Dear readers, apologies for the longer wait again but this chapter was also a little problematic as I had almost written the next one but needed a filler chapter to give some important details. Thank you for the well wishes, I am so much better now, and I hope to get the next chapter to you just after Christmas. It is nearly written and much more important, perhaps, to the progression of the story. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this one.

Thank you so much for the reviews on the last chapter- I always love reading them and am glad you guys are still enjoying it. Your reviews are so kind and often make my day!

I agree with the reviewer who said that Margaret can be frustrating and needs to grow up so, thank you for taking the time to review and I thought I'd explain some of my thinking behind my version of her. I feel at numerous points in the book I wish she'd just grow up- in fact there are many moments where I think she is downright unlikeable- but then I think all 19 year olds need to grow up. How many people that age do you know with Margaret's disposition and no experience of men who would suddenly be emotionally mature about it? Even with all the head strong and silly things she does in this story, I still think she is more mature than most 19 year olds I've met. I also think Margaret is particularly sheltered- partly due to the time period and partly due to her family. I was Margaret's age when I got married and nowhere near as sheltered, but I was still an idiot then, and I knew for sure I was, and still am, in love with my husband so why would Margaret be mature about it? Perhaps this is why I forgive Margaret's immaturity and love her anyway, but I understand your opinion. She'll get there. I would say more on this (the story to come- not me) but then I'd give too much away about the next few chapters. :P

Please do keep reviewing to let me know your thoughts. It is, of course, the best feeling when you have positive comments, but even if you don't like a choice I've made, I enjoy evaluating why I've made that decision and am happy you keep reading.

Enjoy!

Merry Christmas. Elle. X

…

Waking up next to a woman he had so intimately held the night before, unsure whether she was likely to hate him for his administrations, was a new experience for him- as was sleeping through the night undisturbed. For the first time since his wedding, he had not been kept awake with torturous thoughts about the state of the mill or his marriage, and instead his body had, for once, succumbed to the necessity for sleep for the entirety of the night. His mind had not entirely agreed, and he was vaguely aware that he had dreamed, but was unable to remember what exactly it had been about. At some point in his sleep, he must have relaxed enough to allow his body to turn, for when he begrudgingly opened his protesting eyes, he was greeted by the sight of chestnut hair on the pillow beside him. Margaret too had turned, and her body was curled towards him, the blankets clutched tightly to her chin and her face level with his own.

Slowly, her eyes, opened and closed as she became use to the dull light infiltrating the room. She caught sight of him watching her and blinked slowly, her gaze shifting to the covers around her. The gradual realisation settling on her face implied the events of last night were ordering themselves in her mind and he could almost see the cogs of her brain turning over them critically.

The pain of the rejection he had faced the last time they had found themselves in a similar position (and yet not similar at all) still stung and he waited for regret to cross her features, and her inevitable physical retreat. Yet it did not come. Her mind was still whirling with her confused thoughts, they were visible behind her slightly clouded eyes, which remained lowered, but she did not move away.

"Good morning," he said softly, his voice (gruff from lack of use) breaking the stillness of the room, when he could bare the silence no longer.

At the sound of his greeting, her thoughts seemed to cease, and her eyes returned to his face, her brow creasing.

Finally, she formed a reply. "Good morning." Her voice was crystal clear in contrast to his rasp.

Then she smiled.

The lingering worries that had gripped his heart about all that had transpired between them just hours before, melted away in the rays of her shy smile that lingered even as she re-lowered her eyes and nibbled her lower lip nervously. It was that smile that had secured his decision to spend the first Saturday since his wedding day parted from the mill and instead in the company of his wife; his reward had been its re-occurrence. Both had dressed self-consciously on opposite sides of the room and he had scuttled out as soon as he was dressed to fetch Martha to help her finish dressing. It seemed ridiculous to avoid each other so after all that had happened between them, but in the cold light of day the concept of seeing each other so scantily clad seemed entirely different and he could sense her reluctance.

His mother's eyebrows had practically disappeared into her hairline as they had entered the dining room together for breakfast, no earlier than 8am, though she had made no comment on the matter. The lack of his presence at the mill, however, she did comment on, as well as expressing her surprise that he should have the inclination to visit town that morning. She had remained uncharacteristically quiet when he had informed her that they intended to purchase a wedding ring. Margaret, too, had kept quiet, but he had noticed her intermittently taking quick glances in his direction as if concerned that his good mood might evaporate at any moment. The action had continued into their walk to town, which although quiet, neither knowing what to say to the other, was companionable rather than painfully awkward.

Thankfully, once they reached town, their mutual goal had encouraged conversation, and, greeted by a plethora of different style rings, Margaret had expressed a preference for a modestly priced style of band and setting, quickly rebuffing the jeweller's encouragement towards a variety of much more expensive and elaborate options. Many of those had momentarily made him sweat as he gaped at the price and he could not help but love her more for her firm declaration that she found those options to not be to her taste. She had asked him to pick one for her, which he had quickly tried to avoid, having no idea what sort of thing ladies, and particularly the one he had married, would want. Insistent, she had pointed out three that appealed to her, and asked him to select one from those. After an obscene amount of time going backwards and forwards between the three choices alone in the shop, he had chosen the one that now sat possessively on her finger for its largest stone's likeness to the sparkling blue eyes that could captivate him so.

