Before I start this, I just want to get something out of the way: I am beyond happy about ANY opinion you all share on this story, whether it is a popular or unpopular one. Feel free to be angry and frustrated at some of the characters, feel free to call them out on what you consider their mistakes, feel free to discuss anything you like (as long as you stay respectful towards each other!) I won't judge you, even if your personal opinion differs from mine, or you interpret this story differently from what I saw when writing it. So I do encourage all of you to not hold back any emotions you might go through when reading this. Your emotional engagement (of whatever kind) is my utmost priority.

To answer a question that came up: Yes, the Phil Collins song did inspire the title of the story (but only the title itself, as the lyrics have little to do with the plot).

Also, this one is going to be a RIDE, so you better bring some tea, (maybe with a dash of something stronger, just in case ?). And tissues. Bring tissues!

When Fears Come to Pass

"I am to go to Le Havre on Monday", John declared at dinner, one day, at the end of February.

Margaret looked up from her roast beef in surprise.

"Le Havre?"

"Aye, I have some business to settle there."

"How long will you be gone", the older Mrs Thornton asked, without raising her eyes from her meal.

"Three weeks, likely, four at the most", he told her calmly, wiping his mouth with his napkin. "I shall make a stop in London, on the way back, to speak with Mr Colthurst. He is considering investing in the mill, and will like to settle the particulars."

"That is certainly good news", his mother commented, taking a sip from her wine.

"Four weeks?", Margaret murmured in a quiet voice.

He looked over at her, trying, rather unsuccessfully, to read her countenance.

John had noticed that Margaret had been acting a bit strangely as of late, seeming more tired and downcast. Since that night, a few weeks ago, when he had come so close to confessing his feelings for her, she had spoken rather little with him, despite his attempts to engage her in conversation.

She lacked her natural drive and enthusiasm, and it was so unlike herself, that he found himself starting to worry about her.

A few times, he had been on the verge of asking her about it, but had lost his nerve at the last moment, too scared to mention that conversation, for fear of breaking down and giving himself away entirely.

The thought of leaving her for so many weeks filled him with a mixture of anguish and relief.

Anguish, because he could not bear to be parted from her. He would miss seeing her face every day, being able to speak to her and spend time with her, however little time they did spend together, after a long day's work.

But relief at the thought that maybe it would hurt less to long for her, if she was not always so close.

That fateful night had shown him that he could not be trusted around her. He had to get away to keep them both safe.

"My father is going to Oxford next week. There is a meeting of his old college friends, whom he has not seen for years", Margaret said suddenly. "So, he will be gone too."

"Do not fret too much, my dear, I am sure we will find something to take your mind off it", Hannah Thornton told her in her usual brittle manner.

"There are plenty of table linens that need to be tended to. Nothing like a bit of needlework to occupy one's time."

Margaret poked about her plate with her fork, without making a response, but she appeared a little paler than usual.


When they stood outside, on the wooden landing, three days later, to say their goodbyes, he carefully took her hand in his.

"Margaret?"

"Hm?" She looked up at him, searching his eyes with hers.

"Will you be alright?", he asked.

"You have been looking tired lately, I was wondering whether something is troubling you?"

He saw her swallow, and for a moment, there was a faint glint in her eyes, almost like unshed tears. Then she nodded slowly.

"I will be alright, John. I will miss you."

He felt his heart give a tiny jump at her declaration.

"You will?", he croaked, his voice not as steady as he would have liked it to be.

She gave his hand a light squeeze. "I will", she reassured him. "Please take care."

He could only nod, as he slowly, reluctantly, pulled his hand from hers to step down from the landing and into the carriage, which was to bring him to the train station.

Before they exited the yard through the green mill gates, he threw a glance out of the back window and saw her standing there, on the landing, looking after him with a strange, bleak look in her eyes.

He turned back around slowly, fighting the urge to stop the carriage, jump out and run to her, to wrap her in his arms and hold her close forever.

He did not know why he could not rid himself of a peculiar feeling somewhere in the pit of his stomach. A feeling, that something bad was going to happen.

