The future must be met, however stern and iron it be

by elanne

Margaret receives a letter from Mr Bell that throws her into despair. She is forced make a choice that wasn't meant to be hers, but the consequences are not hers alone to deal with.

13. Chapter 13

Dear readers,

Thank you for our kind reviews once again. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year (nearly)! For a while I thought I might get this chapter to you before Christmas, but of course I did what I usually do and wrote it, then deleted it and wrote it again several times over. I hope it wasn't too long a wait. It is however, a long chapter again. Sorry about that.

In answer to Shelley who asked whether the rating will increase to an M in future chapters- it will not. Things may be implied but nothing sexual will be explicitly described. I just don't personally feel it is needed to move the plot forward in this case. I hope that was the answer you sought. To anyone who hoped it would become M rated, I am sorry to disappoint. I am sure such a scene written by me would have frankly been a bigger disappointment! It'd be terrible!

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy this chapter. Happy New Year!

Elle. X

…

Margaret found herself still surrounded by John's arms when she awoke. The small but steady rhythm of his breathing told her he was still sleeping, and she did not move for fear of waking him. As soon as he did awaken, he quickly bid her good morning as he had the morning before and she replied in the same manner. Quickly, he washed and dressed and rose to call Martha to help her dress. Neither of them spoke about their new sleeping arrangement and carried on with their days as if nothing untoward had happened. Margaret supposed nothing untoward had happened really. That was certainly what she had told herself when she had asked Martha not to light the fire in their chamber in the evenings anymore. Margaret could tell that John was worried about the state of the mill, more so than he had told her directly and wanted to do whatever she could to help save money around the house. His mother had seemed surprised but not disapproving of the suggestion, and so small cuts had been made, including the lighting of fires in the house. Lighting them in the mornings was necessary- it was so cold Margaret feared they could freeze if they did not have them lighted before rising, but whilst they were sleeping it was another matter. John had not commented on the continued lack of heat in the room, but she knew he had noticed the change from the cursory glance he cast in the direction of the fireplace each night when he first entered the room. When he had offered to warm her the next night, it was with more confidence that Margaret had accepted his help in the matter. After a few nights, they had adopted the same embrace without speaking at all, her back pressed tightly against his chest and his breath on the back of her neck as he breathed in her hair, both of their hearts racing erratically in the same way, regardless of how often they followed the same movements, refusing to be quelled as the action became a routine.

Rather than hating her more, if anything Mrs Thornton had been more tolerant of her than she had ever been. Margaret was under no illusions that the woman liked her, but she seemed to be making less effort to be falsely nice to her in front of John, then avoiding her when they were alone and instead lapsed into a more natural distanced politeness or judgement depending on whether she approved of what Margaret was doing. She did not avoid her as she had, and they could sit in the same room in a companionable silence rather than engaging in synthetic polite conversation and if she disagreed she said so- Margaret did not always care for her opinion, but she respected her for giving it. They often had nothing at all to say to each other and that was fine. Hannah had not ever made any suggestion that she now knew of the true nature of her Marriage with John and Margaret was glad of that also. She felt it was none of Hannah's business and was happy to think that the older woman felt the same.

Thankfully, Margaret did not have too much free time to spend with her mother in law. Instead, her days were spent at the mill followed by a trip to the Princeton District. As promised, Nicholas Higgins had met with her to discuss how she could set up the running of the kitchen to most effectively feed the workers a midday meal in shifts and Mary had been employed (for a modest sum that was most welcome in the Higgins household) to help with cooking and serving the food. The Boucher children accompanied her to work and the older ones helped her with her work. The younger siblings were helpful where they could be and, once given sweet treats for their efforts, happily played whilst the workers were eating. It had taken a few weeks to prepare everything, but the first meals were served just a couple of weeks into December. Margaret had also persuaded John to release two of the younger girls from working the looms to help Mary. Both had the same persistent hacking cough that poor Bessie Higgins had developed from the loose cotton in the air and Margaret was determined that the two girls would not face the same tragic fate as her dear friend. John had tried to resist her plans, fearing that he would be losing two able loom workers and Margaret had braced herself for an argument. Thankfully, when she disclosed her fears for the girls' health and implored him to have a heart he had relented, and Margaret smugly liked to think that her small victory proved that she had been right all along- her husband did care about the workers at least a little.

She did not often see John when she was at the mill as he was usually hidden up in his office, working relentlessly through paperwork, fixing broken machinery or overseeing the shift rotation of the workers when the overseers could not handle the task alone. In the day, he was distant from her but at night he would come home to dine before heading to his office at home to continue working there. Margaret would often accompany him, selecting a book from the overflowing shelves she had not had the opportunity to explore the first time she had experienced the room mid-argument.

On a cold December night, the wind whipped past the office's glass window panes, whistling it's tune as it did so, and Margaret rose to close the thick red curtains and shut out it's song. Returning to her seat opposite her husband's desk, Margaret carefully turned the page of the book she was reading and tucked her feet up on the leather couch under her skirts. The glow of the firelight danced before her eyes, casting shadows across her page and she watched it for a moment before resuming her reading. The scratch of a quill on paper caused her to look up from her page and glance interestedly at John. He was hunched over a ledger and scribbling furiously, his brow furrowed in concentration. His jaw was set, and his eyes moved backwards and forwards over the scribbles in front of him and Margaret cast her eyes across his form from his hands up to his hair interestedly, wondering what was bothering him so. She was about to ask when a knock at the door interrupted and she rose to see who was on the other side. Martha apologised for disturbing them, handing her a letter and retreating quickly. Margaret close the door and returned to her position on the couch as she read the addressee- Mrs John Thornton of Marlborough Mills. It took her a second to realise that the correspondence was meant for her rather than John's mother, but as soon as she did she turned it hurriedly to see who would be writing to her. She felt a little sting of disappointment to see it was not from Fred, quickly replaced by anticipation when she saw the return address- Harley Street, London.

