Okay, I might actually have had a tear in my eye while editing this.

Separation

In the following days, Margaret tried her best to grow accustomed to her new surroundings and settle into some kind of routine.

She would rise early, take breakfast with Dixon, and then the two women would go for a walk on the beach, after which Margaret tended to be so tired, that she had to lay down and rest a little, before taking a light lunch.

In the afternoon, she would go out again. She had brought her notebook and pencils, to sketch some of the scenery, happy about the opportunity to pick up this activity again.

She had always enjoyed it back in Helstone, and had never seemed to find the time to pursue it further, since moving to Milton.

There was a little bookshop only a few houses from the hotel, and she soon ventured there, to purchase some literature to occupy her time.

There was no wide variety in their selection, but she did find a few novels which seemed not too terrible.

On the following Thursday, a letter arrived for Margaret, while she was having breakfast with Dixon.

Eagerly, she tore it open to find her husband's neat handwriting:

Dear Margaret,

I promised I would write to you, and so I shall.

I have to confess that this is my fourth attempt at composing a letter. The other three are now crumpled wads on the floor of my office.

I have realized that, while I am somewhat apt at writing business letters, undoubtedly through a lot of practise, the same cannot necessarily be said for personal ones.

Things here are very busy, as usual. Some new orders came in on Monday, and we have our hands full to meet them. Nicholas Higgins invited me to taste the meat stew at the canteen yesterday, and I have to say, it was really good.

Mother and Fanny are well. They are being their usual selves, with mother managing impossible amounts of needlework (I wonder at how many tablecloths we must own), and Fanny attempting to become a grand musical performer. In fact, she is so determined that I had to flee the house and spend the evening over at my office last night, to prevent my ears from starting to bleed.

Otherwise, the house is rather quiet without you here. I miss our conversations after dinner. Yesterday, I picked up that book you seem to be so fond of – "Wuthering Heights". I still think this Heathcliff is a dreadful fellow.

It has only been three days since you have been gone, but it feels like forever. I wonder how you are doing? I hope the air will do you good, and that you will be able to go on some nice walks.

The scenery truly is beautiful.

I miss you, Margaret.

Yours truly

John

While she was reading, an array of emotions flickered across Margaret's face.

His letter made her smile on more than one occasion, as his generic, dry sense of humour practically jumped at her from the page.

But she could also sense his struggle, as he wrote of the usual banalities, such as mill orders or meat stew, sensing that there were many things left unspoken, which he did not dare write.

The fact that it had taken him multiple attempts to compose something he considered fit for her to read, stood testament to that.

It was only towards the end of the letter, that he had given in, and let her catch a glimpse of his true thoughts.

Margaret went for a walk after breakfast. The clean, fresh air did do her good, and she enjoyed being out in nature. But all the while, her mind was still preoccupied with his words, turning them over and over in her head.

After she had returned to the hotel, Margaret went straight to her room, took out a sheet of paper and her quill, and, with a deep breath, started replying to his letter.

Dear John,

I received your kind letter today and had to smile repeatedly at your reports from home. I am glad that everyone is doing well at the mill.

I am sorry that Fanny's singing drove you out of the house, to retreat to that dreadful office of yours, which is keeping you away from your family too much as it is.

Do give Nicholas my kind regards. I am so glad that the canteen is such a success. It sets Marlborough Mills apart from any other factory in Milton, which is something you can be very proud of.

I am as well as can be expected. The weather is still nice and Dixon and I go for walks on the beach every day. I have found some more shells, and I have done some sketching, which I have not done for a long time, but I found that I still enjoy it very much.

Margaret hesitated, leaning back in her chair with a sigh. A few minutes ticked by, as she sat in silence.

Then, having made a decision, she picked up her quill once again and continued:

I have been thinking a lot about you these past few days, John.

We had such a nice day at the beach together, and it pained me to see you go. I truly do miss you.

I keep wondering how you are. I know you are very busy with the mill.

There is always so much to do.

I pray you get some rest, and don't forget to eat, for I worry about your health.

