Chapter 2
John shook his head as he ran his hand through his hair. There was not a worker in the mill. He had given them Christmas off, as was Marlborough Mill tradition. The servants had been dismissed for the evening. The Thorntons did not celebrate Christmas. They attended church, as was their duty, otherwise they acknowledged the day as little as possible. The death of his father had shrouded the season in grief. Hannah Thornton was at the Watson dinner only because Fanny was insistent on attending and needed a chaperone. John spent the holiday burying his grief by working in the quiet mill, year after year. And thusly this Christmas would have gone, if not for the appearance of Margaret Hale.
Margaret tired of shouting for help. He watched as she moved to one side of the room, and he followed suit by moving to the other. It made little difference. She was only a few feet away from him.
John gently leaned his head against the wall, next to the trunk he had been searching before her arrival. He tried to think of words of reassurance.
"They could return early," he said. Margaret nodded absentmindedly, her eyes flickering around the small room, as if another door would manifest itself before those pretty and expressive eyes. John closed his own eyes for a moment, steadying himself.
The possibility of spending hours alone with Margaret Hale would have been welcome to him months ago, before the riot, when she was more of a novelty and an object of fascination. She arrived and broke through the gray of Milton like the warmth of the first spring day after a long winter. She was all grace, clever, and kind, and it was not long after declaring to his mother that he was in no danger of falling for her that she consumed his thoughts. Daily he wondered what she was doing, where she was going, what she was thinking. He convinced himself it was a passing infatuation until she saved him the day of the riot. Then, he knew he loved her.
But it was not to be. The months that had passed after his failed declaration had created a chasm between them. He had sworn to her he would continue to love her, and he had spoken the truth. There was not a day that went by that he did not think of her, long for her, and hate himself for his weakness and inability to stop his feelings for her. He knew she loved another enough to lie before God and the law, but this was not enough to douse the flame inside him that still burned for her. John open and closed his fists, flexing his fingers as he did so, to concentrate on something other than the ache in his chest when he thought of this reality. She was lost to him. Far away from him as ever, and yet painfully close.
When John opened his eyes again, his gaze fell on the dimly lit gas lamp he had brought with him. There was still enough light coming in from the outside to see the room clearly, and with any luck there would be for at least another hour before the winter night fell. Without knowing how brightly the moon would shine, it would not due to risk total darkness later. He reached over and turned off the light.
Margaret was standing primly at the other wall, her hands clasped in front of her. She had decided to take off her hat, which she set on a crate with the air of an empress in her throne room. Her hair was intricately arranged, held by an assortment of pins, including some with white pearls at the end, creating the effect of snowflakes on her dark hair. Her pins.
"Miss Hale," John said, suddenly stepping towards her. "Perhaps I can unjam the lock using one of your hair pins."
"Oh," Margaret said, looking from the lock to John in deliberation. "It is worth an attempt," she agreed, reaching up and choosing a pin carefully. A shame it did not cause any of her locks to fall onto her shoulder, a sight John often dreamt about.
He cleared his throat and knelt to fiddle with the pin and lock. He planned to dislodge the broken key and then pick the lock.
He worked quietly for the most part, careful not to mutter in frustration as his patience grew thin. The room was cold, the light would soon be gone, and he needed to get Margaret home and away from him. He had not been to Crampton in a fortnight, citing the busy mill as an excuse. Truth be told, he was avoiding her, and he knew she knew. They had not even spoken since he shared how he had taken Higgins on. Her joyful expression at the news was enough to warm his bitter heart momentarily, but he could not forget her betrayal.
He let out a small scoff at the thought. She did not belong to him, as she had made perfectly clear. Still, the thought of her risking her own integrity for this mysterious lover upset John more than he could understand. It tainted her. He would never have left her so soon after her mother's death, in her time of need, and he would never have asked her to lie for him.
"Is there any hope?" Margaret said, interrupting his thoughts. John twitched; he had not noticed her move to stand beside him. She was leaning over to examine the lock, and her face was close to his.
"I don't think so," John said quietly, fidgeting with the pin and lock more forcefully.
"Here," Margaret said, handing over a second pin. "Perhaps two will do the trick."
He took her offering and tried to use both at once to pull the key out. His hands were increasingly clammy despite the cold. Margaret watched his progress intently, and the warmth of her breath on his cheek caused his skin to tingle. If he turned his face, he could kiss her. He furrowed his brow in concentration at the task at hand.
"Miss Hale," he said, his mouth suddenly dry. Did she usually have this effect on him? The feel of her hands on his neck the day of the riot lingered as a pleasant memory, but now, in the quiet of the room, where he could feel her every movement and hear her every noise, it was a sweet prison he needed to escape from.