The look of uncensored happiness that had crossed her face as he had carefully slipped it on confirmed that he had made the right choice. Since they had stepped out from the jewellers, she had played with it, pushing it around as they walked and examining it as if it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, and, John had fought hard to resist the urge to declare how much he loved her for wearing it. If he did, she would almost certainly believe he was trying to control her and refuse to.

Last night had filled him with a cascade of hope that he had never allowed himself to feel before. It was foolish to believe that she was in any danger of falling in love with him- he knew that. He was not so blinded by his want for her that he believed that her administrations as they had undressed had stemmed from anything other than curiosity, but he could not silence the voice that tried to convince him that, for at least a few seconds, she had trembled at his touch in a way that had nothing to do with fear. If only for those few seconds, he had been so sure that she hadn't really wanted him to stop. He so desperately wanted it to be true that his mind fought to push down the very real chance that he had simply projected his wishes onto her reaction, and that she had felt nothing of the sort.

He could not help but feel that if only they could continue in the way they had since the previous night, then perhaps one day she might love him back at least a little. For as long as he lived, he would hope that one day she would ask him to keep going. She knew he wanted to- deep down she had to, but she wasn't ready to hear him tell her he loved her now. Still, there was a faint glimmer of hope that one day perhaps she would be ready to hear it and possibly be able to say it back.

Spending the day in her company had made him wonder why he had so fervently avoided it for nearly a month. They had discussed plans for the kitchen (he had tried not to focus on the financial repercussions associated with it), and barely a harsh word had passed between them. She had already decided that Mary Higgins must be involved in cooking and serving the food, along with two of his workers who she clearly felt were safer away from the machinery and floating cotton. Only once had their discussion become heated when Margaret had expressed that they could also run a school at the mill for the children of the workers and he had nearly had a heart attack. Thankfully, she too seemed to be trying hard to be non-confrontational and had backed down for the first time that he could remember since they had met, thought he had still heard her muttering under her breath about how if he only understood the benefits, he would come to her way of thinking. As it happened, he did understand the benefits perfectly well, having had the opportunity to be well educated before the death of his father, but he was not yet ready to relive that particular part of his past with her, nor able to spend the level of money needed to provide such an extravagance, which was neither his obligation or responsibility.

Finally, they had arrived home just before dinner was expected and Fanny's voice infiltrated the hallway, calling them in to be seated. Evidently, Watson was indisposed with work and Fanny could not bear to be alone for the evening. Dinner was not yet ready and so they had reposed in the sitting room with his mother and Fanny, whilst the latter prattled on about new papers for the walls in Watson's hallway and he directed his attention to anything other than that riveting topic.

He and Margaret had hastily whispered an agreement to put on appearances for the benefit of his mother after their untoward actions the previous evening, and of course Fanny, ever nosy who instantly declared at catching sight of Margaret's new jewels, that her own ring had been the most expensive in the shop and proceeded to show it repeatedly to all three members of her audience, causing his mother's eyebrows to raise further up into her hairline with each viewing. Fanny seemed unable to fathom why they had failed to purchase one previously and seemed to view it as a gross oversight on his part.

John was unsure of her reasoning, perhaps a show for his mother or to spite Fanny for her dismissive comments, but Margaret had seated herself beside him on the coach, the sides of their thighs touching and John was extremely aware that they were close enough for him to smell the soft lavender scent of her hair that had infiltrated his bedding and that he was starting to identify with her.

As John glanced down at his wife's hand, the slim band of gold resting snugly on her ring finger once again caught his eye. Decorated simply with a central sapphire and adorned by a small diamond on either side, the stones reflected the dining room light prettily and he watched as Margaret studied the way it glistened, tilting her hand into different positions to manipulate the scintillation being cast onto the walls and ceiling, seemingly unable to forget it's presence.

"Margaret?" At the sound of Fanny's address, her eyes finally withdrew from her new possession and her attention snapped back to the inhabitants of the room.

"I have been speaking to Miss Latimer and Miss Ashby who told me something quite shocking. Do you care to know what it was?" She asked excitedly and John internally groaned. Miss Latimer had walked on his arm a few times and was a nice enough young woman but did have reason to feel a little slighted by him, and Miss Ashby was an unashamed gossip.

"Not particularly," John replied for his wife, but he smiled and caught Margaret's eye, who appeared to be trying to keep a straight face.

Fanny turned her attention towards her mother, whose face did not hold Margaret's amusement.

"Miss Latimer said that she heard that John is not the first man that Margaret has been engaged to..."

John's blood ran cold. The comment, although directed at his mother, had a far greater effect on him. His mother's face had become stony and her brow furrowed, but she remained silent. His eyes sought out his wife's whose expression was one of panic mixed with rage.

"Is it true that you broke an engagement to that Mr Lennox before John, Margaret?" Fanny asked, her voice adopting a shrill scandalised tone and John got the distinct impression she was hoping it was.

He could feel the heat of Margaret's gaze on his face, asking him what she should say, but his own was focussed entirely on his sister. He knew it was foolish to be jealous of Henry Lennox- knew even that he had no reason to be jealous of that man and yet Fanny's lies had more gravity with his name infiltrated into them.

"Miss Ashby says, the man basically told her father as much when he purchased some stationary supplies from him the day after your wedding. Miss Latimer seemed to think that your engagement was broken because of a lack of virtue on your part and that John married you to help save your ruined reputation."

John flinched.

"Lack of virtue?" He should have been completely unsurprised at Miss Ashby spreading such a rumour but attacking Margaret's virtue made him want to instantly confront the silly girl and defend his wife's honour.