I too, miss our conversations. The only person I can talk to here is Dixon, and she is not always very forthcoming.

I look forward to being able to speak to you in person again.

Take care, John and give my best regards to everyone I know.

I will see you soon.

Yours truly

Margaret

After she had finished, Margaret looked at the words she had written for a long while.

There was no mistaking that she cared for him, she was sure. She could only hope he would somehow catch her meaning, even if he was, as of yet, unaware of how deep her feelings truly ran.

She hoped that maybe her words would at least reassure him, that she was anything but indifferent to him.

Margaret's letter did indeed have a profound effect on John.

He had sensed that something about her had been different since she had woken up that morning in his arms, after she had been so ill.

It had almost seemed like she was looking at him differently. Like she genuinely cared, in ways she had not before.

It was a thought he had tried to push away, not wanting to misinterpret her demeanour. Her letter, however, threw him quite off balance.

"I have been thinking a lot about you..."

"It pained me to see you go. I truly do miss you."

"I keep wondering how you are…I worry about your health."

"I, too, miss our conversations."

"Take care"

Her words seemed so personal, so caring. But was he reading too much into them?

Could he dare hope that she had come to care for him on a deeper level? It was something he had forbid himself to even consider since that day he had gone to Crampton, to confess his love to her, only to discover that she despised him.

And what if he was wrong now, and it was just his wishful mind, playing tricks on him?

It was a prospect that scared him. He would not dare act on some assumption and risk overstepping his bounds.

He dropped the letter onto his desk, without taking his eyes off it.

Two weeks. Then he would go and see her. He would take her back home with him and maybe make some sense of all this.

In the meantime, he would have to reply to this letter, and for some reason, it scared him out of his wits.

Dear Margaret,

I was happy to receive your letter the other day, and have been trying to find the time to reply to it ever since, which is not easy at the moment, as work is very demanding.

In fact, now it is almost midnight, and finally, all of the house is asleep, so I have some peace and quiet to compose a few lines.

I am glad to hear that you are doing well and enjoying your walks. I did not know you sketched, so here is one more thing I am just now learning about you.

It seems a pleasant pastime and I think I would enjoy having a look at the results, granted you would give me permission to pry.

I have some news, which you will possibly find very hard to believe: Watson came to call on me the other day, and he asked for Fanny's hand in marriage. For a moment there, I thought I had misheard him, but it turns out that my sister seems, in fact, very eager to marry him. Mother considers this connection to be suitable as well, so I had little choice but to give them my blessing.

She will be well taken care off financially, which, I have to admit, makes for one less burden on my mind. I made sure not to mention Fanny's musical pursuits to Watson, for fear of him changing his mind at the very last moment, but I presume that the evenings in our house might be a bit quieter in the near future.

Margaret, I feel like I am writing of many things here, none of which appear to be of much consequence. I wish I could speak to you in person. There are things I would like to say to you that I cannot seem to be able to put into words on paper.

I have grown so used to your presence, that I truly feel bereft of it now, that you are not here. I know that, in the beginning of our marriage, we did not always see eye to eye, and it took some time for both of us to get accustomed to this situation, but you must know that I have grown rather fond of you, Margaret.

And when I read your last letter, I could not help but wonder if maybe you had grown a little bit fond of me as well. I do hope I am not presuming things wrongly, for I would deeply regret causing you discomfort of any kind.

Please do not worry on the account of my health, for I have no easy tendency of falling ill.

By the time you receive this letter, more than half of your time in Heston will be over, and I am already looking forward to having you back here with us, fully recovered.

Yours truly

John

He dropped his quill and pinched the bridge of his nose with a trembling sigh.

For some reason, he suddenly felt almost as nervous, as he had on that day, when he had gone to propose to her.

'This is ridiculous!' he told himself firmly, and determinedly folded and sealed the letter.

Then, he sat and looked at it, as the minutes ticked by in silence.

Was he overstepping, in practically asking her outright whether she returned his regard for her? He did not want to come across as though he was fishing for compliments.

But could the term "fondness" not be interpreted in a perfectly platonic manner?

