Hello readers! Firstly, I am sorry I am a full week later than I said with this chapter! It ended up being a very busy couple of weeks and time seemed to get away from me. I hope this chapter lives up to your expectations. It is a little longer than usual to try and make up for my lateness. The next chapter is nearly written so should be up quickly this time.

Hope you enjoy it. Elle x.

…

Milton's streets glistened as the first glimmers of sun began to seep through the thick layer of grey clouds and Margaret could not help but smile a little in response. Her glimpse of happiness was short lived as she rounded the corner towards the house that, until yesterday, she had thought of as home came into view. In such a small time, she would have to say goodbye to that house forever and the few happy memories it clung to.

Margaret was wet through at this point and shivering, her body powerless to resist the chill seeming into her bones. Her lose hair was now dripping wet and slicked flat to her face and neck. Oddly, she had found the rain comforting, rather than the nuisance she usually found it, and as the ferocity of the downpour had eased a little, she had taken a longer route home, pausing to visit her mother in the small graveyard at the top of the hill. She could not say how long she had stood there, sad to see none of the flowers she had placed just yesterday on her way to visit Mary and the Boucher children had remained unscathed by the weather. Yet, the time alone to think had left her feeling a small but firm flicker of hope that everything would be alright. All she needed to do was focus on contacting Mr Bell and making arrangements to have her father buried in Milton with her mother, where he belonged. Poor mother. If she could not put right her father's burial, who would visit either of her parents if she had to return to London? The weather, however, had no thought for her solace, it's short lived mercy coming to an abrupt end as the heavens opened once again.

In London, the rain would have led to the streets Margaret frequented remaining bare, but in Milton the usual bustle of people had started to form and within an hour, the place would be a hive of activity. Margaret weaved her way through the last few people blocking the street and climbed the steps to her front door, wondering as she did so how many more times she would be here to complete the task. To her relief, the door was unlocked providing much needed sanctuary from the treacherous weather. As she stepped into the doorway, she removed her soaked coat, relieved that she had remembered it in her rush that morning and hung it delicately on the hook. She smiled sadly at the sight of the dark, tweed hat hanging next to it on the row of hooks, a favourite of her father's. Already her imagination struggled to see him wearing it, despite only having seen him do so a week ago and her heart ached at the thought. Indeed, as she tried to recall her mother's face she found that it was not as clear as she would hope, the details of her appearance hard to recall- shaded around the edges. Mentally, she made a note to seek out any likeness of her parents, to help her to remember them, before disposing of or selling her parents' belongings. The temptation was too much and she reached out tentatively to remove the hat from its hook, just to touch it and breathe her father in as she had done last night in his chair.

"Miss Margaret! You'll catch your death of a cold. What were you thinking, roaming the streets in this weather? You've been gone for a couple of hours!" Dixon appeared in doorway to the kitchen, apron back in place and looked at her despairingly. Margaret flinched, embarrassed at being caught and her hand fell quickly back to her side. Luckily Dixon did not seem to have noticed, her attention now focused on untying her apron strings from behind her back.

Margaret's teeth chattered slightly as she responded: "I'm sorry, Dixon. I just needed time alone to think." Perhaps the rain had soaked through her clothing more thoroughly than she had realised, if the steady pitter-patter of water hitting the floor from her skirts was anything to judge.

She could not miss the judgemental trail of Dixon's eyes along her appearance, from her slicked hair to her soaked skirts or her sigh of disapproval and the roll of her eyes. "Come Miss, I think you'd better change out of those clothes" was all that she said but so much more was implied. Leaving no time for Margaret to argue, Dixon grabbed her arm and began to pull her further into the house. Resigned and aware that she probably deserved at least a portion of Dixon's distain, she allowed the maid to guide her up the stairs and usher her into her still cold chamber. There was no point in arguing with her anymore, and in all honesty, Margaret had noticed that her dress had become heavier and the collar felt wet and uncomfortable around her neck.

Despite her compliance to the older woman's will, Dixon seemed to be under the impression that it would be unwise for her to be left alone and she remained in the room, hovering a few metres away. Carefully Margaret changed, the cold air making her shiver more than ever as it hit her skin. Dixon tutted at Margaret's shivering and made her way to Margaret's wardrobe, exclaiming dramatically when a brief look inside revealed a lack of clean black dresses to change into.