"Ruined reputation?" He asked Fanny, his tone as flippant as he could muster. His anger rose, at Fanny's disinterest in his reaction, only focussed on the tight-lipped expression of their mother and his fists clenched.

Annoyance settled over him- at Fanny and Lennox and Miss Latimer and Ashby and Margaret for putting herself in such a position that such lies could even be considered the least bit believable in the first place.

"It sounds to me as though you should find some less silly friends, Fanny." He said, his voice adopting a fake lightness as soon as he had was sure he could engage in conversation without biting his sister's head off. "Certainly, it is a scandalous story they tell, but a little over contrived don't you think?"

Fanny seemed completely oblivious to any discomfort or embarrassment she may have caused Margaret or John and she blundered on.

"You see, they also said that you were corrupted and been seen in an inappropriate stance with John at your father's funeral, so you were likely to be carrying his child already…" Still Fanny prattled on as if discussing the weather. He had expected that particular gem, but the irony of the situation was not lost on him and it still shocked him to hear that two young ladies would so freely discuss it with his own sister.

"Fanny!" Mrs Thornton stopped her before John could. "Are you intent on insulting everyone in the household this morning with your ridiculous gossiping or just Margaret and your brother?" She asked, despair laced into her words.

"Well, I didn't actually believe that one…" Fanny defended herself, clearly genuinely confused as to why her mother had chastised her.

"We don't need to hear anymore. It is just the foolish prattle of two silly little girls; I am surprised you even entertained their comments, Fanny." Her mother commented dryly rolling her eyes as she set aside her sewing.

"You can tell your friends that their surmising has given us great amusement, Fanny." John, said moving his hand to rest lightly on Margaret's and smoothing his thumb across the intricate band resting there.

"However, I fear they should turn their hand to writing sensation novels rather than becoming detectives. You can assure them their informants are unreliable." He finished, yawning as though completely unconcerned by anything his sister had said. "Aren't they, Margaret?"

"Of course." She agreed quickly, "How flattering that they suspect my life to be so interesting," she commented nonchalantly, but her disheartened expression exposed her true feelings.

To her credit, Fanny was easily placated and happily led the way to the dining table at Martha's announcement of dinner being ready. Unperturbed, she moved onto Watson's opinions of the other Mill owners, completely unaffected. However, Mrs Thornton was quick to change the subject and would allow no more gossip to be discussed for the remainder of the meal, but the damage was done and there was a tension between he and Margaret that had not been there all day. Her attention was not on her meal, in fact, she barely ate anything, instead moving the food around the plate rather than into her mouth. Intermittently, she looked up at him, as if checking his reaction to every element of dinner and spent the rest of the time with her eyes downcast towards her plate. Fanny's words had upset her, but John could not help but feel as though some of the gossip was entirely her own fault.

"Watson tells me, you are still thinking about joining the speculation?" Fanny commented, when she had finished taking her last mouthful of food from her plate, placing her knife and fork down on her plate with a dramatic clatter.

John's annoyance pricked. Fanny could have no interest in bringing up that subject, other than to be nosey and he had no time for that. In truth, he had recently given more thought to it that he would have been happy to admit. Watson had approached him about it shortly after their wedding and he had seriously considered it. He was not a gambling man, especially after the trouble his father had found himself in, and his instinctual answer to speculating would be an instant dismissal of the concept, but his financial situation had made the stakes considerably higher. It would either ruin him or be the answer to all his debts and with the bank loan needing to be repaid imminently, he was loathed to admit it would hurt him to turn Watson down, but turn him down he must. He would not be like his father and take a chance on something so important.

"Perhaps I am." He replied, his answer non-committal. Bringing a forkful of vegetables to his mouth, he focussed on the plate in front of him, hoping Margaret was not about to ask further questions, fully aware that his hope was in vain.

"What speculation?" She asked, not missing a beat, her eyes trained on his face.

"Watson has a wonderful opportunity for some select people to invest in a speculation, and he has asked John to take part." Fanny explained before he had chance to. "John is sure to make a massive return, but he is being most foolish and refusing to commit, she added judgementally.

The second Fanny had mentioned the speculation he had cursed her silently, knowing what Margaret's reaction was likely to be. He was correct.

Margaret's eyes narrowed at him. "A speculation is ultimately gambling, is it not?"

"Watson says it is not gambling when you have assurances of success such as he is able to give…" Fanny repeated Watson's words proudly, her chin raised in confidence.

"Assurances?" she asked, her distain clear. "Is there any chance that money would be lost by those who invest?" Margaret demanded. "Even a small chance?" she added before Fanny would refute such a claim.

"Well, of course," she admitted, shrugging her shoulders and scoffing a little at Margaret as if she was a child attempting to understand adult affairs.

"Then it is gambling." Margaret pronounced, dismissing Fanny and turning to him. "You have been considering this?" she asked incredulous, all trace of the light-hearted companionship they had enjoyed throughout the day entirely evaporating instantly.

"Let's talk about this later, Margaret." He stated firmly, his tone warning.

"That is a yes then!" she declared icily.

"I think the proposition deserved to be considered." He answered honestly, annoyed at her accusatory tone. "I have not yet told Watson whether I intend to be a part of his scheme or not."

"You would not be the only person involved in such a scheme would you though, Mr Thornton?"

"Mother, tell John, make John understand how foolish it would be to miss this opportunity…" Fanny turned to her mother, ignoring Margaret, clearly displeased to have her opinion challenged.