He grimaced, fighting the sudden urge to tear up the letter and toss it into the nearby fireplace.

'Don't be such a pathetic coward!'

No, he would get it over with and see this sent off, before he could change his mind.

She read his letter three times in a row before looking up even once, her eyes darting right back to the beginning, whenever they had reached the last line.

There was so much in there, if one only looked closely enough. She doubted that she would have recognized it, had she not heard his words to her that night, when he had thought her unconscious.

But knowing how he truly felt, she could sense his longing to say so much more than he actually had.

There was almost a sense of despair in his musings on whether she could in fact care for him as well, and Margaret suddenly felt terrible at not having been more open with him before she had left Milton.

She felt like a coward, and she knew she needed to stop this hiding-game, for it almost felt as though she was playing with his feelings, even if she had never intended it.

For a brief moment, she even considered writing all of it to him, but decided against it.

It would not be fair to him, and she could not possibly convey all of it in a letter.

Margaret made a promise to herself to speak to him as honestly and openly as she could, at the very first opportunity, once she was back home in Milton, even if the thought alone was enough to terrify her.

She picked up his letter once more, her eyes lingering on one particular line.

"…when I read your last letter, I could not help but wonder if maybe you had grown a little bit fond of me as well. I do hope I am not presuming things wrongly, for I would deeply regret causing you discomfort of any kind."

Even just reading it, she could feel his anxiety in daring to ask, as though he was frightened of what she would think. She could not leave this unanswered.

While she knew that she could not outright tell him all that she felt, she had to find a way to convey some of it to him, to give him a little peace of mind.

With a shaking hand, she reached for her quill and ink and started penning another letter, hesitating every once in a while, unsure, and trying to work up her courage to continue.

Finally, she dropped her quill with a heavy sigh. She had written from her heart, as much as she dared, but how would he receive it?

She almost wished she could be there to witness his reaction, but as things stood, she could only wait anxiously for his reply.

John was in the sitting room with his mother, reading the "Daily Examiner", when the door opened and Jane stepped in, carrying a small tray with a letter.

"T'is for ye, master, from Mrs.", she told him politely, holding the tray out to him.

Hannah Thornton looked up from her needlework, startled at the sudden movement of her son jumping to his feet and hastily grabbing the letter.

"John? What is the matter?"

He was already halfway to the door. "I'll be in my study. I do not wish to be disturbed!"

With that, the door slammed shut behind him. Hannah stared after him in utter astonishment.

Jane was still standing there, tray in hand. After a moment, she seemed to remember where she was, curtseyed awkwardly, and dashed from the room.

Downstairs, in his study, John did not even bother to sit down, he was too agitated to sit still in any case.

He did not know why he was so nervous; it was only a letter after all.

With trembling fingers, he opened the sheet of paper and unfolded it, his eyes quickly darting along the lines she had written.

Dear John,

I was rather shocked to read of Fanny's engagement to Watson, for I cannot believe she would be pining for the affections of such a man. He could be her father, and I doubt that they share any common interests.

But I suppose financial security is something Fanny would consider worthwhile, and for her sake, I hope that this match will bring her happiness.

I, too, have things I wish I could say to you in person.

It is true that, at the beginning of our marriage, I did not regard you with too much kindness. We barely knew each other and it almost seemed as though we would never find any common ground.

But my feelings in this matter have changed over time, as I grew to know you better and started seeing the man behind the mill master.

Over the past year, I have indeed grown very fond of you, John.

I admire your strength and your perseverance during these difficult times, I value your opinion, and I would trust you with my life.

But above all, I am touched by your kindness and the way you have always looked after me.

I fear that I must have caused you pain sometimes in the past, but please believe me that it was done unconsciously, and I so wish I could undo it.

I do hope that you can find it in yourself to forgive me.

Heston is beautiful and I am feeling much better already. I am able to go on longer walks, the air indeed seems to do me good.

In a little over a week, I will be able to come back to Milton, and despite the beauty of the seaside, I have to admit that I am counting the days.

Please give my regards to your mother and Fanny, and also to Nicholas and Mary, if you see them.

