Hello readers! I hope you have all had a fabulous week. Thank you so much to those of you who have read, favourited, followed the first chapter. Also, a massive thank you to those who have reviewed! I will try and reply to thank you individually as I feel it is only polite to. For now, I will just answer a couple of questions: Kfkyle, I am certainly not intending to abandon my work and have the rest of the story mapped out (for once) so please be assured I will finish it! To Kss and others who have asked how often I will update, I shall do my best to update once a week, hopefully on a Saturday or Sunday. If I don't, I promise I will asap, but something will probably have come up at school and stolen me away. I hope you like this chapter but please do review and let me know either way.
Elle. x
Morning dawned in Milton bringing none of the light and natural beauty of Helstone, save for the quiet, hopeful song of a bird, carrying into Margaret's small room from somewhere outside the window. If she closed her eyes and imagined hard enough, she could convince herself that she was back there once again, her mother and father with her as she lay in the grass outside their cottage, under the warm caress of the sun. Her parents sat sipping tea, chatting about nothing in particular and worries did not exist or perhaps it was that nothing mattered. For one lingering moment, she felt as though she would never want for anything else ever again, if she could only return to that second in time for just a short while, until the blurred figure of a man, shadowed and foreboding added a dark splotch to her picturesque painting. He was walking towards her and ruining the colours of the scenery, becoming ever clearer until the face of Henry Lennox invaded her view and jolted her awake. Even that memory, the idyll of Helstone, her believe in the paradise of the past, was polluted now and could bring her no comfort.
At some point she had fallen asleep, true sleep- disturbed but not broken-and the letter had slipped from the clutched hand at her breast. For a panicked moment, she clasped her chest and grabbed frantically at the bed sheets beneath her, but there was no trace of that small printed writing. She turned, desperate, missing its presence before stilling. A thought struck her, halting her movements. What if she never found it? Perhaps her desperation for this letter, this problem, to be removed from her had simply disappeared like she had wished for it to last night? Her father could not blame her for failing to deliver it if she no longer had it through no fault of her own, could he? "Your father would never know anyway", her mind tried to tell her, but that thought was more upsetting than his being angry for keeping the letter from its intended recipient. The guilt- that stomach churning dread that was already creeping back upon her, snapped her from her thoughts and back to the future.
As if it could sense her internal turmoil and wanted to taunt her, she suddenly saw the white parchment paper out of the corner of her eye. Somehow, it had been knocked onto the floor next to the bed, or had she thrown it in her sleep? It didn't matter. All that mattered was that she needed to get rid of it as soon as possible.
A glance at the clock beside her bed told her it was 6:15am and Mr Thornton would surely be arriving at the mill soon, as would the workers. It would be best to arrive just after them, she reasoned, to avoid being swept up in the throng as they headed to work. She supposed it would only be proper for her to wear black now that she was even more in mourning than she was before, so with effort she dragged her still fatigued body across the room and selected a black dress from the wardrobe, lined fetchingly with a simple white lace adorning the rounded neckline and the cuffs of the long sleeves. It was a simple dress but not simple enough. A sigh escaped her as she realised she would need to call Dixon to assist her with the corset and buttons on her gown as, no matter which way she tried to bend, she could not manage the task alone. No doubt she would want to know where her mistress was going but Margaret could deal with that if it meant she could get this over and done with and think about how to contact Mr Bell.
She made her way to the chamber door and poked her head around the corner. A ray of light led a clear path to the kitchen down stairs and the dim sounds of Dixon moving about travelled up to her.
"Dixon?" She called, just loud enough to be heard over the muffled clatter and the noise ceased before Dixon appeared at the bottom of the stairs.
"Mistress?" she called, her surprise evident: "I'd have thought you'd want to be asleep for a while yet, distressed as you were last night. Are you wanting me to bring your breakfast upstairs?" Concern crossed her face and Margaret felt the sting of guilt as she remembered how she had run from the servant last night.
"No. Dixon. No breakfast please. I just need you help to lace me into my clothes and then I will be going out. I have something I must do"
Dixon did not reply but came marching up the stairs and into Margaret's room before placing her hand on the girl's forehead as though checking for a fever and tutting.
"You are running a temperature. Miss Margaret, you cannot go out at this hour. Not when you're grieving and ill. That's how it started for your poor mother and your father didn't even notice. I will not let this one pass me by. You must go back to sleep." She tried to replace the gown Margaret had selected and push her young mistress towards the bed but she would not be dissuaded.