Intrigued, she ripped open the envelope and read through the small, neat script, her eyes devouring the words.

Dear Margaret,

I have so much to tell you dearest cousin! Firstly, I must tell you the good news- Henry Lennox is to be married in January to Miss Eleanor Winton. She is a dear and has become a very close friend to me these past few weeks, though she will not make as good a match for Henry as you would have. Still, I am so pleased you found your mill owner and I hope he is making you happy.

My other good news I must wait to tell you in person. Luckily, Mother has asked me to invite you and Mr Thornton to spend Christmas with us in Harley Street. Oh, Margaret, finally you can meet Sholto! He will love you so, I am sure of it. I will not hear of you saying no, my dear, Sholto is simply dying to meet his Aunt and I cannot wait to see his little face. Captain Lennox has always loved spending time playing with his son but now he is a little older and far more interactive than he was as a baby, he is rather pleased with him! You should see the way he smiles for his father. Anyway, you simply must come and meet both Sholto and Miss Winton. Of course, you will be invited to the wedding.

We shall look forward to seeing you soon.

Much love,

Edith

"That envelope must have contained something very exciting to have you pouring over it with such animation?" John's voice cut through her thoughts and the excitement and relief Margaret felt. During the time when she and John had not been on speaking terms, Margaret had written to her cousin and aunt both as she had not had much else to do but had received no reply and begun to worry that they had quite forgotten about her, or not forgiven her for marrying a northern tradesman, despite the good terms they had parted on.

"It is from Edith." She replied brightly, smiling at him and earning a warm smile from him that reflected her happiness in return. "She has invited us to spend Christmas with her and Captain Lennox! Finally, I will be able to meet Sholto!"

His face dropped, his eyes instantly losing the sparkle they had momentarily adopted, and her heart plummeted in response.

"Margaret, I cannot leave the mill over Christmas." He told her quietly, his eyes directed at the quill markings in front of him, rather than at her, as though it shamed him to admit such a thing.

"Oh." She replied quietly, the excitement leaving her as she redirected her own eyes to the letter that had momentarily held so much hope and now only incited disappointment. "Are there problems at the mill?" She asked, tentatively, leaning forward a little in the hope of seeing whatever was causing him distress in his scrawl.

"No." He cut her question back, barely allowing her time to finish, his eyes shooting to hers. "It is only that the winter is always the hardest season and I must be here to make sure our orders are fulfilled before Christmas so that we will be paid on time and I, in turn, can pay the workers."

Margaret nodded dejectedly. It did make sense but did not eliminate her disenchantment. The unhappy thought that this would be her first Christmas without her parents settled over her and her eyes prickled a little at the memories of all the traditions she would miss out on from her time in London with her aunt and in Helston with her parents. Even last year in Milton, they had still kept some of their traditions and Dixon had been there to keep her mother's spirits up in Fred's absence.

"Never mind." She said, when she had pushed down the tears brimming in her eyes and the sadness in her heart. Placing the letter back into its tattered envelope, she discarded it on the arm of the couch and returned to her leather-bound book.

She was unsure how long she fruitlessly scanned the page, but eventually she was forced to admit that it was no use. The words jumbled in front of her and she had re-read the same page five times before she decided to concede defeat.

A glance up from the uncooperative pages told her John had been watching her closely as she desperately tried to absorb herself in the book, and as she finally allowed herself to meet his gaze she saw his own eyes reflected her disappointment.

"I am sorry, Margaret." He said softly as he ran his fingers through his hair and she believed him.

"It doesn't matter, John." She replied as her eyes returned to her cousin's familiar print, bold against the cream of the expensively thick envelope. It did matter really, but as there was nothing to be done about it, there was no point in making him feel guilty for something he had no control over. When she looked up again, he was still staring at her and, beginning to feel uncomfortable under the scrutiny, she returned to her book, attempting the same page for the fourth time.

"You could go without me?" He offered after a long pause. "I could send Martha with you or we could ask your brother in law to come up and meet you to chaperone perhaps?"

Margaret's eyes flew back to hold his at the suggestion, her heart leaping a little with renewed hope.

"You would let me go without you?" she asked eagerly, waiting for him to realise his error and change his mind.

"If it will make you happy…" he trailed off, waiting for her to confirm or deny that the key to her happiness in that moment lay in London. "My mother will likely be with Fanny and Watson, which you would not enjoy, and I would not want you to miss out on the excitement you could have with your family. I cannot give you that here."

Margaret's heart fluttered a little in anticipation at his words. It would be just like it used to be when she lived with Aunt Shaw and Edith, but with young Sholto to add to the happiness and excitement and she could not help smiling at the vision. She was about to accept his proposition and thank him when she caught sight of how his face dropped still further at her hope, his eyes lowering as he picked up his pen to return to his work and his shoulders sagging just a little. It was barely noticeable, and Margaret wanted to pretend she had not noticed, but something inside her- perhaps her conscience, would not let her.

Margaret's relief soon turned to discomfort as alarming thoughts began to circulate through her mind. Would it be wrong to leave her husband at Christmas? Especially since he had admitted it was a busy time for the mill? Mary and the other girls did benefit from her help in the kitchen still, and the little ones often were watched by her as the others worked. As she watched the source of her quandary continue his work, his eyes glassy and unseeing and his hand tense on the pen he held tightly, her heart started to flutter again uncomfortably. This time it was that nervous feeling one experiences when they are about to do something they know they should not. Yet she had not done anything untoward. He had just offered to let her go, it had not been her idea. She wanted to say yes but something still held her back, making her doubt her decision. What would he do here alone? Would he join his mother in spending the day with his sister and Watson? Would Fanny not find it very odd that she had gone to London without John?