He mentally shook himself. He was not so superstitious as to give too much thought to such sensations.

But as the carriage made its way up Marlborough Street, in the direction of the station, he could not help but mutter:

"Please be alright, Margaret."


My dearest child, Margaret

I cannot tell you how happy I am to be back in Oxford. It seems such a long time, that I have been here, and it has, in fact, been decades.

Mr Bell has been very pleasant company, and I have had the chance to meet many of my old acquaintances.

Some have, sadly, passed away, but there were still so many fond memories to be shared.

I pray you are doing well, Margaret.

The weather surely is still very cold in Milton. You will miss your husband, as he is also away, but the weeks will pass quickly, I am sure, and soon we will all be able to sit together over dinner once more, and talk of Plato and Aristotle.

Give my regards to the older Mrs Thornton and Miss Thornton. I hope they are well.

I shall close now, my dear, for I will meet Mr. Bell for dinner tonight, and I am sure that we will have plenty more to speak of.

Rest assured that I am well and happy. I feel years younger since I have been here. It almost feels as though I have come home.

Yours truly

Papa

Margaret smiled down at the letter.

Her father had been in Oxford for over two weeks now. One more week and he would return to her.

She was glad that he seemed to be enjoying himself so much. After her mother's death, he had been so downcast, it was good to know that his spirits had been raised a little.

A knock on the door made her look up.

"Yes?"

"Mrs Thornton, there is a man here for you, a Mr Bell. He's waitin' in the sittin' room", Jane called through the door.

Margaret put the letter down and was at the door in a few quick strides, staring at the maid incredulously.

"Mr Bell? Jane, are you sure you heard the name correctly? Mr Bell can't be here, for I know for sure that he is in Oxford with my father."

"Aye, ma'am, it's a Mr Bell. Tall fellow. Very elegant", the young woman told her with a curtsey.

Still not knowing what to make of this, Margaret walked past her and down the hall, towards the sitting room.

The moment she entered, she knew something was wrong.

Mr Bell was standing near the window, Mrs Thornton was with him, and when Margaret opened the door, they both turned to her with very grave expressions.


Outside the windows, the storm was raging.

The rain was pouring down, as though floodgates had opened to drown the whole of the earth.

Margaret sat on a chair by the window, in her bedroom, staring out into the night in complete numbness.

There were no tears left in her. She had cried for almost six hours, her whole body shaking violently, almost choking from her sobs.

Mrs Thornton had sent up Jane two times, to inquire after her and bring her tea and a light meal, but Margaret had sent the maid away, unable to take food or speak to anyone.

Her dear, dear papa. Gone forever, overnight, so wholly unexpected.

How could this be? How could she have lost him?

There had been no indication. Yes, he had been rather tired as of late, but that alone could not have meant anything.

It had not been a year since her dear mother had passed, and now, so soon, she was without a family, without a soul in this world who loved her.

Even her husband had gone. He was not to return for at least another week, and as caring and attentive as he would certainly be, his doing so could only stem from companionship, not love.

Suddenly, Margaret was hit with a feeling of claustrophobia, almost as if the walls of her room were starting to close in on her.

She found it hard to breathe, as panic gripped her.

Unable to think clearly, she jumped up from her chair, grabbed her coat and bonnet, and dashed out of her bedroom, down the stairs, through the darkened entrance hall, and then out into the storm-beaten mill yard.

And then Margaret ran. Out of the yard, through the green gates, along Marlborough Street, across the now deserted marketplace towards Crampton.

Within two minutes she was soaked to the bone, but she barely felt it, and cared even less.

Eventually, she stood, in front of her old home, in the rain, looking up at the windows of her father's study.

He would never gaze out over the street again, would never skim through his books again with this satisfied little smile, whenever he found a passage, he particularly liked.

Margaret sank down onto the steps leading up to the front door, holding on to the bannister with her hands, as she closed her eyes and let herself cry.


It was a long while later, when Dixon took some books out of the shelf to place them on the table. They would be put into boxes in the next few days.

Mr Bell had been by the house today, briefly, to inform her of her master's passing.