"After all that you promised- after last night- you didn't tell me…" Margaret continued to him, quiet enough that it did not challenge Fanny for the loudest voice in the room but enough that he was under no doubt that his mother could still hear her.

"Margaret…" He warned quietly. The use of his surname had not escaped his notice. Knowing an argument was brewing and that she would forget the presence of his mother and sister in her passion, he tried to interrupt her continuing stream of disapproval.

"Watson is set to make a fortune! He is almost sure of it…" Fanny continued, raising her voice, entirely undaunted by the argument unfolding between he and Margaret.

"Now is not the time, Fanny…" he attempted to silence his sister.

"The terms you offered me were clear…" His wife had lowered her voice to a whisper, but her annoyance caused it to carry.

"Look, Margaret…"

"Really, Mother. John has always been such a stick in the mud…"

"You brother knows what he is doing, Fanny. May I suggest you stay out of things you do not…"

"You asked me to be your business partner and yet you did not feel the need to share this with me?" Margaret continued severely, cutting across his efforts and ignoring his mother and Fanny completely.

"Margaret, can I speak with you alone?" His voice rose above them all, causing the three ladies to stop speaking and stare at him incredulously. His chair scrapped on the wooden floor as he pushed it quickly back from the table, wincing as his shoulder throbbed with pain at the harsh action. Ignoring it, he approached Margaret's chair and pulled hers back roughly, without waiting for an answer. To her credit, she rose quickly, and he grabbed her wrist, pulling her from the curious glance of his sister and thunderous distain of his mother. He did not stop until he had led her into the privacy of his office, lit a lamp to bring some light into the darkness and shut the door behind them. Roughly she yanked her hand from his and rubbed where he had tightly gripped her, her face thunderous.

"Don't you ever pull me like you were chastising a child again, John Thornton!" she commanded, practically shouting and John tried to shush her, which only served to make her more irate.

"How dare you, command me to do anything..." she raged, her chest heaving in her annoyance, and he let her, waiting silently until she had finished before he finally spoke.

"Margaret, you were going to say something you did not mean if we remained having this conversation in the company of my mother and Fanny any longer and clearly you are not going to drop this topic until I have explained everything properly."

"If you had explained already, we would not have had to argue in front of them at all!" she pointed out, folding her arms and sinking into the couch opposite his desk.

Sighing, he rubbed his face in his hands. "Look, Margaret, I know you are upset about my sister's sharing of the idle gossip of her silly friends but that doesn't give you a right to take it out on me at the first opportunity."

"I'm not!" she began, incredulous, but he raised his hand to cut her off.

"No, you are doing what you always do! To deflect any blame from yourself, you are attacking me for something I have not yet done!" he proclaimed, his tone declarative rather than accusatory.

She was refusing to look at him with her arms crossed in front of her as if to raise an invisible barrier, and John fought to stop himself from losing his temper with her, reminded by her childish reaction that she was a full twelve years younger than he.

"I didn't tell you about the speculation because it barely crossed my mind until recently and we were not on speaking terms," he said, choosing to ignore the fact that she was still turned from him. "And last night, it wasn't at the forefront of my mind..." he added quietly, noticing the way she blushed at the memory and her eyes closed just a little in either embarrassment or regret.

"In honesty, I had already decided that the speculation is too much of a chance to take. It would mean gambling not only our livelihood but also that of all my workers, and I cannot bring myself to do it."

Her eyes darted to meet his as referred to the mill as the livelihood of both of them and he could see she was already beginning to realise that she may have been too quick to anger, her staunch ideals of right and wrong causing her to act rashly. It was what he found the most infuriating about her and yet one of the things that made him admire her so, when it was not directed at him.

"I had to consider it, Margaret, I told you yesterday that the winter is a hard time for the mill, so I felt it prudent to at least ponder on it." He explained softly, coming to sit beside her.

Slumping back against the chair she was in, the fight quickly left her, and she had the good grace to look a little ashamed.

"I don't know why I became so angry with you so quickly, since I think I knew you would not really be interested in such a scheme." She said quietly, her attention back on her hands. "You were right, of course. I was hurt- am hurt- by what Fanny said. I hate the thought that people would say those things about me. And you."

Self-consciously, she twirled her ring with her thumb and forefinger, her eyes following the jewels as they spun.

"I know, but we did realise it was a possibility. At least one of them is a little justified…" he pointed out and she bit her lip agitatedly at the memory.

"They will forget, Margaret, and some poor other unsuspecting party will be their new entertainment."

She nodded, despondently.

"I suspect that I also thought the way we have managed to enjoy each other's company today was too good to be true and so I ruined it." She said quietly.

"You have not ruined it." He assured her, leaning back against the couch so that they were both leaning against it, their upper arms resting against each other. As he inhaled the usual faint scent of lavender that clung softly to her hair alerted him to how closely they were sitting and he strove to remember that they had been in far more intimate situations and it was ridiculous to feel nervous about sitting beside her alone.

"I am sorry John" she said, turning to face him. As she shifted her body, the thick material of her dark skirt brushed against his legs, stealing his gaze for a moment, before her dark blue eyes, beseeching him to look at her, stole his attention. "You do know that I've told you the truth, don't you? Henry asked for my hand once and I said no. That was the end of it."

Her brow was furrowed, and he knew this was as close as she was going to come to admitting his earlier statement about deflecting her true emotions onto him was correct.

"I know" he said simply, allowing himself to get lost in the depths of her eyes.