A ripple of pulsating guilt affected her conscience as she considered the morality of the choice she wanted to make. Before her sat the man, who had offered to marry her with few conditions and she had accepted to escape the cattle market that was London society and likely marriage to a bore of a man with no personality, who would expect her to stay at home and fawn over him from morn until night. How would it appear to him if she then left him to return to the very people who represented what he had saved her from, even if it was only for a few days? Yet she longed to see her family- Christmas was a time for family. Still, a small voice settled deep in her chest pointed out that he was more her family than Edith and Aunt Shaw were now, and she struggled to silence it.

John stopped writing, placed the pen down and tiredly rubbed his eyes with his hand. His hair stuck up at odd angles from where he had run his hand through it and Margaret watched wordlessly as he loosened his cravat and sighing reached for a pile of papers beside him and began to read through them, selecting one that he needed and resuming his scribbling on the now covered paper before him.

The more Margaret thought about it, the more she realised that if the man she had married was not to go with her, she did not feel so inclined to go at all. She wanted to meet Sholto, desperately, she really did, but not for it to be at the price of John spending Christmas alone. The thought of him unaccompanied against Fanny and Watson's derision over his decision to abstain from the speculation filled her with guilt; his only ally would be his mother. Of course, Hannah Thornton would handle Fanny without a second thought, but it would not be the same. She had promised him a partnership and partners did not up and leave the other, especially when that partner had been their salvation when they had needed one most. It hurt a little to make the decision she must make, but there was no other course to pursue.

"No, thank you. I would rather stay here with you," she replied with a sad sigh and picked up her book. The scratching of the pen on paper stopped and she was aware that he was watching her closely to check whether she was serious or not. It would not be so bad after all to miss all the Christmas fun she had enjoyed with her family, she supposed. She would just have to make the best of it with John and Hannah and even Fanny and Watson could probably be persuaded to try some of the games which were popular choices of Christmas day entertainment in London.

"Are you sure?" he asked bluntly. "I will not keep you here."

"I am sure." She replied firmly, "but perhaps I could invite Edith and Captain Lennox to visit with us at some point instead?"

"Of course," was his reply, before he returned to his task.

Margaret discarded her book and instead penned a reluctant apology to Edith, explaining that Christmas was a very busy time for the mill and imploring her cousin to visit Milton soon, knowing it would be in vain- her cousin would not come. She excused herself soon after to ask Martha to send the letter by the first post in the morning and help her undress for bed. It might have been her imagination, but it certainly felt as though her husband held her even closer than usual as she shivered in the darkness that night and she was glad of it.

…

As the church bells tolled nine o'clock on Christmas Eve, the crowd of carol service attendees filtered out of the heavy church doors and Margaret, John and Hannah Thornton exited with them. The cold air stung their cheeks as it rushed through the withered trees, urging people to walk quickly to be away from it's painful touch. Margaret had been quiet for much of the service, her mouth barely moving as she half-heartedly sang the songs she had used to love so much. She had resolved to be strong- to not mourn the absence of her parents and Frederick too keenly, but the arrival of a post card from the latter, wishing her and her new husband a Merry Christmas and reminding her of the humble carol service her Father had conducted every year on the night before Christmas at his church in Helstone had opened the flood gates of her unhappiness. No carollers visited the mill and the Christmas cheer was considerably dampened by the sickness circulating the town. Winter was harsh in Milton. It was not that Margaret regretted turning down John's offer for her to spend the week with her Aunt in London, but rather that the pain of spending what should be a happy time without those who had truly cared for her was piercing.

John too, had seemed withdrawn- melancholy- and that only served to make her feel worse. His eyes, had lost the fire that she was used to seeing and she was surprised to realise she missed it. Though she was confident his low mood was not because of her, she wanted to restore that fire, and return those blue orbs to the endless tunnels she knew many girls would love to get lost in. That she had found herself becoming lost in on more than one occasion and had to claw her way out. She did not understand the source of his sadness but wished that he might share it with her so that she share hers, in the hope that it might not hang so heavily between them any longer.

"John?" she asked.

"Hmm" he answered, distracted.

"Might we visit my parents before we return home?" Her eyes darted across the stones jutting from the ground intermittently, searching for the spot where her loved ones' bodies lay. "Their graves I mean…" she clarified. He had mentioned before that they could visit their graves together and she hoped that if she could only speak to them for a moment, though she knew perfectly well that they were not really there, then she might feel some comfort.

He nodded and spoke softly to his mother, who agreed to being escorted home by Mr and Mrs Denby who lived close to the mill. As the church yard crowd dispersed into the night, they made their way across the muddy ground, weaving between headstones. John took hold of her gloved hand and linked it through his arm and she gratefully huddled closer to him as they battled through the wind and sleet to stop in front of two lone graves residing beside a withered yew tree, where her parents rested, side by side.

They pause, neither knowing what to say. It seemed silly now to have wanted to visit- to stand beside a stone; their souls were gone- graves were merely for the living. Still, she unlinked her arms from John's and stepped forward to crouch beside them and trace the swirling lines of her father's engraved name, the stone cool and smooth beneath her fingers.

"Merry Christmas Mama and Papa." She whispered, hoping John could not hear her above the wind. She did not want him to see her pain and blame himself as he was known to do. Closing her eyes to shut out the wind and sleet, she pictured the fun she and Fred used to have decorating a Christmas tree and lighting candles on Christmas Eve Night. She thought of the joy that eating their oranges on Christmas morning would bring and the happiness she used to feel as Mama and Papa and Dixon sang carols with them and her eyes began to mist behind her eyelids.