The young Miss Hale (Dixon still referred to her as such in her mind) had apparently been notified of her father's death, and Dixon could scarcely imagine how the young woman must be feeling. She, herself was still unable to believe it.

What a dreadful turn of events, the housemaid thought to herself.

She supposed she was to relocate back to London now, to stay with her sister, maybe seek other employment, after she had served the young Miss Beresford, nee Mrs Hale, for so many years.

With a sigh, Dixon put another stack of books on the table, and haphazardly threw a glance out of the window, down onto the street.

She took a double-take.

There was someone there – slumped at the steps in front of the house. Dixon narrowed her eyes, but it was too dark to make out the figure.

Assuming it must be one of those street-wretches, which abounded this dirty, industrial city, she hastily made her way down the stairs and threw open the front door to tell them to clear off.

Taking a step outside, she opened her mouth to yell at whoever was sitting there, when she froze, unable to take in the sight before her.

"M-Miss Margaret?", she stammered in utter shock.

The young woman did not move. She was hunched against the bannister, her arms hanging limply at her sides, and her head had rolled down onto her chest.

"Miss Margaret!", Dixon exclaimed loudly.

Within a second, she was next to the unconscious, shaking her lightly by the shoulders.

She did not stir.

"Oh, dear Lord!", Dixon cried out in panic. "What am I to do now?!"


A little over an hour later, Margaret had been put in her bed, back at the mill house.

Doctor Donaldson had been called, they had put her in dry nightclothes and tried to get her to warm up, but she was still hypothermic, her face ashen, her lips a violent shade of blue.

"It's the shock, combined with the cold and wet weather. There is no telling how long she has been out there. Could have been almost two hours", the doctor told Mrs Thornton, with a worried glance at his pocket watch.

"I'm afraid there is no telling yet, how she will fare. She might have caught her death out there, soaking and chilling herself to the bone like this. Try to keep her warm, and I'll be back in the morning, to check on her."

Mrs Thornton nodded silently, looking down at the young woman, as she lay there, unmoving and white as a sheet.

They had never much seen eye to eye, but Hannah had to confess that she had grown used to the girl, and that there had even been moments when she had almost understood the liking her son had taken to her.

John would be devastated if anything were to happen to Margaret, she knew. No, for his sake, for all their sakes, Margaret had to pull through.


John was on his way out of the London hotel, to meet Mr Colthurst. He hoped that today would mark the day where he could finally secure a deal with a new investor.

It would greatly enhance his chances to keep Marlborough Mills running during these insecure times.

Tiredly, John pinched the bridge of his nose, as he made his way down the narrow staircase into the entrance hall of the hotel.

"Mr Thornton?", the man at the reception desk called out to him, momentarily halting him in his tracks.

"Can't stop now, I'm on my way to an important meeting", he told him.

"Mr Thornton, there has been an express message for you, from Milton Northern", the man told him, holding out a letter. "Must be something important."

With a sigh, John pulled the letter out of his hands and tore it open. As his eyes darted across the page, all the colour left his face.

He staggered slightly, grabbing the reception desk for support.

"Are you alright, sir?", the receptionist called out worriedly, jumping to his feet for fear that the other man would faint at any minute.

John looked up from the letter, his eyes unfocused. He looked as though he were in a state of shock.

"I – I need a carriage to the station immediately", he mumbled, still holding on to the desk in front of him.

"Sir, you do not look well. Should I send for a doctor?"

"No. I need to get to the station!", John ground out, suddenly panting heavily.

"NOW, MAN!"

The receptionist jerked back, completely aghast at this outburst.

"I – I'll see to it immediately", he stuttered, quickly dashing away to call for the nearest carriage.


The train ride to Milton seemed to take years.

He sat alone in one of the first-class coaches, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands nervously clasping and unclasping, head bent, eyes closed.

And he prayed.

John was not a religious man.

Since the death of his father, he had not had much faith in any god.

He had gone to church on Sundays, because it was the custom, not because he did it from his heart.

It had always been his conviction, that a true man was to help himself, instead of begging the heavens for assistance.

But now, all he could do was pray.

He could still barely grasp anything of what his mother had written to him.