Clearing his throat that seemed to have suddenly become unable to swallow, he blinked rapidly to stop himself from falling completely under the spell he so wanted to be cast between them. Instead, he sat up, then stood, offering his hand to help her up. She took it without hesitation, and stood with him, the top of her head stopping just below his shoulders, but her eyes never once left his and she seemed to be debating whether to say something further.

"If you hadn't asked me again, I wouldn't have ever married anyone." Her voice cracked as she finally voiced her thoughts and John could see her body shrink a little as though she could not stand the vulnerability that came with a statement that held so much weight.

His heart leapt a little at her words and he struggled to hold it down, afraid that statement meant so much more to him that she meant to convey. Intently, he studied her face, his eyes settling on the pink plumpness of her parted lips and the absolute trust that he found there. Not love, but something that he could grasp hold of and cling to. He had seem many things behind those glassy orbs: fear, grief, remorse, happiness, confusion- but never such complete trust- and the weight of it was so consuming that he did not know how to tell her that she did not need to explain- that he knew her, more than she could realise and had not doubted her, but he could not stop his jealousy. She was wrong, of course, some other, younger gentleman would have stolen her heart, of that he had no doubt, but he could feel the sincerity behind her words and that was almost enough to make him believe it.

He swallowed thickly.

"You don't know that…" he replied softly, pulling her closer. There were just inches between them and their hands still joined, their fingers lacing together easily and without thought on his part, as though they remembered the movements required like a familiar dance.

"But I do, John." She said confidently tilting her head a little, her blue eyes darker in the dimmed lighting of his office, more grey than blue. The action had exposed her neck further, the smoothness of her cream skin invited his lips to caress it and he remembered how she had shuddered in his arms as he had done that very thing in the dimmed fire light. His heart hammed as it remembered the desperation that came with knowing what they had started falling towards, without the assurance of the feelings that should accompany it.

"Margaret…" he began, hoping her heart was half as relentless as his was. Every fibre of his being was yelling at him to do it again, to bring his lips to her skin and make her want him as he wanted her, and yet the sound of her firm, "perhaps we should go to sleep" screamed louder and he did not jump. She had not wanted to fall with him and he could not- would not make her. He waited, wanting her to give him some sign that she felt something for him in that moment. But it did not come. Instead, a firm knock at the door made them both step back and their hands dropped lifelessly to their sides as the door opened.

"John?" his mother asked, stepping into the room. "Are you intending to return to dinner at some point or have you both abandoned Fanny and I for good?"

"No mother," he replied quickly, hoping she could not tell how hot and dishevelled he felt. Quickly, he strode to the door and held it open for Margaret to lead the way, which she did without a second glance, passing by him close enough that he felt her arm brush past his body, which affected him far more than it should have and definitely more than she could have intended.

He tried to ignore his mother's raised eyebrows as he passed her and followed his wife back in to the dining room.

…

As he could have predicted, a simple untruth about John feeling suddenly ill and wishing Margaret to help him find some smelling salts had more than satisfied Fanny, prompting her to offer him a variety of different salts from her purse.

His mother had kept her silence, but he knew she was waiting to question him. As the darkness well and truly drew in outside, Fanny stole Margaret to show her the family piano and after much imploring from his sister, his wife had given in and the pair had disappeared off to the drawing room where the piano sat unplayed now that Fanny no longer lived with them.

It had not taken long for his mother to make the most of the opportunity.

"Care to explain to me what exactly is going on between you and Margaret?" She asked, her expression one of steel.

"I don't know what you mean, Mother." He stood, turning from her to a side table where a bottle of port and some glasses lay. He did not particularly care for port but poured himself a small glass, thinking it might assist him to get through the interrogation he feared was about to come.

"I think you do, John." She stated bluntly. "There are long stretches of time, weeks even where I would swear that you and Margaret hate each other; you barely acknowledge each other's presence at all."

John downed the contents of the glass and replaced it on the side table, before pacing the room, his eyes trained on the carpet.

"Then there are Margaret's comments at dinner about your Marriage- clearly, she has control over your running of the mill- which is extremely unwise, John."

"She does not have control in that way, she is simply against becoming involved with Watson's speculation." He began, determinedly.

"Is she pregnant?"

He stopped pacing.

"No, of course not." He replied, his voice devoid of emotion as he grasped the conclusion his mother had come to about their odd behaviour.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

He poured himself another glass of port and drank it quickly.

"It would explain everything: why she goes from happy to angry in seconds, why you have argued recently- her hormones would be all over the place at this point. And after all, you could barely keep away from each other for five minutes at the wedding and when you returned last night…"

John's mouth dropped open. This was the last thing he had expected his mother to assume. He would not have been particularly surprised if she had figured their whole arrangement out, but not this.

"She's not pregnant."

"Has she been sick at all in the mornings? Fanny's gossiping friends are exactly why I warned you about this…"

Despairing, he rubbed his aching temples with one hand and sighed dejectedly. He was going to have to tell her.

"She's not pregnant, Mother. The reason for our odd behaviour towards each other, is that my marriage to Margaret is not all that it appears. When her father died, I could not bear to see her leave with her aunt and disappear from my life altogether. So, I asked her to marry me, so that she could help me with the mill- be my partner in business."

Realisation crossed her features. She sank into a chair but her penetrating gaze did not leave his face. She was angry, but worse than that, her disappointment was palpable, and John shifted uncomfortably under her gaze.