John's voice broke through her memories, causing them to vanish as quickly as they had appeared. "You are unhappy."

"No." She sniffed and shook her head. "I was just remembering all that we used to do at Christmas before things… changed."

Out of the corner of her eye she could see him nod and knew he did not believe her.

"I think you are unhappy." She stated to him, though her attention was focussed on the way the pitiful half-dead flowers that sat beside the headstones, allowed the wind to strip them further of the last surviving blooms.

"Christmas is a difficult time of year." He explained. John frowned, his brow creasing in agitation and Margaret knew he was debating whether to elaborate.

"My Father died just before Christmas…"

Margaret stepped back beside him. She hadn't been expecting that and didn't know what to say. Other than the day in Crampton when he had spoken of the hardship in his childhood when she had accused him of having his status and position handed to him, she had never heard him speak of his father. She wanted to know more, for him to trust her enough to share his real thoughts but did not know how to show him that he could trust her, that she wanted to understand.

A glance behind her showed they were now the only two people left in the yard and the light cast from inside the church dimmed as the large doors were closed. In the knowledge that no-one would see them, she pushed her self-consciousness aside and she stepped closer to him, their bodies still facing forwards, and took his hand in her own, linking her fingers with his. His skin was cold and calloused as she remembered, and her own small hand moulded perfectly to the contours of his of its own accord, as if it belonged there. Surprised, he stared at their entwined hands for a moment, before stroking his thumb across her knuckles and finally returning his gaze to the head stones.

He swallowed deeply and exhaled a large breath, leaving a trail of condensation in the air.

"When it first happened, I felt such utter hopelessness, such despair…if it wasn't for the strength of my mother…" he trailed off and Margaret's stomach flipped at the implication of his words. She could imagine his mother and her will of steel, assuring her son that all would be well, despite her own feelings of despair.

"Time heals. It is easy to push down the majority of the time, but this time of year is always harder."

Without pausing to think about what he would think or her motives for doing so, Margaret brought their joined hands up to her lips and gently pressed them to the back of his hand- just once, it was all she dared, fearing the repercussion of anything more, and retuned them to rest between their bodies. Her cheeks flushed scarlet as she drew her thumb over his knuckles, stroking the skin there as he had done to her.

He closed his eyes, screwing them shut for just a moment, as if to clear his head of some unknown phantom, before they opened, still fixed firmly in front as he continued.

"The majority of the time I am convinced that Fanny does not remember our father at all, but at this time of year she brings up that time in our lives without fail. Clearly, she has been discussing it with Watson as he came to see me yesterday, to ask for the full story about the events surrounding his passing. There are not many people in the town who know the absolute truth of what happened, but some still remember and talk. Despite how he died Fanny, will hear no bad word said about him nor allow the conversation to take on another topic once she is fixated, yet makes grand protestations about the things she claims to remember him doing for us, when in reality she was very young when he died, and she cannot remember any of it, least of all because it did not happen. To his credit Watson's questions came from his concern for Fanny, but I know tomorrow the topic will be resurrected again…"

Margaret's heart skipped a beat, at the vulnerability that lurked behind his averted eyes. She wanted to grasp at the glimpse he was giving her into his troubled past- something he avoided talking about- had even avoided talking about to her father, his good friend. The significance of the moment and how much it was costing him to lay himself bear before her was not lost on her and the self-gratifying sympathy she had felt for herself only minutes before began to dissipate as the reason for his subdued countenance began to fall into place. To her surprise, she felt for Fanny also. She understood John's frustrations- from what she knew, his father had killed himself and left his wife and two children, one of whom was barely able to walk, alone in the world with no money and a ruined reputation. Of course, it was painful for John to think of it and all the hard work and suffering he and his mother had been subjected to as a result, but it must be painful for Fanny too, to hear only the snippets of negative reports on a man she could barely remember and who was taken from her with little memories to cling to.

"Does it hurt so much to talk about him? Do you resent him?" She asked softly, wanting to understand.

"Hurt is not the correct word. Neither is resentment. I try not to resent him. His actions taught me that you must make your own future and work hard for everything you have. I could not be the master I am if he had not inadvertently ensured that I had to work for it, so much harder than most, but he was a coward. What did he think was to become of the family he left behind? Fanny was just a baby. If he could not handle the mess he had made, how were we supposed to?"

His face was hard and set, but the creases on his brow portrayed his turmoil. Her heart ached more with each new snippet of information, as keenly as if she herself felt his pain and floundered as she wracked her brains about how to stop his internal suffering. Yet, she could sympathise with his sister wanting to talk about it. There had been times since her parent's deaths where she wished she could have had an unrestrained conversation about all that that happened.

"Don't feel too angry at Fanny. Perhaps Fanny needs to remember it that way, John." She advised, hoping to help him understand that his sister did not intend to make it more painful for he and his mother.

"It may seem that you and your mother have kept the harsh realities you faced from her so well that she is unaffected by it but perhaps the memory, or at least the things she has heard are painful for her too."

"Do you think so?" he asked, unconvinced.

"I do." She nodded fiercely. "After all, I do it with my own parents…"

Admitting that felt like a stab to the heart.

"I would get angry at Dixon when she would criticise my Father and blame him for Mama's illness, but she was right. Mama was so depressed when we came here. She could not understand how Papa could move the whole family over a simple disagreement with the church. Of course, to him it was not a simple disagreement, but for her…" she trailed off, as she debated how best to phrase her mother's feelings, "her whole life was flipped upside down over the Book of Common Prayer. It was not his fault, but even at the end, Papa refused to see the effect his choice had on her…" Margaret trailed off, as she was hit by the force of her words and the truth they held. She had avoided even thinking the words for fear of the damage they would cause to her, her father, Dixon, her mother- and yet there was the truth of it.