Yours truly

Margaret

John did not realize that he had stopped breathing a while ago.

He stood, frozen to the spot, and stared down at her words, unable to process them.

Shaking his head slightly to himself, as if trying to clear it, he read it all again, very slowly, attempting to make some sense of it.

She had answered his unspoken question, and much more than that.

She was fond of him.

She cared for him.

His heart first gave a tiny flutter, before suddenly starting to race as her meaning started sinking in, then thrumming so hard that he was almost afraid it would burst forth from his chest at any moment.

She was asking his forgiveness, but he did not know what for. Yes, they had had their disagreements, most of which he had no one but himself to blame for. What could he possibly have to forgive her for?

Their marriage had often been painful for him, knowing that his feelings would forever remain unrequited, but she could not know about that…could she? He felt slightly lightheaded and finally remembered to draw breath.

Could this mean what he wanted it to mean?

He had dared hope once before, and had had his heart crushed in the process, and he did not know whether he could survive it a second time, not when everything else seemed to be crumbling to pieces all around him.

Things with the mill were worse than ever, in fact, he was to meet Mr Latimer tomorrow, to discuss his options, and to say that he dreaded the encounter would have been an understatement.

There was Fanny's wedding, which was surely going to be quite an expense. He was worried about providing for his mother and Margaret – Margaret who had been so ill recently, and had not regained all of her strength yet.

Some days, it felt like the weight of the world was resting on his shoulders, and even though he did discuss some of the financial problems with his mother, he dared not share all of what was on his mind, for fear of burdening the people around him.

And now this. It was the answer he had longed to hear – the one he had never dreamt of actually hearing, and yet, it threw him off balance even more.

He dropped the letter onto the side table and slowly sank down into the nearest chair.

Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands. There was an overwhelming pressure building behind his eyes, as tears threatened to spill from them.

He could not even work out what exactly he was crying for, as he was shaken by an array of feelings he could not organize.

He felt incredibly happy at Margaret's words, but at the same time terrified, he felt hopeful, and yet so unsure of what all of this could mean. He felt guilty for letting down his family, his workers, everyone who depended on him.

He was scared of what the future would bring, lonely, and longing to open up to someone and let it all out.

It was Margaret he longed for. What he would give to feel her arms around him, to hold her forever, with no more fear of driving her away.

He was so sick of being scared, so sick of hiding what was in his heart, it was driving him to the point of madness.

Above all, he felt incredibly helpless. It was not a feeling he was used to, and he did not like it one bit.

It felt strange that, after all of his struggles, it was her kind words, of all things, that seemed to be his undoing.

John could not tell how long he had sat there like this. It was a long while later, when he finally managed to straighten himself up and rise from the chair.

He picked up Margaret's letter once more and carefully tucked it into the pocket of his waistcoat, before walking over to his desk and opening his accounting book.

There were things for him to do, and no more time for sentimentality, he told himself firmly. He had to man up and do his duty, he owed as much to the people he loved.

The meeting with Mr Latimer, the next day, left John almost in a state of shock.

Of course, he had been very aware of how bad things were standing with the mill, but there was a difference between knowing this in theory and being faced with the actual reality of it.

Latimer had proposed a speculation, which Watson was setting up. He had urged John to participate, determined that they would all be certain to profit, but for the life of him, John could not agree to it.

Not after what had happened to his father. He could not go down the same path.

He did not want the mill to fail, but if it did, he would go down with this ship, with his honour and pride intact. He would not gamble away the livelihoods of his workers.

For the rest of the day, John was in a strange daze. He went about his duties as usual, he spoke to Williams and Higgins and some other men, gave orders and wrote two business letters, but all the while, his mind was far away, and somehow his body felt numb.

During dinner, he spoke no more than a few words, giving curt answers to his mother's inquiries. Hannah sensed his mood and knew better than to pry into him. She knew it would only cause her son to retreat from her further.

Later, John sat in the semi-darkness of his study, staring into the fire. He wished Margaret had been here now, to sit with him. He did not know whether he could have found it in himself to tell her of his struggles, but her presence alone would have been enough to soothe him.