"Miss Margaret, this is all my fault! I had no idea you would be needing black again so soon. Perhaps it would be wise to go to the dress makers immediately and purchase another…"

She was talking to herself more than Margaret and Margaret didn't bother to answer, instead rifling through the remaining clothes and selecting a navy-blue dress. It wasn't traditional mourning clothes but since she wasn't planning on going out again, who would see her other than Dixon? Only one person. It was also a little inappropriate in style to be wearing out whilst in mourning, with a more daring, square neckline that revealed her collar bones and much more skin than was necessary for a day dress. In happier times, Edith had once told her that no man could resist her in that dress, which may have thrilled her just a little if her cousin hadn't looked meaningfully across the room at Henry Lennox as she said it. The memory momentarily made her want to swap it for something else. However, it was the darkest dress she owned, other than the currently unwearable black ones. And it was long sleeved, which, since there appeared to be no fire currently burning in the house, was the most sensible choice. Besides, just because Mr Thornton's call would not be entirely wanted did not mean that she should not make an effort to look like she at least appreciated his visit.

"But Miss Margaret, it isn't black!" Dixon exclaimed. "What will people think?" Her expression was one of such horror that Margaret could not help but giggle a little. Such a look being prompted by the colour of a dress seemed rather silly to her, but she supposed she must not understand the severity of the situation.

"Don't worry Dixon, I am not going out again today and if anyone was to come to call I would simply explain that I was caught in the rain and have no other black dresses available." She tried to reassure her but Dixon's unchanged expression implied her words had not had the desired effect. Margaret's limbs stubbornly refused to get warm and now she was struggling to control the shivering wracking her body. Dixon did not look happy but after a concerned look at the shivering girl, she helped her into the dress anyway and began the extensive task of buttoning her into the garment.

"Will you at least eat some breakfast now, though you may as well eat lunch instead at this point?" She asked, thinly veiled despair hidden in her tone.

"Yes, Dixon. I did promise I would and so I shall." Margaret replied, and was rewarded with a smile. She knew she was still on edge and may not actually eat anything, but she would try to please the older woman.

"Your mother would want me to look after you Miss, and that means making sure you are not galivanting off into the rain at unearthly hours in the morning, or forgetting to eat, no matter how upset you are." Dixon looked at her with a gaze of such pity and Margaret wanted to argue- to tell her that she didn't need looking after but she held her tongue. Dixon was just trying to help and currently was all the permanent familiarity she had in the world.

"Thank you, Dixon." She replied and she meant it. Perching on the bed, she watched as Dixon disappeared from the room, still muttering to herself as she did so. Instinctively, her hand went to its resting place in her pocket, a slight feeling of disappointment flickering over her as her had noticed the absence of her father's letter to Mr Thornton, and unsure what to do without it, she settled both in her lap just as Dixon returned with some soup. To her dismay, Dixon did not leave her with the soup but instead took a seat on her dressing room stool watching her. Margaret waited, aware that she must have an ulterior motive. She had a feeling it wouldn't take her long to find out what it was.

"Who did you need to inform of your father's death, Miss? Surely they would not have been offended to hear of it by letter rather than in person?"

There is was. She supposed she would have to tell her who she had been to see, especially as that very man was likely to make an appearance in the near future. Margaret did not answer immediately, instead turning her attention to sampling the soup.

"As Mr Thornton was such a dear friend to my father, I felt it only proper to tell him in person. Father would have wanted it…" She resisted the urge to defend her actions further by taking another sip of soup.

"Mr Thornton?" Dixon's surprise was clear. "That man took up too much of your father's time when your mother was dying."

Margaret didn't know what to say to that and so kept quiet, continuing with her soup. To her surprise Dixon did not speak again until she was finished, choosing to watch her instead.

Sighing in defeat, the older woman stood from her seat by the dressing table and picked up a hairbrush and hair pins.

"Will you let me do your hair now, Miss?"