"Margaret, your Father was a good man." John said, stepping closer to her, so that their arms where their hands were linked pressed against each other through their coats.

"And so was yours." She reassured him.

"I am not sure the church would agree with you." John scoffed, his eyes flicking towards the dark mass behind them. "He committed the ultimate sin- he didn't even get a Christian funeral ceremony or anything to mark the grave." His tone was matter of fact, but Margaret did not miss the shadow that crossed his face.

It was true of course that the church would not agree with her, but she was not so sure that they were always right. Certainly, her father had not thought so. Margaret pondered his words for a while, blinking her eyes as the sleet turned to snow, which softly fell to the ground around them and caught on her eyelashes as they made their descent from the clouded sky. The man had done something unspeakable, that was true, but he must have felt as though he had no other choice.

"Sometimes good men make bad choices," she surmised, nibbling her bottom lip a little agitatedly, "but that does not make them bad people… including your father." She inhaled a deep breath. "And mine."

Her voice faltered but she continued determinedly.

"no one on earth has the right to judge them."

Summoning her courage, she let go of his hand and instead wound her arms around his body and pulled him towards her. He resisted for a moment, unsure what she was trying to do, but then he wound his own around her and held her tightly to him. She rested her head against his chest pleased when he moved his coat from beneath her and wrapped it around her back so that it covered both of them together.

"You should remember your father for all the good things he did."

He did not reply to her advice but squeezed her tighter and buried his face in her hair. As the wet flakes fell into her hair, he pressed his lips softly to her head and Margaret took that as an agreement.

For a while, they stood together, clinging to each other as they silently watched the snow fall thicker and faster, covering the ground and settling protectively over the gravestones like a blanket of delicate lace. It was then that Margaret made a promise to herself to stop dwelling on the past and on all that was absent from her life and focus instead on the future and making Christmas special for her new family. For the first time it hit her that she was to spend the rest of her life with this man, the only person in the world that she knew with assurety that she could truly trust. They might not agree but they had promised each other that they would be a team, and in that moment, she knew for certain that staying with him in Milton had been the right decision, even though it hurt her to make it.

For once there was no underlying tension between them. She felt no fear that they were moving towards something neither could handle, just the bond that is formed between two people when what they have shared was a sacrifice of such cost that it changes their relationship irrevocably.

…

Christmas day had brought with it an influx of snow and a biting chill. John had not been sorry when it had been agreed that Christmas would be held in his house rather than having to travel to the Watsons'. It was not far, but John was not sure he could stand to hear about the new papers Fanny had chosen for the walls again, let alone be forced to stare at and compliment them over and over.

They had met the pair at the church they had attended the previous night for the short service and walked back to Marlborough mills hearing about the many gifts Fanny and Watson had bought each other.

Thankfully his Mother and Margaret had managed to bear each other's company for long enough to sort out Christmas presents for Fanny and Watson, which in all honesty with the mounting pressure at the mill had entirely escaped his mind. Margaret had asked her cousin to send some lace gloves and a shawl from London and Fanny had been thrilled by the choice, which in turn seemed to put his wife in an excellent mood. In fact, she had been outwardly happier than he had seen her since their small wedding reception. Watson had thanked him profusely for the handkerchiefs he had received, and John had tried to pretend that he knew his mother and wife had hand stitched Watson and Fanny's initials into them.

He had been completely unaware than Margaret could sew at all, but she had hand made a raven black shawl for his mother and the look on his mother's face as she learned it was not bought but dyed and stitched from cotton made by the mill implied his wife had risen in her estimations at least a little.

Charades had never been his favourite game but the enthusiasm with which Margaret, Fanny and Watson had displayed when it was their turn had brightened his opinion of it considerably and even his mother had smiled amused at the group.

Fanny had insisted on performing several piano pieces for them and everyone had applauded loudly, despite the lack of emotion displayed by the pianist. She had begged Margaret to join her in one of the duets she so loved, and she had done so, almost willingly.

As afternoon became evening, they had shared a beef dinner, courtesy of Watson and retired to the sitting room to eat the left-over fruit, nuts and other treats.

The guilt that his wife was spending the day with him and his family rather than enjoying the warmth and frivolous Christmas she might have had with her own family had threatened to eat him up yesterday, but since their conversation last night in the church yard (of all places) he had felt something between them shift and that guilt had been replaced with something akin to elation. Sharing something so private, intimate almost, with Margaret had changed something between them, there was a closeness that he had not felt before, as though they once again had a secret or something shared that the rest of the world could not have. He supposed they did since he had not shared those feelings with anyone- not even his mother and no other person on the planet could have persuaded him too.

Margaret was taking their unspoken agreement to act in love in front of Fanny and Watson seriously and had joked and laughed with them all, giggling with Fanny about how infuriating men could be and smiling encouragingly at him throughout dinner. She had chosen to sit beside him in the sitting room, closer than she usually would, with their legs touching through the many layers of clothing that separated them.

"Do you remember, John, when we were children and Father used to cut open our oranges on Christmas morning and we would eat them for breakfast together?" Fanny asked, using a knife to split hers open and carefully remove the peel.

He had been waiting for this moment after Watson had been to question him, dreading it. Yet Margaret's encouraging smile to him made it seem less painful to deal with.

"Of course," he replied, catching Margaret's eye and shaking his head just a little to show he did not. His mother's curious glance at him did not go unnoticed and he smiled sadly at her, knowing although she would not show it, the memory was perhaps even more painful for her.

