Hi guys, sorry for the delay in getting this chapter out. I've had another stint in hospital, so this was written there. It's very rough and rushed, so it's a take it as you find it sort of effort. Cheers x

Phrase you need to know for the story: Gint of a girl is a Victorian expression, that means that a woman is effortlessly flattered and can be persuaded to care for any man quickly and easily if he plays his cards right.

And there is one Gaskell quote in italics from North and South.


HOW DO I LOVE THEE?

Part 3 of 4

From Before We Were Us


John could hardly remember anything of his long walk home from the Hale's that night. In fact, he scarcely remembered anything from the point that Margaret had said that she could not think of anyone who might have sent her anonymous card. From that unutterable and unalterable moment, John's world had grown dark and depressing, and all he could see was a long and lonely future stretching out ahead of him in which he would die alone and unloved.

The first thing he could recall after her fatal words was him slamming his bedroom door closed, tearing off his jacket and cravat, and flinging them on the floor. Glowering at his surroundings, John discovered that he suddenly detested his room. It had meant nothing to him before. It was simply a peaceful place of welcome privacy where he could lay his head at night, only now, it had taken on a darker representation. From this day forth, it would signify his solitude through the symbolism of his bed, the same bed that would never become a marriage bed, to be shared with a lover and loved one.

Scraping his shaking fingers through his black mane and tugging at the unruly strands, John was in a feverish state, his emotions as scrambled as his morning eggs. He struggled to breathe, his head pounded, his limbs were weak, and his skin blistered with the heat of his passion, a new sensation that was so overpowering that it near enough brought him to his knees. If he had known better, he would have said he was ill, but John was never ill, so there was only one explanation, and that was that he had finally found and fallen for a woman, but not just any woman, she was his perfect woman, and oh! – how it hurt!

John laughed hysterically.

He was livid. He was distraught. He was indignant. He was muddled. He was disappointed. He was thwarted. He was humiliated. He was remorseful. He was conflicted. He was tired.

But most of all, John was madly in love.

He could not remember the last time he had been this angry, only, this time, he was not angry with his workers, or his sister, or his fellow masters, or even the world, but with himself.

What the hell had he been thinking?

Margaret had hated his card.

John could have laughed himself hoarse at the thought of it, so much that his lungs would have burst in demise through sheer exhaustion. He had been inane enough to imagine that Margaret would welcome it, that she would feel flattered by his attentions and would flutter into his arms like a silly, sentimental girl. But she was not like that, was she? And he would not have admired her if she were. No, she was serious, not the kind of woman to be so effortlessly praised or pleased. A woman like her would take more wooing to convince than the average doe-eyed gint of a girl, so why had he treated her as if she were a prize to be won so easily?

John had been too readily engrossed with crazed imaginings of holding her, of feeling her warm body pressed up trustingly against his own, of his hands stroking her hair in familiar fondness, the whole scene so simple, yet so profound, denoting the exclusive bond that they shared.

And now he had ruined everything with his carelessness.

What hurt the most, was that John had only just realised the extent of his feelings for Margaret. They had crept up on him so gradually, so slyly, even, that the inexperienced man had struggled to understand himself all these months since she had arrived in his town and in his life, not to forget settling herself in his heart. John had always known that he liked her. He knew he revered her. He knew he desired her. He knew he felt strangely built up and torn down whenever he was with her. But more than anything, he knew that he needed Margaret more than he had ever needed anything or anyone in his whole life.

However, despite his mounting feelings, John had not fully appreciated just how much he cared for Margaret until tonight, until she had made it clear that she could never think of him in that way. The truth was, John did not only want to court Margaret, no, he damn well wanted to marry her, to make her his, and to offer her his all, but she had good enough as told him tonight that she would never think of him as the one and only man she would one day want to call husband.

If only he had waited. If only he had thought this through and asked her properly, then he would not be in such a sorry mess of his own stupid making. After all, how hard could proposing be? If millions of other men could do it successfully, then why couldn't he?

Margaret, that insufferable woman with all her wit and wisdom beyond her years, she had been right in everything she said tonight. His attempt at courtship had been clumsy at best and cowardly at worst. It spoke nothing of the honesty and honourability of love, instead, he had reduced it to something secretive and shameful, almost as if his feelings were something guarded and disgraceful, when in reality, all John wanted to do was shout them from the rooftop.

After all, John was at last in love, after years of thinking it would never happen, and yet here he was, so was that not worth celebrating?

Obviously not.

What an unspeakable fool he had been.

Here he was thinking Margaret was raw in the ways of love, that he would need to tread gently, when in fact, he was the amateur, the novice, and she, she was the authority on the matter, most likely leaving her clutching her sides in hysterical amusement at his absurdity as she stomped all over his forlorn heart.

And who the hell was Henry? And why was she on a first name basis with him? Sulking, John thought on how he would give anything for her to call him by his given name and for him to call her Margaret. It pained him to hear her mother and father address her so, leaving him as the only twit in the room to call her Miss Hale, perpetually being reminded of the wall of formality and lack of true friendship that stood between them.

John clasped his hands behind his head and pushed, all this pent-up energy needing to find some release fast if he did not want to combust.