Margaret…it was only a few more days until Sunday, when he would go to Heston and bring her back home with him.

It was the one and only silver lining in his life right now. The thought alone was enough to somewhat relieve the weight that had been threatening to choke him.

And then, without even consciously making the decision, John shot up from the chair by the fireplace and darted to his desk, frantically pulling out a sheet of paper and his writing utensils.

Without really knowing what he was doing, he watched his hand fly across the page, as words he would never have dared speak out loud to her face, poured out of him.

Dear Margaret

As I am writing this, you find me in rather great dismay, for today I have had some news from my banker, Mr Latimer, concerning the mill, which I would rather forget, but cannot.

It appears that all the work we put in since the strike last year, in hopes of being able to repay the bank loan, have been to little avail, and I am gradually running out of options.

It is some comfort to know that, as of now, the payroll is safe, but I cannot say how long we will be able to keep it this way.

I wished I could spare you from this news. I have not had the heart to tell mother yet, although I suspect that she is anything but oblivious to the way things are standing.

Latimer suggested that I take part in a speculation, and claims he is certain that I were to profit from it, but I cannot bring myself to do it. I will not risk everything on a tomfool money scheme. There is nothing certain about speculation. But I do feel torn, knowing the alternative.

When I came home from that meeting today, I wished you could have been here, Margaret.

I so longed to speak to you, even if it would not have changed anything for the mill, I think just having you there to confide in would have eased my mind a bit.

I cannot tell you how much I miss you, how I am counting the days, the hours even, until you will finally be back in Milton. I hope you are doing well and that this trip to Heston has helped you regain some of your strength.

Margaret, your last letter has given me much to think about. I had always hoped that we would grow to care for each other, that you could find it in yourself to look beyond our quarrels and misunderstandings.

Your kind words have filled me with a hope I had not dared have before, that even if you never voluntarily chose me as your husband, we may have started forming a bond of mutual care.

Your presence in my life has been a great comfort to me.

I feel as though in the past weeks, before your departure to Heston, we have been much more at ease with each other than before, and I am so glad of it.

But Margaret, I am afraid of letting you down. I had promised you a life of comfort and financial security, and here I am, looking at the shattered remains of my life's achievements.

Let me assure you that, whatever happens, I will do everything in my power to provide for you and mother, even if it means that I shall have to take on work somewhere else.

I admit to feeling helpless, Margaret. I don't know how I could have prevented this.

Please tell me, I am doing the right thing, for I just don't know anymore.

I can only beg your forgiveness for failing you and assure you that, even if my regard for you may be all I have to offer, you shall have it forever.

Yours truly

John

Margaret's cheeks were wet with tears, as she sat on the bed in her hotel room, clasping his letter tightly in her hands.

Outside, a storm was raging, mingled with the distant roaring of the waves, as they forcefully hit the shore. It had been raining heavily for two days now, and thus, they had been confined to the hotel, unable to go on their daily walks.

When the letter had arrived for her, Margaret had been eager to take it and had flown up to her room, to open it immediately, full of nervous anticipation of what he had replied to her last message.

Now, that she had read it, Margaret was devastated.

It was not the fact that the mill was likely to fail, or the fear of financial insecurity, that distressed her so greatly, it was the pain in his words.

The fact that he blamed himself for this, that he felt as though he had failed her, was almost unbearable to her.

She knew he was not the sort of man to easily admit to fear or weakness. With the way he had grown up, he had not been able to afford it.

To think that he was telling her these things – things he had not even spoken about to his mother, took her off guard. And it warmed her heart in ways she could scarcely describe.

Oh, how she regretted not being there with him now. She recalled the day of their departure, when she had so bravely stepped up to him and taken him in her arms. How she longed to do it once again.

To hold him and comfort him now. To be there for him when he needed her.

It was only four days until her stay in Heston would finally be over. It was enough time to reply to his letter one more time. If she sent off her answer today, he was likely to receive it tomorrow night, or the day after, at the latest.