Margaret supposed her hair must look a fright. If anyone was to call later, she really ought to look at least half decent and so she nodded her assent, placed her tray to the side and crossed the small room to sit in front of the dressing table. She had not been wrong about her hair. The mirror showed it was sticking up at odd angles and she looked distinctly how she imagined a drowned rat must look- parts of it were dried and parts still wet, for a start. Gently, Dixon removed the pins she had added earlier and brushed her chestnut hair through. Dixon's hands were small and moved swiftly, having fixed Margaret's hair numerous times and there was nothing comforting about her touch, just efficiency. It was entirely different to Mr Thornton's slow and considered strokes of a few hours ago that, for a moment, had felt so comforting and made her feel less alone in the world. She flushed scarlet at the memory of how she had allowed herself to be reckless and desperately tried to force herself to focus on something, anything, other than the feeling of guilt that had rushed through her as she realised she had given him a false representation of herself yet again and she felt heat rising to her cheeks at the memory. Would he do that again when he came to offer himself to her again? She hoped not. She wracked her brains for something else to focus on, but the feeling of his hands on her hair, barely touching her back under the hair would not leave her.

"You look very flushed, Miss Margaret. I did warn you this morning that you had a temperature coming. Surely, I was right?" Dixon's words, pulled her from her thoughts and her cheeks betrayed her by flushing an even deeper shade, closer to crimson.

"Perhaps you were." She replied, her hands flying to cover her hot cheeks. She was pleased for the excuse and received a self-satisfied smile in return from the older woman. Thankfully Dixon returned to her task, a smug smile on her features, and the flush from her cheeks began to pale.

"Dixon?" She asked after she was sure she had returned to her usual complexion and was answered by a questioning tilt of the head in the mirror.

"If I go back to London with Aunt Shaw, what will you do? I won't be able to afford to pay you so you may have to find another family." Her voice cracked a little, as the reality of her question hit her.

Dixon grimaced as if the thought was unpleasant to her and made a dismissive noise.

"Of course not!" Her tone was incredulous. "I served your mother for so many years and I loved her. I will not abandon her daughter. When we return to London, I will be happy to go with you."

"You don't wish to stay here then?" she asked tentatively, knowing the answer before it came.

"No, Miss Margaret, I will return to London with you."

Margaret nodded gratefully. London. She knew that her aunt would probably allow Dixon to come if she asked it and the idea of having her- the closest thing she had to family with her was comforting. The thought of being back amongst the things she knew was comforting too but the endless entertaining and society balls was not. They seemed so dull and meaningless when people like Nicholas and Mary and the Boucher children could eat for a month on the cost of one society ball. Oh, how she missed Fred and wished he could be there with her. They could have faced the world together. But her father had been right in his letter- she could not ask him to come home again so soon. It would be far too dangerous but her heart ached to see him nonetheless. If she wrote to him now and told him of Papa's death, he would return- she was sure of it. No. It would be better to wait a few weeks and sort things out and then write to him in Spain.

"There. All done, Miss Margaret. I will leave you in peace." Dixon patted her shoulder before moving away to pick up her wet clothes from their pile on the floor and exit the room, closing the door behind her. Margaret's eyes followed her but she remained sitting. Now that she was alone again, she found that solitude was the last thing she wanted. She did not want to face the worry of how to contact Mr Bell, or what she should do now both parents were gone. She wanted distraction. Internally, she cursed herself for promising she would be staying in for the rest of the day and condemning herself to hours alone with her thoughts.

As if unable to resist its compulsion, Margaret again sought out her father's letter and, despite her dressed state, she swung her legs and skirt into bed under the covers, just to try and keep warmer. Settled, her eyes raked over the letter, searching for any form of comfort it might give. She was still shaking, still unable to get warm and the letters jumping uncontrollably in her hand. Somehow though, this time the letter did offer her comfort in some small way. Certainly, it confirmed that her father had been at peace when he had died, thinking that he had righted his worries about her and enjoying the confidence of his dear friend, Mr Bell. Mr Bell's correspondence had also lost its edge and Margaret, had found that after so much worry over what to do about persuading her godfather to go to the trouble of moving her father's body to Milton so he could be buried with her mother, the answer seemed to be crystal clear to her as she re-read the correspondences for the fiftieth time. Her mind was made up, settled now and finally she allowed herself to slump down further under her blankets and rest her head. Sleep claimed her quickly and all thoughts of her problems disappeared.