"Dixon, I must.." she tried to squirm away from her cold hands but Dixon was a force to be reckoned with.
"What on earth would you need to go out at this unearthly hour for anyway, Miss?" The servant was adamant to get her back into bed, slowly cornering her back towards her target.
"If you must know, I need to inform someone on my father's death." Margaret dodged her determinedly.
"Then write to them, Miss Margaret!" Dixon exclaimed, straightening the ruffled bed covers. "The postal service will suffice I am sure."
"No Dixon, it will not!" Her voice was loud, louder than she had expected but she needed to hurry: "please do not treat me like a child. I am not ill. I must go and attend to some business as soon as possible. All I ask of you is that you help me to dress and then when I return I may be persuaded to try some breakfast if it would please you." It had come out harsher than she had intended for it to and she instantly felt guilty again but she had no time to lose.
Dixon looked at her as though she was about to argue, before muttering indistinctly as she laced corsets and helped Margaret into the chosen dress.
"How would you like your hair miss?" Dixon asked, gathering hair pins and a brush and ushering Margaret towards the dressing table. A glance at the clock told her that it a quarter to seven and she must hurry if she wished to speak to Mr Thornton at the start of the day, before he became inundated to work and resented her all the more for taking up his time.
"Leave it, Dixon. I will deal with it. Don't fuss so, I brushed it before you came in." She halted the older woman's arguments and shielded the bed as she gathered the letter and slipped it into her pocket.
"Very well, Miss." Dixon replied, clearly hurt and left to return downstairs. Margaret sighed in relief.
Quickly, she grabbed some hair pins and, instead of her usual elaborate hairstyle, pinned some of the curls from the front on each side back and left the rest down as she had often done when she was a girl; then she ceased the letter, hurried downstairs and grabbed her coat off the hook. She did not pause to put it on, instead dashing out into the cold, half running as she tried to pull it on without stopping, and headed towards Marlborough Mills. It was still dark outside and the street lamps were dimly lit but the candles were dying, their light gradually giving out. Under normal circumstances she may have been nervous to be walking alone this early and without a chaperone, but she ploughed on. Something as silly as a chaperone for safety didn't seem to matter anymore, all that mattered was speaking to Mr Thornton and speaking to her godfather. Buried inside her pocket the envelope lay, still clutched in her hand for warmth, her thumb and first finger caressing the smoothness of the parchment all the while, its silky texture broken by the ink markings for her father giving her comfort as she battled on. She was more than half way there before she realised she had left without a bonnet or scarf and her long hair was flying freely in the wind, long and dark against her pale skin and probably ruining what little effort she had put into fixing it. What shreds of vanity lay beneath her grief and nervousness began to regret not having Dixon fix it for her before leaving. Still she had no-one to impress, or rather she did not have the ability to impress anyone it appeared, so she supposed it didn't matter.
In the distance, the Mill towered before her unexpectedly, as if it had sneaked up on her and she stopped still in wonder at the sheer scale of it. There was an ominous power contained within the walls and everything about it seemed to reflect the power of the man she was here to see. The last of the workers were making their way into the building at the far end of the courtyard, and the time was here for her to act if she wished to. Taking a deep breath, she raised her head as high as she could and strode towards the door, memories of her first trip inside the mill itself still vivid in her mind.
As she approached the door, the man holding it- Johnson, she thought his name was- hurriedly removed his hat and bowed to her. His face triggered a memory of staring out at a sea of faces. Surely, he was one of the crowd of union workers who had stormed this very square not so log ago?
"How can we help you miss?" he asked, clearly uncomfortable to see her there.
"I need to speak with Mr Thornton. Alone." She tried to keep her voice level but it wavered nonetheless, cruelly betraying her. For a moment, she thought he was going to refuse her entry, but thankfully he did not question her, instead gesturing up a small staircase towards a room above with a window. A small stream of light peeked through, a candle flickering, indicating he was there.
"Thank you." She whispered, her pretence of strength abandoned as she steadily climbed the staircase towards her fate. It was still so cold inside that she could see her breath in front of her face, giving away how quickly and deeply she was breathing but her mind pushed her feet onwards, guided by that flickering beacon. Now nothing but a wooden door stood as a barrier between her and Mr Thornton, yet she found she could not knock. All the words she had practiced in the dead of night, whilst sleep had evaded her, had disappeared from her mind, and instead she found she had nothing to say. Before she could turn her back on the door she braced herself and gave two confident knocks on the wood and heard his answering:
"Come in."