"Then you are a fool, John." She said, shaking her head. "If you needed more help with the mill, you could have asked me, and I would have happily assisted." She proclaimed bluntly, and John smiled sadly at her prognosis.

"I did not need help with the mill… I needed her, and I knew that would make her stay."

"So now, you have a wife that performs her duties in order to get what she wants, which is to help the workers she so sympathises with? Your children will be the result of a business transaction and…"

"For a start, there won't be any children, Mother." He cut her off bluntly, feeling his anger and defensiveness rise. "That is how I know without a shadow of a doubt that Margaret is not pregnant. She doesn't perform any 'duties' because we agreed on all the terms before-hand and that is not one of them. I cannot make her love me, so I will not make her do…that," he finished lamely, his frustration and embarrassment at having to disclosing such personal matters to his mother evident.

His mother shook her head in bafflement, her lips pursed tightly together. Unlike him, she never lost her judgemental composure for a moment; her anger was internal and seething rather than manifested in outward expressions.

"So, you have condemned yourself to a life of celibacy, without children and without love because you are infatuated with a girl who refuses to love you?"

It hurt to hear it phrased like that but as John pondered her words he realised there was the painful stab of truth to them. Except the last part.

"I did it selfishly, because I am in love with her." He admitted hating the way his mother's eyes narrowed sceptically.

"She cannot make herself love me, any more than I can make her. I believe I am getting more from this relationship than she."

His mother's face became pitying and rather than disappointed, as if there was only sadness left rather than anger. She was silent for a long time, listening to the sound of obnoxious piano notes carrying through the house, intermingled with Fanny's robust singing voice.

"You could have loved another, John." Her words so closely mirrored his own as he had told his wife she could have married someone else and he could not help but smile a little at the memory.

"No, I couldn't," he answered truthfully.

"My son." She crossed the room and reached out to rest her palm against his face. "Can you really not see that you are worth more than that?"

It reminded him so of the afternoon that Margaret had rejected him, and he had known that he was not good enough for her and all those feelings of inadequacy threatened to come flooding back, but he would not let them. Her feelings must have changed a little- she had married him, assured him she could not have married another- but his mother was right. It was not enough. He would bide his time, cement their friendship and hope and pray that her feelings could change again.

"Please don't blame her mother." He asked as she withdrew her hand and came to sit beside him. "Whatever you think of her for accepting me, remember that I also preyed on her disadvantages, offering her something she wanted as an alternative to something she feared so that she could not refuse."

"You cannot expect me to like her after all you have disclosed tonight?" She asked incredulously.

"No, I cannot, but I expect you to treat her as my wife."

She nodded slowly.

"I think you may be surprised yet." Her tone had become softer now, less pitying and more caring. "She is young, John. Despite my confusion over your tumultuous relationship, there are times when she has looked at you where I have been entirely convinced that she was in love with you. Perhaps you just need to have patience."

He smiled sadly.

"I want so badly to convince myself of that, but I fear she is just an excellent actress, Mother, pretending to convince outside viewers." He admitted.

Both heads turned towards the door of the sitting room as the delicate opening bars of Franz Litsz's Liebestraum floated along the corridor, the notes tumbling quickly over each other like a cascade. For a moment neither moved, both watching the open doorway as if it would reveal the identity of the musician behind such a sound.

"I thought Margaret could not play the piano? She told us so herself the very first time Fanny and I met her." His mother asked, confusion lining her words.

"She cannot." He answered confused, "it must be Fanny playing."

"Don't be ridiculous, John. There is no way that is Fanny." His mother quipped quickly. She was right, of course, Fanny had neither the skill or inclination to play something so classically graceful.

"I think she must be pretending about a great many things," his mother added, not entirely kindly.

As if compelled to by the melody, John ignored his mother and rose from his position. Intrigued, he followed the sound along the hallway towards the drawing room where the annual Thornton party was held, and the piano resided. The melody changed from soft and seductive to louder and more impassioned as it reached its crescendo and John peered curiously into the room, stopping beside the doorway rather than entering fully. Sure enough, it was not Fanny that sat at the piano stool, but Margaret, her hands gliding across the keys quickly as he body swayed with the motion of her playing. It was by no means perfect and there were times where her fingers struggled to reach the keys, but for her to have claimed she could not play was a blatant lie. She was no unskilled novice as he had been led to believe (had she actually told him so herself or hand his sister informed him of that) and certainly better than the stilted, emotionless playing his sister demonstrated. The piece slowed, flowing as it had at the start and John watched the way her nose wrinkled with concentration.

"Do not lose hope yet, John." His mother's whispered encouragement beside his ear made him jump. "I suspect, that young lady is rather good at suppressing things she does not wish to acknowledge."

He tried not to dwell on that and not knowing how, did not respond. He turned his attentions back to the piano, noticing for the first time that Fanny was stood to the side, watching Margaret play with a look of such jealousy combined with awe that he almost laughed. She finished the song and Fanny instantly applauded informing her rival that she had a similar piece she often liked to play, and Margaret rose from the piano obligingly to allow Fanny to perform.

The moment Fanny's fingers touched the keys the magic was broken, and John was not sorry when Watson arrived to escort his wife home shortly afterwards.