"And how we would have to open just one gift each in turn, we could not just open them all at once because Father wanted to properly see our reactions to our sweets and small toys?" She bit into her Orange questioningly and raised her eyebrows as if waiting to see how her brother would react.

She did not remember that, could not. She had been merely two when he had died, but as John remembered Margaret's words to him, he found himself nodding anyway. That one at least was true, but Fanny only knew of it because his mother had told her.

"And how he would insist we attended church before eating anything other than breakfast!" she whined, and John remembered how they had pushed Fanny to church in her pram in the cold weather and he would wish for it to end quickly so they could go home and have a Christmas lunch.

"I remember that one! John moaned continuously, and your crying was enough to make everyone in attendance regret coming, Fanny," his mother added, and John smiled at her gratefully, hoping she understood that he was really trying for Fanny not to ruin her recollections by revealing the truth, rather than angry at him for indulging her fantasies.

"My Father was exactly the same," Margaret added, peeling her own fruit enthusiastically. My aunt was not so strict on such matters, but Father insisted on attending church before any gifts were exchanged, other than our Oranges. Perhaps that is why I love Oranges so much!"

"Oh so do I," Fanny joined in happily and John relaxed. If that was the end on that topic of conversation, then it had been significantly less awful than he had anticipated.

"Margaret, in London are the Christmas traditions the same as here? If there are any we do not do, I would be keen to keep up with London society."

"Well, we often play sit and read together in the evenings and although we are too late now, on Christmas Eve we stay up and share ghost stories."

"Watson, we must return home and read tonight before we go to sleep!" Fanny declared, and John laughed internally as the look of horror on Watson's face. From what John knew, the man was not particularly bookish.

"That sounds like a most attractive idea!" His mother declared standing. "I think I will excuse myself to do just that. Merry Christmas everyone. Have a good night Fanny." She leaned down to kiss Fanny's cheek before doing the same to him. Everyone wished her good night and she retreated, giving him one last smile before she left, and John knew she was telling him he had done well dealing with Fanny.

"Of course, we also would normally decorate the house far more than we have done so here. I had to practically force John to allow us to have a tree! For the last ten years at least, they have been all the rage in London. Queen Victoria always has one!" Margaret proclaimed to her rapt audience, mock sulking and pouting her red lips a little childishly. She elbowed him in mock annoyance and Fanny laughed at his surprised expression.

John wanted to joke along with her but did not know how to. This was the most relaxed he had ever seen her, and he wasn't quite sure how to react. He wasn't even sure whether it was real, but hoped it was.

"John always has been a stick in the mud, I am afraid." Fanny explained, lowering her voice as though to keep her words a secret from him, despite the fact that he could hear her perfectly. "I am surprised you picked him!"

"How complimentary," he said sarcastically to Fanny, causing her to laugh loudly at his wounded expression.

"Oh, I knew Thornton was infatuated from the moment he spotted you at the annual Thornton party!"

John's heart dropped at Watsons's revelation.

"The man could barely keen his eyes off you, Margaret! I had a good mind to believe that he did not listen to a word anyone said to him that night, such was his attention to you…"

John's cheeks coloured but he was unsure whether it stemmed from the anger or embarrassment he felt at Watson's comments. More so because the man's words were true. It was not Watson's fault of course, how could he know that revealing such a thing would be so abhorrent to the woman that had married him? How could he know that it would ruin the mere friendship he was striving so hard to achieve? How could he know that it would ruin the slow progress he was making to control his desires in the hope that he might slowly change her feelings about him.

"I have always thought my husband has excellent taste. You have just confirmed it!" His heart slammed against his ribs at both his wife's reply and the way her hand felt as she flirtatiously raised it behind him to stroke his back fondly, almost lovingly. At the contact, he shivered, but not from a lack of heat, rather the opposite. Encouraged by her actions and words, he moved his own hand to wind around her back and rest against Margaret's waist.

Watson guffawed at the joke and Fanny tittered.

"Of course, it is well known that you hated John from the moment you saw him, until you declared your love for him by jumping in front of that mob of workers…" Fanny chattered on a little maliciously, and John waited for Margaret's reaction with foreboding. There were two possibilities. Either, she would leap to defend herself from the accusation an affirm that she still hated him even then when his Mother and Fanny had assured him that she must love him. Or, she would retreat into her shell as she had done before, meeting the comment with only silence and he would bear the brunt of her annoyance later.

Her hand stilled on his back.

"You are quite mistaken, Fanny." Margaret informed her, surprising him.

"I never hated your brother. I just disapproved of some of his actions. Besides, challenging each other is good for a long-lasting marriage, I think."

"I don't think Watson and I have ever argued!" Fanny proclaimed, pride shining in her eyes and John could well believe it. He doubted Watson had ever told her "no" about anything and he was happy his sister had found that since it was what she so craved.

"I am so glad for you Fanny. But, I would not be happy marrying someone who agreed with me on everything. I think life would be rather boring…" Margaret insisted. He knew he was staring at her too intently, too closely as she sat beside him, but he could not help it. Was she simply still trying to act as thought their marriage was more than a business transaction? Or did she really think their marriage had a chance to make her happy?

"But certainly, you did not find John physically attractive. I did Watson the moment I laid eyes on him." Fanny proclaimed. It was a lie of course; Fanny had first laid eyes on Watson when she was about twelve years of old and he had been at least twenty-five. Looking smug, she possessively placed the hand which bore the wedding ring he knew Watson had spent an obscene amount of money on, on her husband's arm, and he felt a little ashamed of how much simpler the ring his wife wore was in comparison. Although, there was something gaudy about his sister's- it would not have looked right on Margaret's hand and he was glad of it as he could never have afforded something similar with their finances in the situation they currently were.

