding night, after she had broken down from all the strain and fear she had held in. On the night of her mother's death, when he had consoled her, without hesitation, being there as she had needed him. That one morning in London, when she had woken up on top of him - she still blushed at the memory of it. And then...that kiss, after the dinner on Christmas.

Why, oh why had it felt so good, and why had she not been able to stop thinking about it since?

Margaret sat up straight in bed, shaking her head firmly to herself.

She needed to stop.

She had to get him out of her head. It was no use, nothing was to come of it.

She rose from the bed with a sigh and started pacing the room.

He would always be there, on the other side of that wall, which separated his room from hers. He would never touch her, not in the way a husband touched his wife.

And then, Margaret stopped dead in her tracks, as her mind finally drew the conclusion, and she was forced to admit to herself what she had tried to ignore for weeks now.

There was this strange longing, somewhere very deep inside her, a longing to touch him, and be touched by him, in sensual ways, she did not fully understand herself. She was yearning for him like some wanton woman.

'Oh Lord, no, I could not possibly-'

Margaret buried her face in her hands.

She bit her lip, as her eyes filled with tears.

Him, of all people. The man she had so despised, had been so repulsed to marry.

How he had managed to wind his way into her heart, she would never know, nor would she be able to pinpoint the very moment it had happened.

Like a seed, put into the earth, left there, through sunshine and rainstorms, growing gradually, unnoticed, until suddenly the bud sprung open to reveal its lush blossom, this tender feeling had grown inside her heart, so wholly without her recognition.

It had taken the painful realization that his heart belonged to another, that he would never be hers, for it all to fall in place.

She stood, shivering, as she pressed her hand to her mouth.

At that moment, Margaret almost wished that this marriage would have turned out the way she had anticipated. Had he only been cold, uncaring, unlikable!

But he had not been any of those things.

She had let herself be drawn in by his amicability, his benevolence, his kindness, and now she was paying the price for it.

TTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT

NOTES:

Way to go, John! Leave it to the guy to NOT get what Margaret's REAL problem was with his confession. ?

And Margaret...well, have a taste of what your husband has been going through for eight months! ?