…

Margaret did not know what had happened to her mother's wedding ring. She assumed she was probably buried with it but did not suppose there was anything she could do to find out for certain now. Until John had asked her to wear a ring herself, she had given such a thing no thought at all since being a child. As a child, she had loved to look at all her mother's jewellery- not that she had a lot. Aunt Shaw had far more, though to Margaret, Mama's less extravagant jewels had always seemed far more tasteful. Perhaps that was why she had been attracted to the simpler, bands and stones when confronted with numerous options in the shop. John had resisted choosing for her alone, only making the final decision from a small selection she liked. Margaret was unsure whether it was purely chance that made him pick the one she had truly wanted or whether he perhaps knew her better than she had ever given him credit for. The sapphire was different to any ring she had seen as a wedding ring before, but the style was similar to her mother's and that somehow made her feel closer to her. It was silly, she knew that, but she felt it regardless.

How could he seem to know and understand her so well at times and yet at others not at all? How could he not have known that she would be livid that he would not consult with her about the speculation Watson was offering? Of course, she had overreacted to the situation as usual, but she really did feel angry and offended that he had forgotten to speak to her about it, especially after all they had said last night.

Then in his office, he had made her feel so guilty for misjudging him and Margaret had ended the evening feeling confused and unsettled. Thank goodness she had married a man such as John who seemed unaffected by the knowledge that his wife had developed such a reputation as to have her virtue questioned. No doubt a man like Henry would have been extremely angry at her and appalled to have negative associations with his name, circulating in polite society. It seemed that no matter how well they were getting on there was still and underlying tension between them that simmered in wait and exploded at the first opportunity. That thought frightened her and yet she had no idea how to quell it.

Playing the piano for the first time since leaving Helston, in contrast, had felt like taking a deep breath after being underwater for a length of time, and although her unpractised skills were still poor (she could see Edith's face wincing now at each mistake), it had been nice to lose herself in the music if only for a little while. Fanny had requested she learn part of duet so that they might play together during the next Thornton party and she had dutifully promised she would, despite the sense of dread that the idea of playing in public had filled her with. In truth, she felt the music chosen did not have much character or indeed an even marginally thrilling melody. Still, it had been nice to find that she and her sister- in-law had something in common, and all thoughts of the unkind and untrue comments circulating around town about her had completely evaporated as they played.

When she and John returned to their chamber that night, not long after Fanny had returned home with her husband, he had told her that his mother knew everything. She felt a surprising sense of loss at their secret, the one only she and John knew, being divulged to someone else, but she could not blame John under the circumstances. She had been horrified to hear that even his mother suspected she may be with child on top of the vicious rumours, and under the circumstances could see that it was best that Hannah Thornton knew that to be impossible.

"What did your mother say?" she had asked tentatively as they climbed the stairs to retire, aware that she was likely to be hated even more that she already was by the woman and not wishing to start another argument.

"She accepted it surprisingly well." Was his reply, and he did not seem inclined to elaborate further. That was worrying.

"So she said nothing of substance? She did not chastise you?" Margaret asked, disbelieving. Surely, his mother had some poison to impart on the matter? She usually did.

"She told me to be patient." Was his cryptic reply. Margaret had no idea what he was talking about and since he seemed so keen to keep that information from her, she was a little afraid to ask, not sure that she wished to understand.

For the third time in her adult life, Margaret did not ask for the assistance of a maid, and instead implored her husband for his help in undressing. He did so without comment, though his hands still trembled just a little as he unbuttoned her dress efficiently and set to work on the laces of her corset. She was ashamed to admit that a small but undeniable pang of emptiness that pricked her heart when she heard him swallow deeply before stepping away and leaving her to complete the task of removing her clothes herself. That same feeling lingered as he turned from her to clean his already less purple wound himself rather than asking for her assistance.

Martha had neglected to light the fire and the air in the room was cold as it hit her exposed skin, the lamps doing very little to heat the large space. Quickly, she climbed into bed and waited under the blankets for him to join her. The ring on her left hand felt heavy and she was still not used to its presence or the way it caught her eye whenever she happened to catch sight of it. In the dimmed firelight of their bedroom it seemed to sparkle even more than it had in the light downstairs and her eyes focussed on it for the hundredth time that day and she pondered all that it was supposed to symbolise.

She had admitted to him that it if were not for him, she would not have married at all, this afternoon. She felt as though it had cost her a fraction of her pride to do so but she had just felt, rather irrationally in the moment, that she had wanted him to know it. Fanny's repetition of the gossip she had heard had hurt her, even though she been aware that people had been talking about her. That need for John's approval had returned and she had wanted him to understand that she had never been engaged to anyone else, though she knew deep down that he knew that without her confirming it.

Blowing the lamps out swiftly, he climbed into bed and settled on his back beside her. It was cold, even under the blankets, and Margaret shivered a little, trying to do so as quietly as she could.

"Are you cold?" John asked into the darkness. They were not touching but he must have felt her tremble from the freezing air; perhaps the movement affected the blankets.

"Yes" she admitted, her teeth chattering, as she struggled to warm up. She also spoke to the darkness as she tried to hold the blankets more tightly under her neck. Only the sound of the clock beside the bed responded for a moment. Margaret abandoned clutching the blankets to wrap her arms around herself instead.

"I suspect you are getting ill from being out in that storm."

She wanted to point out that he too was outside in it for nearly as long as she was, but held her tongue since a large part of her suspected that, annoyingly, he was probably right. Minutes ticked by and yet her body temperature did not seem to wish to regulate and still she shivered.

Beside her, John finally shifted his body just a little so that his arm rested against hers. Even through the thin cotton of his night shirt, his arm radiated heat and Margaret flinched a little at the unexpected (but not entirely unwelcome) contact.