…

Sunlight streamed through the green leaves of the canopy above her head as Margaret walked the familiar path from the house she had shared with her parents in Helstone. The soft but cheerful cheeping birds in the trees seemed to greet her good morning as she carried on her journey towards the meadow where she so often sat in the midday sun to read. This place was truly glorious, butterflies, delicately fluttering along their path, rabbits in the distance, scattering as they became aware of her presence and Margaret would have been content to stay there forever. In the distance, a figure entered her view. It was walking towards her with purpose, as if she was its destination. As it drew nearer, Margaret could see that it was the figure of a man, one that she recognised. He was tall, much taller than her and his stance was commanding, dominating. She started to rise to meet him, looking down as she brought her hands to the floor to push herself up. Her dress was white and frilly and her hands covered to the wrist by white silk gloves. For some reason, she had expected the man to frown but instead he was smiling; the act transformed his features and rounded off the edges of his sharp dominant aura. He came close still, now only leaving a few inches between them- close enough that she could smell a faint hint of sandalwood radiating from the heat of his body. Cautiously, the man moved to wrap his arms around her much smaller frame but Margaret pushed him away, stepping back and putting distance between herself and him.

Above them, the clouds instantly darkened and at the determined crack of thunder, she turned and ran. She did not turn back, plunging into the thick coverage of trees instead, desperate to find her way home. Yet she knew she had gone the wrong way.

"I cannot leave. I will have to wait until she is ready to see me." The man's voice carried through the trees to where she kept moving, muffled but still there, quiet but loud enough for her to know she could not escape him.

The path to her home had been in the other direction, she had known that for a while now but she could not turn back. She had gone too far and now had no choice but to keep going.

…

"Miss Margaret?"

Darkness surrounded her. Margaret blinked, trying to make sense of her surroundings but the room remained an impenetrable black. Despite having clearly fallen asleep, she wasn't sure she felt too much more rested, but forced herself to swing herself legs over the edge of her small bed and open the drapes at the window behind. It was still cloudy outside and the evening had begun to fall over the now emptying street. A glance at the clock beside her bed told her it was five thirty in the evening. She had slept for hours!

"Miss Margaret?"

The door to her room, slowly opened, and light brightened the room further from the corridor. Dixon entered carrying some folded clothes and approached her in her usual bustling manner.

"Sorry to wake you, Miss, but that man will not leave, so I have had to let him wait for you in the sitting room. How he can expect to see you now is a mystery." She began to impassively put the clothes away without elaborating further.

"Who would not, Dixon?" She asked confused, straightening her gown and checking her hairpins were still firmly in place in the small dressing table mirror.

"Mr Thornton of course." Margaret stilled for a moment. "The cheek of it, turning up here when you are grieving. And after you nearly drowned telling him so in person this morning."

Margaret could not resist a small smile at that. Dixon always had possessed a flair for the dramatic but describing her experience this morning as nearly drowning was a little far even for Dixon.

"I told him as much, of course, and the man did have the decency to look ashamed but he would not leave without seeing you he said! It's disgraceful…"

She was muttering again, but Margaret did not hear her. The dream she had just awoken from was seeping into her consciousness. He was here. In her house. Part of her was shocked. Oh, she had known that he would come with every fibre of her being, but now he had actually arrived she could not help but admire him. "Perhaps he has come to apologise for earlier?" her mind questioned but she knew it was not for that reason. There was only one reason for his visit here. She could at least make this quicker for him if she could not stop the embarrassment.

"That's quite alright, Dixon. I will see him." She had hoped for a moment to gather her thoughts and prepare but it seemed Mr Thornton had caught her off guard. She supposed since she had done that very thing to him that morning, it was only fair.

"I will come with you…" The maid was cut off by Margaret before she could finish protesting.

"No, Dixon. You must promise me that you will not come in and intervene. Not even to offer tea or other such niceties. I have something important to discuss with Mr Thornton, something my father wants me to do but he has asked that it be just me and Mr Thornton present when I do so."

"Miss Margaret! Alone, with a man? Oh, what would your poor mother think?" Dixon's hands had flown to cover her mouth and her eyes were open wide.

Margaret sighed. How many more times would she need to cryptically ask for the woman's understanding today?

"She would approve of this, Dixon. She trusted her daughter."

