A/N: I found this poem on the website 'allpoetry' by an author called 'right on' written about 12 years ago or so (she's got some pretty good stuff). I am going to pretend Margaret wrote it for the sake of the story but I wanted to make sure I gave the proper credit up front.

….oOo….

Margaret pulled out her journal. She knew exactly which one of her poems she wished to copy out for John. She flipped to the correct page and began.

When Margaret finished she set aside her quill and stared at the paper. She wondered if this new St. Valentine's Day tradition was popular enough to have made its way to Milton. On her way to Princeton tomorrow she would have to stop by the Stationer's to see if these pretty papers were being sold there as well.

If so, she wondered how many Valentines Mr. Thornton was likely to receive. After all he was, "sought after by all the young women in Milton," as she was once told. She did laugh at his mother's presumption then, but now she knew better. However, the true value of John Thornton was not in his wealth or social standing as his mother had implied. No, for Margaret it was in his fine upstanding character and the deep kindness of his heart. Of course, his dashing good looks could not be overlooked either.

The problem then was: would her note get lost amongst all the others? Would he even read it? He might just toss all such notes into the fire. That seemed like something he might do; his poor heart having been ground to a pulp by none other than herself no less.

If she didn't sign it, would he know it was from her? However, she could not bring herself to sign it, to own her deepest feelings so openly… No, he would have to figure it out for himself if he were truly meant to understand her. She would leave that in God's hands, and she would pray.

….oOo….

The next day was Thursday and Margaret was on her way to Princeton to visit Mary and the Boucher children. She had detoured past the Stationer's Shop and sure enough there were all manner of fancy St. Valentine's Day papers on display in the window along with many a young lady tittering with her friends as they passed in or out of the shop's front door.

Her next stop was the post box just down the street, where she could drop her note to Mr. Thornton. She stood there frozen however, note in hand, ready to slide it into the receptacle, trying to decide at the last minute whether to actually send it or not. Finally she decided that she really had nothing to lose. Her fingers let go and the paper slid in and was out of sight. It was out of her hands now – literally and figuratively.

Struck with a sudden burst of apprehension, Margaret walked briskly the rest of the way to Frances Street. Hopefully the distraction of the Boucher children would help to calm her nerves.

….oOo….

John couldn't tell how many times he had opened the bottom drawer of his desk over the last few days. He would sit there and stare at the sealed letter resting on top of the pile of junk in the drawer. A locked drawer rarely contained junk. These were other important papers and documents of course, such as his mill license, property lease, and tax related documents, but in that moment, to John, they were nothing but junk. The most important item lay on top. If he were going to send it it would have to be today, the thirteenth, and he had not yet decided.

Just then Nicholas Higgins burst into the master's office. Startled, John jumped to his feet. His pant leg brushed the aforementioned letter and it almost fell out of the drawer.

"Sir, you're needed o' the floor," Higgins said, "one o' the belts broke and we need your 'elp replacing it."

"Certainly," the master replied.

He slid the drawer shut with his foot as he rounded the desk toward the door. He did not notice that the letter had fallen to the floor in the process.

….oOo….

The broken belt having been successfully replaced, Mr. Thornton made the rounds of the weaving shed and sorting room to ensure that all else was in order.

While he was away from his office the postman had arrived. Williams took the man to the master's office, as he had so often done, to get the day's outgoing post. Williams went to grab the neatly piled stack of business correspondence on the corner of the master's desk. However, he noticed one letter had fallen to the floor. He stooped to grab it, placed it on the pile and handed the stack of letters to the postman.

Later when Mr. Thornton returned to his office he noticed the stack of letters was gone.

A bit taken aback, he thought to himself, 'Oh well, I missed sending Margaret's letter after all. I guess providence has intervened and decided it was not meant to be.'

He slumped into his chair and rested his head in his hands. God must have been trying to tell him something.

….oOo….

John tossed and turned in bed all that night wondering if he had missed his golden opportunity to let the woman he loved know his true feelings. He tried to reason with himself that she probably still despised him and would reject him soundly once again, but this just made him feel worse.

After three or four nights (he couldn't remember exactly) of hardly any sleep he was like a zombie when he walked into the dining room for breakfast that morning. His mother was concerned at his appearance.

"John!" she exclaimed, "you look awful."

"I haven't slept very well the past few nights, mother," was his reply.

"Is there something wrong at the mill?" she inquired.

"No, no," he responded, "things are going quite well there. One order was ready early, qualifying us for a bonus payment. Then we picked up two new orders last week. Including one from the Royal Navy and as you know they always pay well. It looks like we will make it out of this downturn sooner than I thought."

"That is very good John, but why haven't you been sleeping well?" she pressed him.

Just then he realized his folly. There was no way he could tell his mother the truth and he had just given up his best excuse – trouble at the mill. He would have to come up with somethings else.

"I think it has been a bit of indigestion, that's all," he fibbed, "I'll try to get to bed early tonight." He certainly didn't have anything better do to the evening of St. Valentine's Day. However, sleep was still unlikely.

Just as John was rising from the table Fanny rushed into the room. She was all in a dither because it was St. Valentine's Day.