Knowing what she had to do, Margaret went over to her desk, to take out her quill one more time, before she was to pack up her things for her return to Milton.

Dear John,

I received your letter today and I have to admit that I was quite shaken by it. I am terribly sorry you have had such bad news from Mr Latimer. I know what the mill means to you, and I cannot fathom how you must feel at so bleak a prospect for it.

I do not know very much about money matters and speculation, but the little I do know has me convinced that you are doing the right thing in avoiding it.

I do not think it worth the risk, and your recognition of this honours you.

I think few men would stand strong and withhold such a temptation. Your undying fortitude is something I have always admired.

I sincerely beg you, do not blame yourself for this. None of it is your fault, as anyone who knows you would agree with me on.

I have never known another man who works as hard or takes his responsibilities as seriously as you do. I am certain that you have done anything in your power to prevent this. You have no reason to apologize.

Whatever may happen in the future, I have great faith in you, John. I know you too well to doubt you even for a minute.

I would not care if we lived in a smaller house, with less grandeur. I was very happy and content in our house in Crampton, which was much simpler than the mill house. Your regard for me is much more important to me than any material goods you could offer.

Having read your letter just now, I wish, once more, that I was in Milton with you. I don't know if there was any way I could help, but I wish I could give you some sort of comfort. I know all of this must be very painful for you.

I am honoured by the fact that you would confide in me in these matters.

Please do let me know if there is any way I can help you. I promise that I shall always be there to listen, if you feel the need to speak to someone.

Even though I had not initially chosen this marriage, I can honestly say now that I do not regret it.

I could not have wished for a kinder or more caring husband.

I recall so many times when you were there, when I needed you most. You have already given me so much that I don't know how I could ever repay you.

If you let me, I would like to be there for you too, John. I could not bear to see you carry all these burdens on your own.

By the time you will receive this letter, it will be only two days until we will finally see each other.

I don't think I have ever longed so much for the time to pass quickly.

Please take care of yourself, John. I will be with you soon.

Yours truly

Margaret

Finally, Sunday came, and with it the first day of crisp blue skies in almost a week.

Dixon had packed all of their belongings, and they had left their bags at the reception desk of the hotel.

Margaret was glad to leave Heston behind, for as beautiful as it was, with its sandy beaches and scenic views over the ocean, it was also painfully dull, and she dearly missed her friends.

They sat in the hotel's breakfast room and ordered some morning tea while waiting for John, who was to arrive on the eleven o clock train. Dixon was talking to her, but Margaret barely grasped her words.

Everything in her was on high alert, ready to jump up at the tiniest movement.

Every few minutes her eyes kept darting to the clock on the wall, which indicated that the train should have arrived almost fifteen minutes ago, assuming it was on time. It should not take John much longer to get to the hotel.

She heard his voice before she saw him.

The door to the entrance hall was slightly ajar, and she recognized his voice as he said something to the landlord.

Margaret immediately jumped to her feet and rushed out of the room, leaving behind a very confused Dixon, who had been right in the middle of telling her about a letter she had received from her sister in London.

He was standing by the reception desk, and her heart skipped a beat at the sight of him.

"John!"

It was a barely audible whisper, but he looked up immediately, and when his gaze met hers, she almost felt like crying from happiness. It was only now that he was here, that Margaret realized how much she had really missed him.

He looked pale and very tired, but his face lit up at the sight of her.

"Margaret!"

In a few quick strides, he was standing right in front of her, looking down at her in what almost seemed like wonder.

His hand found hers and he gave it an affectionate squeeze. She longed to throw herself into his arms, but held back, knowing that they were being watched. The landlord, as well as a few other guests, who were waiting in the entrance hall, were looking over at them curiously.

"I am so glad to see you", he whispered. "I missed you."

"And I missed you", she told him in a shaky voice, her fingers still wrapped tightly around his hand, unwilling to let go.

"Did you receive my last letter?", she asked in a low voice.

"I received it the day before yesterday."

He looked straight at her and she felt like drowning in his eyes. How had she never noticed before how beautiful his eyes were?