Even the handle was cold as she tentatively opened the door and stepped inside his office, turning her back to where she knew he would be sitting as she closed the door behind her, ensuring that she could not run. The quiet scratching of a quill on paper told her he had not yet looked up from his work before she even saw him. His head was burrowed over a stack of paper, pen still scratching furiously- the man whose respect she had lost and whose second proposal she may now have to turn down- and tears sprung to her eyes; tears for her father, for her loss of standing in his eyes and pity for her current predicament started to silently seep out as she stood waiting for his judgement.
"Good morning, Mr Thornton." She could not bear the suspense of waiting any longer.
At her words, the pen clattered onto the table, where it rolled off the edge and onto the floor and the man himself half leapt to his feet, astonishment crossing his features as he realised who stood in front of him.
"Miss Hale!" His tone was one of incredulity and for what seemed like a lifetime, he simply stared at her. She could not fail to miss the way his eyes swept over her appearance from the hem of her skirt to her hair and something shifted behind them as his gaze settled on the trail of tears, leaving a glistening trail down her slightly flushed face. As if an involuntary reaction, his arm flinched just slightly, not quite a movement, but a shadow of one and over so quickly she could not be sure she had seen it. What was he thinking? Well, what else could he think, other than that she had gone mad! Appearing in his office at 7 o'clock in the morning, improperly dressed for the weather and extremely dishevelled was hardly common practice. She had no idea whether there was etiquette one was supposed to follow when visiting the workplace of someone you have refused to marry, but she supposed she should be expected to wait for him to speak.
However, the silence dragged on, her heart beginning to pound faster with each passing second of anticipation. When she could not stand the tension any longer, or the intensity of his gaze, she broke the silence: "I am sincerely sorry to disturb you when you're working, Mr Thornton…" she broke off as her eyes met his and he held the look, peering deep into her very soul.
His shock was gone now and the scowl she had come to associate with him since their eyes had held each other at the station settled firmly back in its usual place as his eyes flicked away. "How can I help you, Miss Hale?" The uncaring tone stung and it took Margaret a moment to gather her thoughts. She wasn't sure how she had expected him to react but it seemed that cold indifference was the least preferable option.
Now the time was here to part with the letter, it seemed to burn her leg through her dress pocket and her undergarments beneath. Returning her hand to her pocket, Margaret's fingers caressed the offending envelope once more, before pulling it free along with all it contained. Those words from her father, the words that would likely cause so much destruction for at least one person, were released and now it was too late to go back. Mr Thornton's eyes were settled on her grip and he knew of their existence, but he still did not speak. Margaret too focussed her eyes downwards on the last piece of her father as she wiped the escaped tears from the path they had carved in her cheeks.
"Mr Thornton, I didn't mean to interrupt but I felt I should bring you this letter from my father in person. He had intended to post it to you, I believe, but now will be unable to and it has ended up in my possession." Her voice did not waver as it had downstairs, building her confidence. She held the letter out in front of her, her arm extended as far as it would reach without stretching; she would make him come to her to collect it. If he was going to be cold and detached, then she would be too.
At first, he did not move, but his eyes returned to her face and she was glad. She would not meet his eyes but at least he might not notice that despite her pretence at confidence and composure there was a definite tremble to her arm, an undisguisable sign of her discomfort.
Slowly he moved out from behind the desk separating them and approached the source of her worries. As he reached his own arm out to take what she offered, his hand brushed hers and she snatched hers back, surprised by the sudden contact, prompting him to falter and the letter, to fall to the floor.
Without a thought for decorum, Margaret knelt down to retrieve it but was stopped by his voice, judgement seeping through his words; "Do not trouble yourself, Miss Hale. I would not want to inconvenience you further." She watched him as he bent to retrieve it and furiously tried to stop the tears, which had stubbornly started to fall again to no avail. Ashamed she turned away and started towards the door. She had done her duty and could escape. Now the letter was his problem and she would wait to see whether he would respond in the way she feared he would or do nothing and she would never hear of the matter again.