Certainly, Fanny was correct about one thing. It was true that Margaret was not attracted to him in the slightest. He knew it, had known it for a long time, but hearing it announced so publicly, in front of Watson who saw him as a rival no less, was not particularly pleasant.

"Wrong again, I am afraid, Fanny." Margaret countered, leaning into him flirtatiously and the scent of lavender from her exposed neck enticed him, begging him to press his lips to her neck and breathe her in. Instead, he tried to focus on her words, desperate for her to continue speaking and clarify her meaning. He knew her coy and flirtatious tone and behaviour was an act, but he pathetically craved it anyway.

"I always thought John was attractive." Margaret declared, and his heart missed a beat in response. Her cheeks blushed deliciously, a soft pink rising to her cream skin, and he stared at her incredulously, expecting her to avoid meeting his gaze. Instead, she raised her sparkling sapphire eyes to his, and as she did, she smiled in that way that made everything else seem completely irrelevant. It was a good job that Fanny and Watson were with them, for he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would have pulled her to him and kissed her right then and there. But then she would never have said it. The lie would not have been necessary.

"And that annoyed me innumerably more than anything your brother ever said or did to me." She finished, laughing, her gaze, only faltering a little before returning to Fanny as if it hurt her to hold the look they had shared. Her hand was slightly shaking as she so tenderly withdrew it from his back and placed it on his mid- thigh, the ring on her ring finger glittering in the light of the sitting room and John had to bite back a gasp of shock. Despite the company of the two other people in the room, who thankfully seemed oblivious, it was the most seductive thing he had ever experienced, irrationally more so than the arguably more intimate touches they had shared alone in his bedroom, and John fought to keep his ragged breathing from giving away his reaction to her touch as she softly traced a pattern on the material of his trouser leg, her small fingers still trembling. He was not sure he could bear her reaction if she was to realise just how much such an innocent action was affecting him and knew he should stop her. It was all an act! He reminded himself of that desperately, trying not to focus on how high up on his thigh she had harmlessly placed her hand or the feelings it provoked. She didn't mean any of it, she was only performing as they had agreed.

"Ahh, yes, I can believe that of you Margaret!" Watson declared good naturedly, chuckling heartily as he poured himself a large glass of brandy.

"But did you know from the moment you saw John that you were going to marry him?" Fanny tried again, determined not to be thwarted.

"No," Margaret admitted, sighing, perhaps relieved at not needing to lie again. "I certainly did not."

Fanny's smiled smugly, happy to have won. "Did you know the moment you saw me, Watson? she asked.

Watson downed his drink quickly.

"Of course, my love!" He replied, his voice adopting that of an adult humouring a child. He shot an apologetic look in John's direction, no doubt realising that John would know how inappropriate it would be if that was true, given that Fanny was a child the first time he saw her. Thankfully, John would not have thought to question it, his mind too focussed on avoiding looking at his lap.

John was extremely relieved when Fanny announced that she was tired, and she and her husband ought to be heading home and he and Margaret had been forced to stand to stand to see them off.

Once they had departed, Margaret led the way to his study and selected her book from the shelf, sinking eagerly into the leather couch she usually occupied half of.

"Thank you." He said sincerely as soon as she made herself comfortable, removing her shawl from her shoulders and leaning against the arm of the chair. He shut the door firmly behind him, to shut out the maids and the rest of the world from the conversation.

"For what?" she asked, smiling and John was momentarily disarmed by how casually she said it, as though she genuinely had no idea what he would have to thank her for, as though she hadn't just made his day the best he had experienced in a long time.

"For staying with me, when you wanted to visit your family." He replied, coming to sit beside her on the couch.

She dismissed his words with a gesture.

"For putting up with Fanny." He added, with humour, which earned him a delicious giggle.

"I actually enjoyed their company." She admitted, her surprise evident in her tone.

"And for lying to Fanny." All humour died from his voice instantly. "I think she really believed you." The room stood still, waiting for her reaction.

"About finding me attractive…" he clarified, seeking out her gaze. Her eyes widened. She blinked.

Silence. What had he been expecting her to say to that? He cursed himself for voicing that thought at all. Why did he have to ruin such an enjoyable evening? Hadn't he been making progress? Why couldn't he just be happy with that?

"And about disagreements being a positive thing in a marriage…" he tried to salvage the situation, aware that he was probably making it worse.

Silence. The small clock on the mantel piece cut the silence short as it chimed the hour and John counted the full nine counts, willing his wife to speak and rebuff him, just to get it over with.

"I did not lie to Fanny."

His heart stopped beating, and his breath caught.

"About disagreements being a positive thing…"

He could not look away from her, her eyes attempting to capture his soul, beckoning it to come closer. Every fibre of his being wanted to kiss her.

"and about finding you attractive…"

His pulse raced and his mind started blur. She was truly attracted to him? He had wanted her to say that, been willing her to and yet him mind had no idea what to do with the information! It was not the same as loving him- his brain knew that, and yet it could not help but sing with happiness that she felt something for him rather than complete indifference as he had feared she would for the entirety of their lives together, as he had signed up for.

Her lips were plump and slightly parted, and he started at them, desperate to capture them with his, but knowing he couldn't.

"I am sorry you didn't get to be with your family." His voice came out deep and horse, and he sub-consciously tried to clear it.

She shrugged her shoulders, her eyes casually wondering across his body and back to his face. Her eyes studied the ring on her left hand and her deft fingers moved to twist it around the digit it occupied, bringing a small smile to her lips.

"I did. You are my family now."

His restraint snapped, and he moved.