Mr Hale – dead, and Margaret – Margaret was gravely ill, after having gone out in the cold and rain in her despair.

Why on earth had she done such a thing?

He felt a pang of guilt at not having been there with her. He would not have left her side, would not have let her leave the house.

He would have held her, let her cry against his shoulder, as she had done when her mother had passed.

She had been so downcast lately, and now this.

There had been something on her mind, he was sure of it.

Why had he not asked her further?

Why had he not dared probe into her?

After that night, when she had asked him about his love, he had distanced himself from her emotionally.

It had been self-preservation, for he felt he could not take much more of being close to her, of letting her in, when he knew that he could never have her, not fully.

He had been so absorbed in his own pain, that he had not paid enough attention to hers.

And now her beloved father was gone, and he was sure that she had felt as though she was completely alone in the world.

He had let her down.

And what if she – no! He could not think about that!

He would not lose her. He could not!

He pulled out his pocket watch with a trembling hand.

Still more than two hours until he reached Milton, if the train was even on time.

'Please, Margaret, hold on', he begged silently.

'Please, I cannot lose you!'


He threw open the front door and bolted into the entrance hall, trying to catch his breath.

Looking up, he saw his mother waiting for him at the top of the stairs. She looked pale and rather tired.

Taking three steps at a time, he dashed up the stairs.

"Mother!", he breathed. "How is she?"

She looked at her son, as he stood there, white as a sheet, trembling, looking so worn out, as though he was about to drop at any minute, his eyes full of anguish and, above all, fear.

And then Hannah Thornton did something, she normally would not have. She reached out her arms and pulled him to her.

Taken slightly aback by her sudden portrayal of emotion, he came willingly, resting his chin on her shoulder for a moment.

"She has caught a bad case of pneumonia", she told him, still keeping her arms around him. "That in combination with the shock at her father's sudden death has caused a high fever."

He pulled back slowly to look at her.

"Mother", he whispered. "What does this mean?"

"We'll have to wait and see. Doctor Donaldson has done everything he could for her. He has been here repeatedly for the past two days, but her fever has risen, I'm afraid. No one can tell whether she will pull through."

"I need to see her", he ground out.

"John, you look exhausted. Should you not go and rest?"

"I couldn't, mother. I need to see her, please!"

She nodded gravely. "Very well, she is in her room."

As soon as the words had left her mouth, he was gone.

He burst through the door into the semi-darkened room.

The curtains had been drawn, the only light coming from a few candles which had been placed about the room.

He stood, frozen, staring down at her, as she lay there, white as a ghost, and looking incredibly small, under the wide bedcovers.

Her lips had an odd bluish colour and her face was wet with perspiration.

"Margaret!"

The word was barely a whisper on his lips, as he stumbled over to her, and sank down at the edge of the bed.

His hand found hers and pulled it to him, clasping it tightly in both of his. It was hot from the fever.

He could not take his eyes off her face.

"Oh Margaret, dearest, please stay with me", he mumbled, pressing her hand to his cheek in despair.


He sat there for hours, barely moving, not leaving her side.

When his mother came in, followed by Jane, with a bowl of cool water and a cloth, to tend to the sick, he took it from them wordlessly, dipping the cloth into the water and gently starting to dab at her forehead.

"John, I can -" Hannah started, but broke off when she saw the look on his face.

He sat with her, all through the night, and all through the next morning, ignoring his mother's pleas for him to go and rest.

She had Jane bring him a tray of food, but he barely touched it.

Margaret's fever was still high.

Doctor Donaldson came by in the early afternoon, to look at the patient. He did not speak much, only shook his head to himself with a worried look.

"Keep applying cold compresses", he told them. "I'm afraid it is all we can do at the moment. That, and pray."

With that, he turned around and left the room.

"John, you need to get some sleep!", Hannah Thornton stated with some urgency.

"You have been sitting here without much of a break for almost twenty-four hours. You look as though you will collapse at any moment."

"I will go and wash", he told her tiredly. "Stay with her, I won't be long."

"You need to sleep, John!"

"Mother, I couldn't!"