Dixon's eyes seem to water a little at this and, after a brief pause, she nodded slowly. "You will call if you need me though won't you, Miss?" She rested her hands on each of Margaret's arms protectively.

"I promise, Dixon." She assured, taking both of the woman's hands in hers. She gave them a small squeeze before turning her back on the maid and walking away from her concerned gaze to meet her fate.

Margaret's legs shook just a little beneath her as they carried her weight down the stairs to the sitting room. The door was closed, giving her a moment to pause before entering. She raised one hand to rest it against the cool wood and took a deep breath as she grasped the brass handle with the other. "Be brave" she whispered to herself before opening the door.

The dark figure was sat in her father's chair, his elbows resting on his knees and he was cradling his face in his hands. He didn't seem to have noticed she had entered but at the click of the door closing behind her, he rose, like he had that very morning when she had similarly entered another room, but this time the surprise was missing. The movement was more measured, as if his body was heavy and he had to force it to stand.

Once again, neither party spoke. Was there an etiquette one should follow in this situation? Margaret could not imagine a second proposal as a result of a dead father's request happened often enough for there to be an established etiquette.

"Mr Thornton. Thank you for coming." She tried to speak with a positivity she did not feel, but his weary look at her told her he was not fooled. She wondered whether her father had told him that she knew of his appeal, that she had the upper hand in this situation and had known a full day ahead of the man before her, what he would do?

The weariness had faded now and been replaced with an expression she could not identify. His eyes swept over her as they had done in his office and paused at the height of her collar bones, his Adam's apple bobbing as they returned to her face. Then, he raised his eyebrows and focussed his gaze on a point just behind her head. He must have noticed her lack of mourning dress. Edith's comment that no man could resist her in the dress seeped into her mind and she flushed. Perhaps it was inappropriate to wear this one after all. He already thought of her as a ruined woman after seeing her with Fred at the station and now she had probably confirmed his suspicions but not only failing to wear black, but also wearing such a low neckline. Suddenly very self-conscious, Margaret felt she needed to explain, to appeal to his sensibilities. Having a man who was about to propose to her out of obligation judging her choice of clothing was too much for her to stand.

"Mr Thornton, I know I am not wearing black but I did not expect to need so many mourning dresses so soon. Please forgive me for wearing this one instead but it was the darkest thing I had and I didn't think anyone would see me."

She watched him, waiting to see whether he was under the impression she should have expected his coming, trying to deduce how much her father had told him. His eyes flicked to meet hers but she saw no sign that he expected otherwise, he looked confused if anything and embarrassed.

"Please Miss Hale, I wasn't… I mean… I hadn't even…" His eyes looked over her dress again before he finished his broken sentence: "You attire is of no consequence to me Miss Hale. You pointed out to me before that I do not possess you and therefore can have no interest in how you choose to dress."

Why did he always have to try and pick a fight, even when she was on her best behaviour and trying to help him? Margaret could feel heat rising to her cheeks from slowly boiling anger but she remained undeterred. His cold words did not meet his eyes and she suspected he did not mean his words. Perhaps his cold indifference was a form of self-preservation. He did not shy away from her gaze completely but there was a vulnerability there and he seemed to be struggling not to look away from her scrutiny. Still, she had vowed to make this simpler and quicker and she would try to do so, even if he seemed bent on ruining her efforts.

"No Mr Thornton, you are right of course."

He hadn't been expecting that, she could tell. His eyebrows raised and his mouth opened slightly before he turned away from her and moved to stand beside the unlit fireplace; she could almost see his brain working hard to decide how to move the conversation forward but she would not help him this time. He would have to do that part on his own. She sat. He didn't. His eyes flicked to the door and back a few times as if he was debating leaving through it without saying anything more.

"Will Dixon be joining us?"

So that was his worry.

"No. She will not, Mr Thornton." Her voice was matter of fact and left no room for elaboration.

After a satisfied nod of the head, he spoke: "Miss Hale, I wanted to say once again that I am so sorry to hear of your father's death." He spun quickly to face her as he said it, but remained in place by the fireplace, across the small sitting room from her.

"Thank you, Mr Thornton."

"What will you do now?" His question was blunt and hung on the empty air between them for a moment like an ominous spectator, waiting with him for her answer.