"Johnny," she said, "You look awful!" Not waiting for a reply however, she went on, "But never mind that. I'm sure you'll be feeling much better later today when the post arrives." She added a wink and a knowing smile.

John groaned inwardly and closed his eyes.

As he walked across the mill yard to his office he wondered if he should be polite and at least read Ann's Valentine note or just throw it in the fire as soon as it arrived.

….oOo….

When the post arrived later that day John was surprised to find not just one but five personal letters addressed to him in feminine hands. He let out an exasperated sigh.

He laid out the unopened letters on his desk and then got up to lock the door. He darned well wasn't going to risk any of his employees catching him reading love letters.

He had decided on a compromise to his earlier conundrum: he would open and scan each letter briefly before swiftly tossing it into the fire.

Standing there between the desk and the hearth, he looked over the folded papers in front of him. He noticed that four of them were addressed in very loopy flowing scripts, i's dotted with circles or hearts or flowers and capital letters adorned with flourishes and other embellishments, while the handwriting of the fifth however, was simple, refined and delicate. The other thing he noticed was that even from his considerable height above the desk he could smell the cloying perfumes used to anoint the letters. He picked up each letter in turn smelling them and cringing at the overpowering odors.

Until he smelled the fifth one, that is. Its aroma was very faint. He had to walk over to the window and open it to get a breath of fresh air in order to cleanse his olfactory senses of all the previous offensive assaults. Shutting the window he returned to that last letter and, closing his eyes, he took another whiff.

'Mmmm,' he thought, 'rosewater and almonds. That smells like…' His eyes shot open. 'No, it couldn't be.'

He returned the letter to the line up on his desk and decided to save that one for last. He took a deep breath (trying not to sneeze) and began opening the letters. The fourth letter landed in the fire before the first had been completely consumed. They were all insipid, one was hardly legible, and none of them were signed.

John watched them burn before reaching for the last one. He hesitated. Holding it in his hands he turned it over again and again. He tried to figure out if he recognized the handwriting but it matched none that he could recall. However, he also recalled that he had never seen Margaret's handwriting.

He closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them and broke the seal. The refined and delicate hand had written out an original poem titled 'Missed Opportunities.'

So many missed opportunities,

Long gone,

Blew by like a breeze.

So many times I could have shown you

With a simple gesture,

A simple phrase,

But those are gone, too.

So many things I want to say,

Let you know

I look back every

Single

Day.

So many things we could be:

Happy

Together,

In love.

It all comes down to you and me.

So many things I would give

To just go back

And not miss those opportunities,

But, with them, live.

John staggered back and fell into his chair. He read the poem over and over again until he had memorized it.

'Could this be from Margaret?' he wondered.

The handwriting was just what he would have imagined hers to look like. The fragrance was most certainly hers, and it wasn't purposely applied. The paper smelled as if it had just so happened to be in the room with the source of the aroma. Then there was the poem! It seemed so appropriate to Margaret – or at least to what he wished of her, the way he hoped she might feel – regret for the past, wishing she could change it, and – loving him.

John was in shock. How could he be sure it was from her? What could he do?

He remembered his Valentine note for her and reached for his key to unlock the drawer. 'I must find some way to get it to her now,' he thought as he pulled open the drawer. But the letter wasn't there!

He riffled through the contents of the drawer – no letter! He got down on the floor to look under the desk – no letter there either! He searched all over his desk and office but could not find it.

He sat back down to think. What could have happened to it?

Just then Williams, his overseer, knocked on his door.

"Just a minute," he called out.

John stuffed Margaret's (?) letter into his breast pocket as he got up to unlock the door.

Before the man could state his own business the master asked him, "Williams, did you happen to notice a small letter go out in the mail recently?"

"Yes, sir," the overseer replied, "Yesterday when I brought the postman in 'ere to get the mail there was a letter lying on the floor. I added it to the pile and sent it off with 'im. Should I not 'ave done that, sir?"

"No, no, that was perfectly right Williams, thank you," John replied a little stunned.

Williams then went on with his own inquiry and the master answered him rather absentmindedly. Satisfied none the less, Williams turned and left.

John sat there contemplating this new development. His letter had actually been sent and was probably at this moment in Margaret's hands!

However, he wanted to do something more. He grabbed his coat and hat, which made him think once again of Monday night's pleasant surprise (So many times I could have shown you with a simple gesture…). He dashed off a quick note and handed it to one of his clerks with brief instructions before he left.

He went straight to the florist on New Street. Upon stepping inside, his nose was assaulted once more today with a plethora of smells. He strode purposefully up to the counter and ordered a dozen yellow roses to be delivered to the Hale's residence in Crampton. He chose yellow roses for two reasons. First he knew they were Margaret's favorite. He had seen them on her handkerchiefs and she was always embroidering them onto something during his lessons with her father. Secondly, they were for forgiveness. He wanted Margaret to forgive him.

He took quill and paper and wrote a simple note to include with the flowers. After giving explicit instructions, he paid for his purchase and left. He had one more stop before returning to the mill.