Before she could reach for the handle, he stepped between her and her target, blocking any hope of leaving unscathed any further. He was close- too close and her face was no more than a few inches away from his chest, close enough that she could see the intricate stitching of the seams on his white shirt, smell the cotton and something else, a heady almost wood-like smell. It was the type of smell she could have guessed he would have, if asked, masculine and far from unpleasant. She had never before considered how Mr Thornton would smell and there was something very intimate about knowing. How easy it would be for another girl to lose herself for a moment in that smell and lean into him but she would not.
"Please let me pass, Mr Thornton!" her voice was quiet now but determined. Why was he prolonging this? She had given him the letter, surely, she should be left in peace now? If her father had only known that this is what she and Mr Thornton had come to, bare civility to each other, he would never have written the letter. She was sure of it.
"Miss Hale, why are you crying?" His tone was less harsh this time and Margaret found the courage to look up and assess his expression. It was cautious, guarded but the harsh edge of his jaw was slightly softened and she thought she could see flecks of genuine concern deep within the darkness of those eyes, seeping through as though he was censoring himself.
How could she possibly explain why? She wasn't even sure why anymore. Of course it was because of her father, but so much more besides.
"I am just upset about my father."
"Your father? Is he alright, Miss Hale?" Concern was evident in his voice now and Margaret realised what she had done. In her haste to pass on the responsibility of the letter, she had failed to convey the more important reason for her visit, instead cryptically passing on a letter that he presumably thought her father could have delivered himself.
"My father is dead, Mr Thornton."
"Dead?"
He had stepped closer to her now and she found she could not look up at him without stepping back and her feet didn't seem to want to.
"Yes. He died a few days ago in Oxford, whist staying with his dear friend, Mr Bell."
Silence settled over them and all that could be heard was the muffled sounds of the machines working away in the warehouse below and the shouts of the men instructing the workers.
To her dismay a small sob escaped her, breaking the relative quiet and bringing the reality of her situation crashing down on her. The room seemed too small, too cold and she couldn't breathe. She was struggling for breath and needed to get out but even if the door was not blocked she was not convinced her legs would carry her.
Blinded by tears, she felt rather than saw his arms circle around her and pull her in to him. It was gentle and not fully committed, barely touching her and then allowing a purposeful space between them. In her confusion and as a result of her blurred vision, she unwittingly closed the gap, resting her head against his chest. The cotton of his shirt felt surprisingly thin beneath her cheek and she could feel his heartbeat-loud and erratic. His arms tightened around her then, until she was completely encased by them. One was softly stroking her hair, which tumbled town her back to her waist, his hand following the line of it down from her neck, which seemed to calm his heartbeat to a steady rhythm, commanding her own to slow. His chin was resting on the top of her head and as her sobs ceased she became acutely aware that this was by far the closest she had been to any man, closer than she's been to her own father in recent years, and completely inappropriate. When his hand's path reached the small of her back it stilled, hovering there as if afraid to go lower, snapping her back to reality. Numerous women, her mother, her aunt, Edith and numerous nannies had touched her hair before, but never like this and never a man. A crashing realisation hit her and her sobs instantly ceased. Whatever spell had been cast was broken and she abruptly pulled back; that simple action was beyond comforting, it was bordering on intimate and she should not have let him do that. What she had done, albeit accidental, had been unwise and unfair of someone who had already refused one proposal from the man she had just been pressed against, and who had just presented him with a letter imploring the same man to offer again.
"Please don't let him read anything into my actions." She thought desperately, taking two full steps back, before addressing him this time from a healthy distance.
"Mr Thornton, I am inordinately sorry. I didn't mean to… well… in normal circumstances, I would never have done that… allow you... to do that."
He visibly flinched as she said 'you' before fixing her with a hard stare again, his jaw set as sternly as before.
"No, Miss Hale. I knew that you wouldn't and didn't require you to say it but thank you for leaving me with no doubt whatsoever."
How had she offended him again? It was true- she wouldn't normally have done that and how could he expect her to? Did he think it was personal because she had said she wouldn't have allowed him? She meant to any man of course, but she supposed that as he was determined to hate her, he would have taken offense at anything.
She stepped around him and placed her hand on the door handle.
"Wait." Her hand still clasping the handle, she paused but did not turn to face him.
"I am sorry for your loss, Miss Hale. I regarded your father as a dear friend, my dearest friend and I shall miss him terribly. If I can be of any assistance to you, please do not hesitate to ask. I will do whatever you need from me." She knew his words were sincere but his voice had resumed its air of detachment.
Sadly, she turned back to him, meeting his gaze for a final time, pleased when he held hers.