"I will return to London to live with my Aunt."

"You must be pleased to be returning to the south?"

"I am pleased to be near family since I now have none here." There were no pregnant pauses between their words now; they fired swiftly, back and forward as if both wanted the exchange over with as soon as possible.

"Is there nothing about the north you will miss, Miss Hale?" He said it so quietly she could barely hear it and so quiet it was completely out of character from what she had come to expect from him that she nearly didn't register he had spoken.

She paused.

"More than you might think, Mr Thornton. I would miss the spirit of the people- their dedication to work. I would miss being able to visit my mother and Bessie and Nicholas Higgins.

"Is that all?"

"I think that is quite a lot, Sir. And I would miss my pleasant conversations with you sister, of course..." That part was only half true and she was sure he knew it.

He looked at her hard then and approached where she was sitting with three large strides. He stopped in front of her chair, close enough that if she tried to stand she would struggle to do so without touching him. She was trapped; she supposed in many ways he was too.

"Miss Hale. I have insulted you once before and it is not my aim to do so again, but I fear if I do not speak to you about this now, I never will and I will regret it. I all honestly, I would never forgive myself. I wish to ask you to marry me once more but I beg of you to let me finish before you speak."

She had been about to speak, her mouth primed to cut him off, but at his words, she closed her mouth and waited. She would at least let him finish this time. There was no point stopping him now. He had said the words and it was too late.

"Miss Hale, I know you do not love me as I may have wished…"

She could not help but notice his use of the past tense.

"…but I hope you respect me as a person. Now that your father has died, I wish to ask you to marry me again. Not because I want to 'possess' you as you once believed, but because I respect you and I believe we could help each other."

He moved to sit beside her on the couch, facing forward in contrast to her slight tilt away from him, but he remained looking at her.

"I wish to give you the choice to stay in Milton and finish the good work you have started with the Boucher children and Nicholas Higgins rather than returning to London with your aunt. My taking him on at Marlborough Mills was your idea after all and I owe it to you that I now have such a good worker in him. I would ask for nothing more from you than companionship and respect, and your ideas could help me improve the mill. Perhaps you could add the touch of care that my business mind will not allow me to bring…" He smiled then, a small smile, with just a hint of sadness underneath that made her breath catch in her throat.

As Margaret faced he gaze of the man before her she realised he was really trying. Offering her everything the thought he could and asking for very little in return.

"I promise you, Miss Hale, I will not control you or ask anything of you that you do not wish to give. I would only ask that we tell each other the truth. I think that there cannot be a marriage without honesty, even if the truth is upsetting."

Partners? Confused, Margaret stared at her hands, clasped so tightly in her lap, that her knuckles were turning white. What did his last words mean exactly? His speech had sounded a little like a business proposition rather than a proposal. Ultimately, he was telling her that she could continue to do the things she loved as long as she paid the price. And the price was her hand in marriage and telling the truth? Why had he not mentioned anything about her father's letter and his request for him to propose? Did he not realise she already knew? Even if he did not, why would he keep that from her? She supposed it did not matter why really. But what was he gaining from this situation? Surely all men wanted to control their wives to some extent? How could he promise such a thing to her?

"But I would need to ask of one more thing from you."

He cut through her thoughts, bringing her back to the present. His body was angled towards her now and she turned hers towards him in response, hanging on his every word. Their knees barely touched, but the contact scorched her skin anyway. His eyes were darker in this dimmed light and knowing. Too knowing. Surely, with a gaze full of so much intensity, he could see into the depths of her very soul. In turn, his eyes could not hide his wish now. She knew what the one thing he needed from her was before he began to say it:

"Before we married, I would want you to tell me who the man at the station was and why you lied about being there. I could not start a marriage without knowing the truth and knowing… knowing why I lied for you."

Part of her wanted to tell him anyway, to just be done with the whole thing and restore his good- well, no, not good but better- opinion of her. She would not keep him waiting. The intensity of his stare, the closeness of their bodies was becoming too much to bear, yet she did not look away from him as she gave him her answer.

"I will marry you, Mr Thornton."

She felt as well as saw his responding sharp intake of breath. She had known earlier today that she was going to accept his proposal but the specifics of that proposal had been a pleasant surprise to her. Unbeknownst to him, he had made the words so much easier to say, though they stuck a little in her throat regardless.