He had been naive to imagine that he was the only man who cared for Margaret. Ha! It was obvious. Here he was, a man who had never so much as taken a fancy to a lass, all of a sudden head over heels in love. It was irrational. Therefore, did it not make sense that it must have taken an extraordinary woman to turn his head and steal his heart? Of course it did! And did that not also mean that such a woman would be sure to capture the devotion of just about every other man she encountered? Men who were weaker and more susceptible to female charms than a firm bachelor like he?

Aargh!

What an idiot he was!

So not only was there that snake, Armitage, to compete with, but these fellows Whitehall and Henry, whoever they may be. And there would be others, of that he was certain. John often forgot that Margaret had spent most of her life living in London, the city's superficial insincerity not having rubbed off on her, spoiling her morality. At any rate, there would most definitely be a suitor or two waiting for her back there out of the many thousands on offer, each with his genteel living that did not involve inhaling smoke and cotton every time she left the house. Then there was Helstone. While everyone's eyes had been on Mr Hale, the centre of the congregation, their minds would probably have been on his charming daughter, wondering when they would make her their bride in her father's church.

John could not help but snigger at his own stupidity.

For a man who liked facts, there was one fact he could no longer deny, and that was that there was no hope for him when it came to Margaret. She would never love him, she would never even come to acknowledge him as a potential suitor, the man she could give her heart to, and in doing so, entrust her life into his care. No, in her eyes, he would forever be nothing more than her father's pupil, a dull merchant and merciless mill master.

John suddenly felt besieged by an onslaught of misery. He had never wanted a wife before, he had never even thought about all the joy and fulfilment that could bring. But now that he had to accept that the only woman he would ever wish to take his name, to bear his children, and to share in his life, would never be his, it was like a knife to his heart.

Nodding in grim realisation, John knew what would become of him. He would continue to love Margaret, admiring her from afar, watching as she met and married the man she deserved, and she would never know how much he cared about her, how closely he carried her in the secret recesses of his heart, treasuring her there for the rest of her days.

Well! He had known what love was – a sharp pang, a fierce experience, in the midst of whose flames he was struggling! but, through that furnace he would fight his way out into the serenity of middle age, - all the richer and more human for having known this great passion.


A week later, Margaret found herself practically skipping down the stairs for breakfast like a carefree child. She did not know why, but Thursdays had become her favourite day of the week. She could not fathom the reason for it, no matter how much she thought it over, but this fourth day out of seven always put an extra spring in her step.

Humming to herself, she sauntered into the dining room and sat down at the table. Buttering her toast, she thought on all she had to do today, and how she would need sustenance to see it all through. She planned to visit Nicholas to ask if there was anything she could do to help him and the other families on strike. Margaret understood that they did not always appreciate her charity, her meddling, as they would likely call it, but she was determined to try all the same to do what she could. Her father had always taught her that while a Christian spirit should respect the wishes of others, it should never be daunted in doing the right thing, no matter how much criticism one might receive in place of thanks.

After that, she had then promised Mrs Hamper that she would help with the flowers in the church after their discussion at the dinner party. The lady had somehow got it into her head that Margaret, being a country girl, was at one with nature, so her naturally green fingers would fashion the finest floral presentation St Stephen's had ever seen. Margaret had not confessed that far from being accomplished in this area, her Aunt Shaw had rather given up on her niece, vowing that no display of hers would ever disgrace her drawing room.

Then, of course, she would need to fetch some items for baking if she wanted to make a cake for Mr Thornton coming tonight, bramble and almond being his favourite. He had been a busy man of late, trying to manage the strike, so he would need to keep his strength up. Margaret would not have anybody say that she did not try to see both sides of the question, because while she commiserated with the workers, she could also sympathise with the masters, particularly if they were men of principle like Mr Thornton, somebody who should not be punished for his commitment to doing what he genuinely believed to be right.

As Margaret bit into her toast, she never even noticed her legs swinging merrily and her toes wiggling beneath the table at the thought of his visit. However, as Margaret eyed the drapes, considering whether they needed to be washed and ironed again, she spied the perturbed look on her father's face as he read something that had been scribbled on a small sheet of paper, the edges ripped, as if the sender had scrawled and dispatched it in haste. Mr Hale rarely looked troubled over anything, so the sight was both unusual and unsettling for his daughter.

'Is something amiss, Papa?' she asked, placing a cube of sugar into her tea and stirring it in. Fred had always said that his sister was already so sweet that she did not need sugar, but that had only encouraged her habit more to hear him say it, and so she thought of him now every time she partook in the ritual.

Mr Hale glanced up and pinched the bridge of his nose. 'It is just a note from John,' he began, and the hairs on Margaret's arm bristled to attention. 'He says he will not be able to attend his lesson tonight.'

Margaret, who had been fixing one of her loose hairpins, frowned, and her legs stopped kicking at once. 'That is most unlike him,' she disputed. 'He greatly enjoys his lessons with you, I have heard him say so myself. And Mr Thornton is nothing if not a man of his word,' she said with a slight raise of her chin, but this time, it was not in self-pride, but in pride for another.