"Margaret, I wish to thank you", he told her earnestly. "For all the kind words you sent me these past few weeks. You cannot know how much comfort they gave me."

Her second hand came up to clasp his between both of hers, pulling it to her chest in a gesture of affection. "I am glad."

They stood in silence, just looking at each other for a long moment, until the door of the breakfast room opened fully, and Dixon stepped out, startling them both out of their mutual daze.

John greeted the maid politely, and they exchanged a few pleasantries, before it was decided that they would take a small lunch at the hotel, before calling for the carriage and making their way back to the station.

Their conversation circled mostly about the weather and Fanny's pending wedding to Watson.

"But she cannot love him!", Margaret wondered aloud.

"He will offer her a comfortable life", he retorted. "It is all she has ever wished for, Margaret. Enough money to spend on drapery and extravagances. Mother is pleased at the prospect of her being taken care of, especially in times like these", he added in a quiet tone, so only Margaret caught his words.

Less than two hours later, they were on the train, leaving Heston.

Dixon fell asleep almost the moment they were out of the station, her head falling back against the headrest with a slight snore.

Very little was spoken during their journey. John looked very tired, and Margaret, who was feeling thrilled and nervous at the same time to be sitting rather close to him, did not want to disturb him and let her gaze wander out of the window, enjoying the views.

John had barely slept a wink in the past days, and it was not long before the rhythmic clattering of the train lulled him into sleep.

Margaret watched out of the corner of her eye as his chin slowly sank towards his chest, before his head rolled to the side from there, and then his frame tilted slightly.

She did not move, holding her breath, as his body sagged towards her, his head coming to rest against her shoulder. She felt her heart race at his proximity and turned her head slightly towards him, until her face was mere inches from his.

He smelled of cotton and soap, and something she could not place, but had come to associate with him.

His body felt warm against hers and she could hear the faint sound of his breathing near her ear. Unable to stop herself, her hand gently grasped his, which was resting between them on the bench.

Gradually, her heart rate calmed, as she grew more accustomed to his closeness.

How was it that this suddenly felt so right? As if it had always been meant to be this way.

She closed her eyes, focussing on his warmth, which slowly seemed to seep into her body.

The whistle of the train and the noise, coming from the platform outside, roused Margaret from her slumber.

It took her a moment to gather her bearings and realize where she was. There was a movement beside her, as her husband stirred. She quickly turned her head to see him blink a bit confusedly.

A moment later, he shot up into a sitting position, quickly moving away from her.

"I am sorry", she heard him mumble sheepishly, as a faint blush crept over his face. Margaret felt bereft of his closeness and saddened by his notable discomfort.

She suddenly recalled the time she had woken up on top of him in London, and how she had jumped from the bed, as though she had been burned, punching him hard in the process.

Could she really blame him for being afraid, after that? Quickly, she placed a reassuring hand on top of his.

"You have nothing to be sorry for", she whispered.

He raised his eyes to hers at that, almost shyly.

"You were tired", she told him gently. "And I did not mind."

Dixon moved, mumbling something incoherent, and then finally opened her eyes, breaking the moment, and John quickly got to his feet, to pick up their luggage.

They reached Marlborough Mills in time for dinner, and Margaret was glad to finally be home. She briefly wondered when she had started referring to the mill house as 'home'?

They quickly changed and refreshed themselves, to join Mrs Thornton and Fanny in the dining room. Fanny was beside herself with excitement at her imminent wedding, talking all evening long about gowns and floral decorations.

After they had finished eating, John urged Margaret to retire early, stating that she looked very tired and needed to get some rest after her journey.

She did feel exhausted and longed for her own bed, after three weeks at the hotel in Heston, so she decided to take his advice, and went upstairs to her room.

TTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT

NOTES:

So, finally, they are getting there, people. Oh, what a ride. I will do my best to get the next chapter (which will be e/m-rated btw, depending on which board you are reading this on) out by the end of the week, however, I feel like it will go through its 16th (or so) rewrite before that, so I can't make any promises. Rome wasn't built in one day, and neither was John and Margaret's relationship, lol.