"I could try to warm you?" He offered, tentatively. His words settled heavily in the pit of her stomach. His tone was that of an apology and Margaret knew he was afraid he was offering something she would see as improper. Although she felt it was kind of him to ask, she was glad it was dark so that her blushes were spared. The only way she could think of for him to warm her was to hold her close in the darkness and that was surely something that couples who had a purely platonic marriage did not do? Propriety demanded she refuse- but she did fear she was in danger of remaining awake all night if she could not warm up. The voice in the back of her head told her that this was probably as bad an idea as her actions last night had been, but she was cold, and she well remembered from their mistake at Papa's funeral how warm and comforting his arms had the power to be. If she accepted his offer, would it ruin the friendship they had recommenced battling towards? She feared the answer was yes, but if she was to refuse, would that not offend him more?

"Yes please," she replied, shocking herself with her boldness in answering before her mind had fully, logically decided on the best course of action. She was ashamed of the desperate edge her voice had adopted- it stemmed from the desire to be warm, but she could not bear for him to think she was desperate for him to be close to her, if that was indeed what he intended.

"Turn onto your side, facing away from me," he instructed, quietly and she instantly did so, confused as to what he was planning to do to her. The uncertainty made her pulse race and she had to remind herself to breathe as she waited for him to move, berating herself for being ridiculous.

Gently he moved his hand to the side of her hip, the heat of his skin burning through her cotton nightgown onto her own like a brand, and carefully pulled her in to him. He tenderly wrapped himself around her and held her much smaller frame to his, so that her back was against the hard panes of his chest and his hand moved carefully across her stomach, barely touching her, to wrap around her. He lifted her just a little to place his other arm under her head below the pillows and the bring the arm wrapped around her body to rest on the mattress below them beside her ribs. Margaret nearly asked him to stop as she felt his hand brush fully against the cotton of her nightgown as he tried to get comfortable. The heat of his touch imprinted through to her bare skin, rather than the stiffer protection of her corset that had felt so much less scandalous, making her gasp loudly.

His face was close to hers, just behind her head and she trembled a little as she realised she could feel his breath on the back of her neck and hear his breath catch in his throat. His sandalwood and soap scent surrounded her, intoxicating her completely. For some embarrassing reason, her mind wondered to focus on how easy it would be for him to caress her neck as he had done last night, rather than the light breaths that teased her skin and she shook her head just a little to rid herself of the thought. He was taking fast deep breaths that made her own breathing become more difficult and she swallowed thickly, entirely unsure whether the feeling of dizziness that gripped really had anything to do will her apparent fever or rather anticipation. That thought in itself frightened her and she tried desperately to make herself forget it.

She was convinced he had purposefully held his lower body away from hers and for that she was grateful- it seemed so completely improper to be pressed so completely flush against his whole body and she was unsure she could have laid still, had he tried to press that part of them together. Whilst he had pulled her body to him, she had held herself stiff, subconsciously resisting and he seemed to be doing the same, scared to relax his arm, perhaps for fear of hurting her, or simply from fear of touching her further. Her back began to protest the effort of holding so still and unable to keep it up any longer, she carefully allowed herself to relax back further into his unusual embrace, causing new parts of their bodies to make contact, making him pull his lower body away from her and utter broken apology. She was relieved when he too eventually released a heavy breath that warmed her ear and held her to him, allowing his arms to relax against her body rather than holding them awkwardly so that they hardly touched her. Their torsos were so close that she could feel his rapid heartbeat through her own chest, hers beating equally erratic and they breathed in unison as he held the blankets closer to her. She supposed he must be in pain from his wounded shoulder, pressed so closely against her and that must be the source of his increased heart rate. His breath was steady on her neck and making her heart flutter in a most annoying way, but she could not deny that she felt warmer and her shivering was beginning to lessen. Heat seemed to be radiating from his body into hers and she closed her eyes, wanting to block out the discomfort and focus on the warmth.

"Do you want me to let go of you?" he whispered after so long had passed that she had begun to think he had fallen asleep. His voice was so close to her ear that she shivered against him at the feeling of his words on the back of her neck. Margaret thought about it for a moment, her eyes still closed. Part of her did want to be released, felt it was too much, too complicated and foreign and the other part wanted her to hold him there so that he could not leave her and let the cold back in.

"No" she answered, sounding a little doubtful, though she had tried to speak with conviction.

His pounding chest implied he wasn't particularly relaxed with the situation either and she had the worrying thought that perhaps he did not wish to continue holding her. "Do you want to let me go?" she asked, not knowing whether she wanted his answer to be yes or no.

"No." he replied quickly, his voice far more assured than hers had been, and she nodded to show she had heard him. They lapsed into a heavy silence, the only sound the ticking of the clock and their disjointed breathing.

For a long time, Margaret's mind raced, refusing to let her enter the comfort of sleep. More than anything she wished she had someone she could confide in about so many things. If only Edith would understand and tell her what to do about the fact that she couldn't seem to stop either an argument or something inappropriate happening between her and John when they were alone together. Thankfully, she had her back to him and therefore had no way to know what he was thinking or how he felt about the situation, and the longer she lay in his arms, it didn't seem so scandalous at all. After all, both of their intentions had been completely innocent and if they were to sleep in the same bed for the rest of their lives, they were bound to have made physical contact at some point. Still, she had the horrible feeling that Edith would not approve of such an action if she did know everything there was to know about their situation.