Mrs Hale, who was sitting opposite her husband, nodded in agreement as she sipped her tea with lemon and honey, the added ingredients recommended by the doctor to soothe her aching chest. 'Quite, quite. It would take a great deal to prevent him from attending,' she concurred.

'You are right, my dears,' Mr Hale confirmed dejectedly. 'It seems as if there has been some disturbance at his mill, and it will keep him away for a while. I am sorry to say that his property was targeted and severely damaged.'

Margaret dropped her knife onto her plate with a clank, the clatter so hard that it chipped the chinaware, a slender hair-line fracture cutting through the hind leg of a horse who had been painted in blue upon the ceramic. If the mule could speak, it would voice its provocation, aggrieved that it had lasted nearly fifty years without so much as a scratch.

'Was he hurt?!' Margaret blurted out.

She then blinked in wonder at her own question.

'Oh, my!' Mrs Hale gasped, her cheeks paling and turning whiter than the jug of milk that rested beside her elbow. 'When was this?'

'Yesterday,' her husband verified, reading the short note over again, the missive containing no more than six or seven lines. 'From what I can gather, the strike broke, and a riot took place at Marlborough Mills when it came to light that he had brought over Irish workers so that he could recommence production. It sounds as if they were terribly violent and inflicted a great deal of damage to his property,' he recounted solemnly, saddened to imagine such violence amongst good people.

Mrs Hale sucked her lips. 'Well, I suppose he had every right t −'

'But was Mr Thornton hurt?!' Margaret repeated, more loudly this time as she slammed her palms down on the table, and stared at her father with a probing gaze, her eyes wide and distraught as she demanded answers.

Why that had been her first concern, she did not know. Was it likely that he had been hurt? Perhaps not. Mr Thornton was a sensible man, he would not have put himself in harm's way. He would most probably have barricaded the doors and stayed inside with his mother and sister, even if Margaret would have preferred that he go out and face them like a man. They were human after all, not animals, and they were not unreasonable, just driven mad by starvation, and not just for food, but a hunger for recognition and justice. They would not have wanted to harm him, just talk with him.

A hand flew to Margaret's mouth. Oh! And to think that she had been planning to go and ask Mrs and Miss Thornton whether they might lend her the water-mattress for her mother to try. Thank goodness a crisis in the kitchen over spilt milk had prevented her, or else, Margaret herself may have become caught up in it all. It was not that she shied away from danger, not for herself, but she hated to think that she would have been an imposition to the Thorntons.

Knowing her and her hasty mouth, Margaret would almost certainly have insisted that Mr Thornton go down and parlay with his stricken workers in the heat of the moment, the concept of right overshadowing her reason. It would only be after he had left that she would have realised the folly of her advice and the danger she had placed him in with her self-righteous guidance. Margaret would have then felt the need to run down after him, and then Lord knows what would have happened. Nevertheless, there was one thing for sure, and that was that Mr Thornton would have protected her heroically, of that, she had no doubt, just as she trusted that she would have protected him in turn.

But Margaret found herself closing her eyes and taking a deep, steadying breath. What if he had been hurt? She could just picture him, lying there on the cold ground, still, lifeless, blood seeping from his brow. He would be alone, nobody to help him, and as for his workers, what would they do to the man they had come to loathe more than the Devil himself? Save him? Flee? Or worse?

'I do not believe so,' came a distant voice that cut through Margaret's foggy vision and called her home. 'He mentions nothing of the kind.'

Snapping out of it, Margaret needed to know more. 'Well, what did he say?' she pestered, her eyes darting inquisitively to the note.

Her father sighed and resigned himself to his daughter's hounding, so he reached out a hand and handed it over before she asked him yet another interrogating question that he could not satisfy with an answer.

'See for yourself,' he offered.

Snatching the missive from his grasp, Margaret held it firm in her own and began to read it, her eyes studying every line, but then ─

'Margaret?' her mother asked, confused by her daughter's odd behaviour. Margaret had been all in a tizzy not a moment before, as agitated as a child with ants in their stockings, but now, she just sat frightfully still. Her small body was trembling slightly, and her eyes were as wide as the oceans of the seven seas as she stared at the missive.

However, Margaret did not answer. She merely stood up, her chair scraping across the floor, turned on her heels, and marched out of the room, the piece of paper still clutched in her hand.

When they heard the sound of the front door closing, Mr and Mrs Hale looked at each other in astonishment. They knew that Margaret was hot-headed, but this was a new level of impetuousness, even for her.

'My-my-my, what will happen now, do you think?' Mr Hale queried as he poured his wife a fresh cup of tea, her strength waning so severely these days that she could barely lift the pot herself.

Mrs Hale deliberated as she sat back in her chair and pretended that her side did not groan. 'That depends,' she surmised.

'On?'

She smiled shrewdly, noticing that Margaret had also taken her card that she had hidden behind an ornament in the dining room. The young lady had concealed it there so that she might look at it in secret whenever she wished, or so she had thought, not realising that her mother was wise to her daughter's romantic fascination with her first love letter.

'On what he has to say for himself,' she guessed. 'And…whether she is ready to hear it.'