He went to his room, shrugged out of his dirty clothes and washed.

The water was cold, but he did not care. He put on a fresh shirt, splashed some more cold water on his face, to fight the exhaustion which threatened to claim him, and a mere fifteen minutes after he had left, he was back beside his wife.

He felt dizzy, and his head pounded slightly from fatigue, but still, he held onto her hand, he put fresh compresses around her bare lower arms, her neck, and her forehead every few minutes.

He sat and prayed, as the daylight slowly began to fade once more.


It was after midnight, when a sound near him rose him from the restless slumber he had fallen into, still sitting in the chair beside her bed, leaning forward, with his forehead against the edge of the mattress.

His head shot up, his eyes darting around in a disoriented manner.

It took him a moment to gather his bearings.

The candle on the bedside table had burned down, and he quickly rose, busying himself with lighting a new one.

There was another small sound, almost like a moan.

In the light of the candle, he moved closer to the bed, to look at her face.

"Margaret?", he whispered, torn between fear and hope.

She was sweating profusely, her face flushed from the fever. She was moving her head a little, another barely audible moan coming from her lips.

"Margaret, can you hear me?"

He sat on the mattress, as his hand came up to her shoulder, squeezing it gently in hope of a reaction.

She did not hear him. He saw her eyelids move, but she did not open them, and she was still running a high fever.

If it did not go down soon…

Suddenly, it was all too much.

After almost thirty-four hours by her side, without much sleep, or food, after an exhausting train journey, combined with this unbearable fear for her life and his guilt at not having been there, when she had needed him most, it overpowered him.

He felt his body begin to shake violently, as a sob forced its way past his lips.

And then he reached out to her, gathering her lifeless form in his arms, as he pressed her to him, her cheek resting against his chest.

"Oh, dear God, I beg you, don't take her from me", he panted against her hair, as his tears blinded him.

"I will do anything. Anything in this world, but please spare her! Take me instead, if you must, but not her."

His arms tightened around her shakily, as the next words tumbled out of his mouth of their own accord, forcing themselves from his lips with violence.

"Oh, Margaret, dearest, please, please stay with me! No one can know what you are to me. I love you! I have loved you for so long!"

He knew she would never hear those words, but he had to let them out, so as not to burst. So he cried them into the empty darkness of the room, almost as if to finally free himself from them.

"How I wish I could have told you. How I wanted to tell you, that day, after the riot, when I came to offer you my hand, not out of any obligation, but because I loved you, with all my heart. And then, after your father had told me how you despised me, I could not…"

"I could not do that to you. I could not let you enter into a marriage with a man whom you would fear, knowing of his affections, of his desire for you, when you could never return them!"

She was so hot and feverish, her body limb in his harms, and he bent his head, bringing his face closer to hers.

"You can never know how I longed for you. How much it hurt to be near you, and not be able to touch you. And then we grew closer, and it became worse. It became near unbearable, Margaret. Oh God, I wish I had been stronger. I wish I had not withdrawn from you like this. I should never have left you! I am so sorry, Margaret!"

He stopped, gasping for breath, his arms still wrapped tightly around her small frame.

John was long past the point of concerning himself with what would have been deemed proper. It did not apply to them either way. They were married after all, even if their marriage had never been a real one.

He could not have cared less at that moment.

Carefully, he shifted her a little to the side, and then, he slipped out of his shoes and lay on the bed beside her, gathering her close, her head tugged under his chin, her body against his chest.

"You must not go", he begged tearfully.

"I could not survive if you did, Margaret. It would be the end of me. I cannot live without you. I – I cannot breathe without you!", he whispered into her hair, as he was suddenly hit by the relentless force of his own exhaustion.

"Please come back to me."

It was the last thing he muttered before his senses dwindled rapidly, and then, clinging to his wife as though he would never let her go again, John blacked out.

TTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT

NOTES:

Now, how is that for a dramatic turn of events? Let me know how you feel about it!

Also, there is a N&S forum that my wonderful friend SomebodyCalledMeSebastian initiated. We're still looking for people to discuss all those beautiful fandom-things with us, so do come over and join us!

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