"I know you will, Mr Thornton. My father was right. You are in every way a gentleman."
She could only hope that he could see the truth in her words, how ardently she believed them. He nodded in response and handed her a handkerchief from his jacket pocket before turning away himself and returning to his desk. Margaret dabbed at her eyes and nose, which had inconveniently started streaming too, before placing it in her pocket, intending to wash it before returning it to him.
Mr Thornton had resumed his place at his desk and picked up his pen from earlier for a few seconds until he paused. Something had caught his attention and he reached his hand forward, picking up the item from his desk- the letter from her father. She supposed he had placed it there earlier, when she had attempted to leave the first time. As he moved to open it, she wretched the door wide and left the room as quickly as she could. Being there when he opened it would be unbearable. Lifting her skirts, she ran down the wooden stairs to the factory floor and past the worker on the door out into the courtyard. It was nearly empty, still too early for deliveries and too late for any of the hands to be arriving so no-one else would see her.
The day had fully begun now and despite the absence of the sun, the earlier wind had stilled in place of the steady pattering of raindrops, bouncing off the cobbled road. Pulling her collar higher, as was her custom in this place, Margaret walked quickly across the courtyard. She was about to approach the large gates to the mill, when she felt an uncomfortable prickle across the exposed skin on the back of her neck and shivered at the strong impression she was being watched. Turning slowly, she knew just where to look. Her gaze flew back towards the Mill and upwards to where the window to Mr Thornton's office sat, but to her surprise, he was not there- the window was dark and empty and the reality of how isolated she truly was settled in the pit of her stomach. She was about to turn back when a shadow caught her eye. A dark figure stood at the casement of a window in the adjoining house, watching her closely, like a raven. Mrs Thornton's disapproval transmitted across the space between them like acid penetrating through all it touched and Margaret turned her back to it and ran, eager to be away from her poison.
…
Crampton seemed so very far away as she sought to walk quickly through the rain. No more tears fell and she felt the harsh prickle of anger at herself, and humiliation, for having cried in front of Mr Thornton. Obviously, she had known her task would be difficult, but at least it was done and now she was eager to be home. However, without her parents there, Crampton no longer felt like home. That house was just an empty shell, a place to shield her from the rain. It would still hold comfort for her; she had memories of her parents there but she couldn't stay there alone and nor did she want to. If only Edith was in England. She was sure her cousin would have come up to stay with her right away.
Rain could be beautiful when looked at from the right perspective. It was not the first time the thought had struck her, but amongst so much turmoil and sadness, the simplicity of rain as it fell unhindered from the darkening clouds above claimed her attention as if her world did not sit shattered into pieces at her feet. For the first time since she had read Mr Bell's letter, her mind felt clear and, although the sadness threatened to crush her, she realised that the world would go on without her parents and without Mr Thornton's approval. For now, though, the sky was crying with her and the streets looked better for it as the dark stains in the road and pavement began to be washed clean.
Realisation flooded over her. To stop the tide that was destined to sweep her up in its waves, she would simply have to ride out the inevitable crests. As a result of the morning's events, she was certain of three things- three things that she believed with every fibre of her being, as strongly as her belief in God or in Fredrick's innocence. One, she would never allow herself to cry in front of Mr Thornton again- not if she could help it. Two, despite his resentment for her, despite how much he wished to think the worst of her in every situation, he would propose to her again. She was unsure before, desperate to believe that he would not be so foolish but deep down she had known instantly that her hope was in vain. Now she saw it for what it was, it was purely a question of when, not if. He was going to sacrifice himself to her cruel knife again, despite what it would do to him and what it would do to her. She had seen it in his face as she stepped away from him, rejecting him again, even though he did not yet know what he would read, and could not even have considered it. Three, there was only one answer she could give and she would give it. All she could do was continue in the hope that he would understand that her father had merely meant to give her options- another choice, the chance to stay in Milton if she wished it, not a death sentence.
Did she wish it? If there was another way for her to remain here, would she? Certainly, she would miss this place, the place she had originally hated, so different from her idyllic Helstone and the frivolities of London society. Then again, her mother was here. Even if she did not stay, if her fate was to return to London, she would do everything in her power to make sure her Papa was buried with her mother.
She was tired. So tired of life and its harsh hand, tired of worrying about something that she had no power to stop and tired of having no power over her own situation. All too clearly, she saw what she must do. For now, she must wait and hope that those she would hurt in the process would forgive her.