Surprised flickered across his features and involuntarily his hand reached for hers, still rested in her lap. She did not take his back but allowed hers to remain under his. His hands were large, larger than she had noticed before and her cheeks reddened as she realised they were both smooth in places and calloused in others against her own small soft hands. She supposed he would have callouses being a man of trade, and her mind flashed back to when Henry Lennox had taken her hand in his in Helstone, before his fateful proposal. Of course, he had been wearing gloves, but she found it extremely unlikely that he would have calloused hands. Would he try and hold her hand when they were married? It would be his right, of course, to do that and much more, but he had promised that this would be a union of friendship?

"You do not wish to return to London with your Aunt?" His question ripped her back to the present. Still his face remained unchanged, but there was something behind his eyes giving away his concern and his hands had retreated from hers and were now restless in his lap.

Again, she met his gaze, willing him to see the truth there as she answered: "No. I wish to agree to your terms." It was true and she was relieved that she could answer him so completely truthfully.

He stood then, his head now a foot taller than her own so that she was once again forced to look up to him, and nodded swiftly.

"Very well," he remarked before turning from her and returning to the fire place.

"But I do have a condition to my own to add."

He paused but did not turn or ask her what her condition was- just waiting as a man waits before a judge to hear his sentence.

"I need to visit Mr Bell in oxford urgently. He intends to have my Father buried in Oxford for ease but I wish him to rest with my mother in Milton so I can visit them both. No-one will visit him in Oxford…" she trailed off, her voice beginning to waiver a little as the now familiar stab of sadness pierced her heart- but she would not break her promise and cry in front of him again. She forced the tears down, satisfied when they did not leave her eyes.

"I want my Father buried in Milton, Mr Thornton and I must ask Mr Bell to do so before Tuesday- two days from now. I need you to take me there, and I suppose, Dixon, as we cannot travel without a male chaperone and I cannot travel with you alone."

He knew she was fighting the urge to cry, he must do as his eyes had softened. For a moment, it appeared to Margaret that he was about to come and embrace her again as he had done in his office, but before she could be sure she had not imagined it, he had nodded again and turned away. He seemed to be thinking and so Margaret did not interrupt.

After what seemed like a life time he asked quietly, "And you will tell me about that man at the station?"

Margaret nodded. "I will. I just need to hear correspondence from a party involved and once I do, I will tell you. I agree to all you asked of me as long as you agree to what you have offered and my one request."

He made a noise of recognition then and turned back to face her once more.

"I will arrive to collect you and Miss Dixon tomorrow morning at 7am, Miss Hale. We will catch the 8am train out of Milton and head for Oxford immediately. In the interim, do you object to my informing my mother of our engagement."

Engagement. Could it still be classed as an engagement? Well, there was to be a wedding so she supposed they were engaged. How could she object under the circumstances? Still slightly reluctant, she nodded her consent regardless of the dread she felt as the thought of his mother's distain for her. Her heart was both relieved and aching with something. Not quite guilt and not quite pain, but something not entirely pleasant. The thought of telling Dixon her news was not helping that in the slightest.

"Do you mind if I tell Dixon?" she asked. It was only fair since he had asked her about telling his mother. An equally daunting task.

"Not at all."

Neither of them moved or spoke until the sound of a heavy footfall on the stairs broke the moment of silence.

"Well, I must go and make arrangements for tomorrow, Miss Hale." He bowed to her and walked towards the door of the room.

"Thank you for your visit Mr Thornton." She followed him out where Dixon was waiting to get rid of him and handed him his coat and hat, before opening the door pointedly.

Mr Thornton did not immediately leave. "Thank you for agreeing to..."

"Marry you" Margaret thought, finishing his words. The reality of the words hitting her with full force.

"friendship." He finished, turning from her and tipping his hat to Dixon. Friendship. Something so simple and yet unbelievably complicated at the same time.

"Thank you, Mr Thornton, for offering to be my friend." It was all she could think to say but it was honest. She was thankful for that.

He looked back as if he wanted to say something more to her before leaving, but whatever it was died before it was given sound. Instead he tipped his hat to her once and left Margaret with only the tutting Dixon and her thoughts.