She flinched as he finally, after months (in truth it was probably longer) of yearning, pressed his lips to hers. After so long, he was kissing her, his heart hammering so hard that he knew she would hear it. The whole house could probably hear it.

For a moment, he froze, clutching her to him. His brain seemed incapable of comprehending what he had done, how colossal a mistake his actions could be, how roughly he had seized her waist and pulled her against him and how violently she was trembling in his arms. She hadn't run; if anything, she had allowed him to capture her in his embrace and, encouraged, his brain urged him on. Softly, as softly as he physically could, his lips moved against the plumpness of hers, caressing them as though they were truly his. A low moan slipped past his own lips as she so softly and slowly he might have imagined it, began to respond, not quite kissing him in return but not entirely passive either. His hands shook as they caressed her back and he tried to pour everything into his actions, knowing it might well be his only chance to show her he loved her, needed her, that he wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything but couldn't voice it for fear that he would never hear her say it in return.

As he captured her bottom lip in his, she gasped and as if compelled by the sound he kissed her harder. Her arms had clutched at the material of his jacket, either to keep him close to her or stop herself from falling, but now her hands came to rest on his chest, and then she pushed, gently, not enough to have made him stop, but enough that he realised she was asking him to. He tore himself from her, backing away from her piercing eyes, which were wide and erratic with shock as they roamed over his body as though truly seeing him for the first time. Her chest was heaving as though she had run a mile and his own mirrored it.

"Margaret… I…" How did he begin to apologise for what he had done? Just as she had begun to trust him, he had ruined that trust, tearing it down because he could not control himself. If nothing else, he had always prided himself on his discipline, but he had failed.

"I am so sorry! I only… when you said…" He floundered, trying to explain, wishing he could take it back, and stop himself. If only she would say something, shout at him and tell him she hated him, or storm from the room but she only stared at him, her hand raised to her slightly swollen mouth and her eyes blinking in disbelief. For one mad moment, he considered kissing her again, if only to make her react. He got as far as taking a step forward before his reason screamed at him and he backed away once more.

He could not stand to see her shock turn to hatred. Instead of kissing her again, he ran.

"Forgive me…" He turned swiftly and left his office, turning to pause outside the door separating him from the consequences of his actions, He leaned against the door and closed his eyes, hoping it might erase the last five minutes from existence.

Why hadn't she just stopped him the moment she realised what he was doing? Even when she had raised her hands to his chest, she hadn't actually stopped him. She had started to respond, hadn't she? Despite how achingly soft it had been, she had started to kiss him back? He had been so sure of it, but he must have misread the signs.

The office door opened, causing him to leap back from it and gulp deeply as the source of his turmoil, walked from the room, pausing in front of him.

"Shall we retire?" she asked, the waiver in her voice that was entirely his fault filling him with guilt.

"Yes," he answered quickly, unable to meet her eye. Confusion clouded his thought as he followed her as she climbed the stairs. He was relieved not to be screamed at but somewhat alarmed by her lack of rebuke.

Their bed chamber was dark, no fire lit again, and John wondered whether Margaret knew why Martha had stopped lighting it. He made a mental note to ask the maid. With only the light of two small candles, they turned from each other and undressed, his heart sinking further as each second ticket by silently. She did not ask for his help in undressing and he started to despair, trying to reassure himself that perhaps the two things- his inappropriate actions and her unexplained ability to undress alone were unrelated. Had her dress had buttons down the front? Perhaps her corset had longer laces than normal? The rustle of covers told him she had managed all that she needed to and with a sickness in his stomach he joined her under the blankets.

"I'm sorry," he repeated sincerely, feeling he needed to say it again, to make her believe him. If she would only affirm that she had heard him, even if she did not understand.

They were back to staring at the ceiling above them, but out of the corner of his eye he could see her nibbling her bottom lip agitatedly and her brow creased with confusion. The covers were pulled up to her neck as usual, but her breathing was so heavy and disturbed that he could see the rise and fall of her chest even through the thick blankets.

"John?" She said quietly, and his heart lifted just a little as he affirmed he had heard her.

"I am sorry too." It was barely more than a whisper and made absolutely no sense to him at all. What on earth she could have to be sorry for was beyond him, but the relief he felt at hearing her say anything to him allowed him to release a breath he hadn't realised he had held.

Margaret turned from him, lying on her side as she did every night and John blew out the candles, wanting to hold her to him as had become the norm but not sure he could handle the rejection or what she would think of him doing so after what he had done.

Darkness filled the room and the soft glow of the moon reflecting on the snow-covered ground outside seeped through the edges of the curtains, giving the room a faint ethereal glow and he watched the patterns it cast onto the ceiling.

Beside him, his wife pulled the blankets tighter to her and shivered. He felt like a monster for doing nothing about it, but he would not. She would surely not want him to. Not really. It was better that he kept his distance.

"John?" Her voice pierced the silence.

"Hmm." He replied, his heart leaping as he realised what she was going to say.

"I am so cold. Could you…" She did not finish her question, but it did not matter.

Without waiting to see what the ending to her sentence was, he reached out to her and pulled her body flush against him, his face against the soft pillar of her neck. Somehow, he knew they would not speak about what had happened tonight. It made his heart ache to know she wanted to forget about something that to him had felt so right, but he fought to remember the positives, how happily she had joked with him and his family all day and the sparkle in her eyes as she had admitted her attraction to him. As long as he lived, he would remember that feeling. The image of her lips before he captured them with his own swam before his closed eyes and he fought to keep his imagination from elaborating further. For a while, he tried to think of other things, and forget his wife, but her smell made that impossible and eventually he surrendered, letting the memory fill his thoughts and he breathed in lavender until he finally fell asleep.