"Yes?"
"Can you move back please? I need room to work," he asked.
"Oh. Of course," Margaret replied, moving backwards into the crate she had set the basket on.
He toiled at the keyhole, and eventually he made progress. If he leveraged the broken key with one pin, he could get it to move with the other. He just needed to move it enough to pop it out. While it seemed like it would work, the key was still firmly lodged in. His fingers were beginning to hurt from the intensity of his grip. With an annoyed grunt, he put the pins down and sat on the floor, rested his arms on his propped-up knees, and leant his head back into the door. He took a deep breath to ease the growing tension inside him. If they were unable to get out…
"We will get out or be rescued, Mr. Thornton. Dixon and my father will expect me home soon. Someone must find us. All will be well," Margaret said, as if reading his thoughts. Her voice was reassuring. John looked at her, bemused, and she smiled softly.
"Someone finding us is precisely what I am afraid of, Miss Hale," he responded. Her smile faded and she looked thoughtful at this. John allowed himself to observe her. At Crampton, he used to steal glances at her while her father spoke. He would watched how she prepared his tea, with two clumps of sugar as he preferred, and then hers- completely without sugar, to his surprise. He had seen how she spoke to his workers, with compassion and as equals. He noticed how her silver bracelet would fall down her arm, and how she would reflexively push it back up.
He wondered if she was wearing the same bracelet now. He could not tell with her arms hidden inside her cloak. It was for the best she kept that on, as the room was cold and growing colder. Her cheeks were flushed, whether from the cold or in response to something else, he could not say. It did not matter to him. She was a beautiful sight.
The cold. He thought of his jacket in the mill office. Fiddling with the lock kept him moving, and he would need to keep moving if he wanted to stay warm. But he could not take his eyes off her.
"What is this room?" Margaret asked, suddenly meeting his gaze.
"Storage," John replied, knowing the answer would not satisfy her.
"Yes, I can see that, but of what?" She could not keep her annoyance out of her voice. John kept a smile from his face.
"Old parts, mostly, for the machines. I salvage pieces I need to complete repairs," he explained.
"I see. And you do repairs on Christmas? By yourself?"
"No," he answered, truthfully. She glanced to the floor and then, deciding it would do, sat down across from him, leaning against a crate. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, as if she was sitting down for tea. The skirt of her dress brushed his foot. She was looking at the trunk he had been inspecting upon her arrival, now closed, but she did not say anything. John sighed. It was not in his nature to be evasive. Not with anyone, but especially not with her.
"I keep some personal belongings of my father here. Old accounting books, mostly. His sketchbook. Some drawings I made as a child that he kept in his office. I come here on difficult days. I have told you about the circumstances of my youth before. He died on the day before Christmas when I was not yet fifteen."
"I am sorry," Margaret said gently. Her hand moved, as if she was going to reach out to him, but then she seemed to think better of it. The sincerity in her voice moved him.
"We do not do much to mark the holiday, as you can see. I close the mill every year and I work. Fanny has been adamantly requesting a Christmas tree for a couple years now, but it does not feel like much of a festive time for me or mother. I do wonder if she accepted Watson because he has taken to putting up a tree in the last few years. It's all the fashion, or so I am told," John shared. Margaret smiled, and John returned it instinctively.
"It must be very difficult for all of you. This year is a challenge for us. Mother always loved this time of year," Margaret said, looking at her hands in her lap.
John sat up, feeling like an imbecile for not remembering. It was her first Christmas without her mother.
"Miss Hale, I am sorry. I was going on about myself when your loss is so near. Forgive me."
"Oh, Mr. Thornton, there is no need. I am sure you feel your loss as keenly as I do mine, and I am glad to hear you speak of it. It helps to know I am not alone in my feelings. Sometimes, I wonder if I will ever feel this grief less," she said, her eyes finding his.
"It will stay with you. It has stayed with me. It's a dull ache, and there are days I am more of aware of it than others. But it will not always be so bad, and it is always better when you do not have to bear it alone," John explained. Margaret nodded.
They sat in silence. John stood up to work on the lock again, but the light from the window was dimming.
"Would you like the lamp?" Margaret asked quietly.
"No. I think we should preserve the gas, and this is futile anyway," John replied, more sternly than he intended. He cursed softly to himself before standing up to pace. Margaret remained seated, and he felt her eyes on him. They must have been in the room for above an hour now. Margaret rose to her feet, retreating to the wall farthest from him. He watched her straighten her spine, and he recognized her stance. He braced himself.
"Mr. Thornton, I would like to be clear. Regardless of who finds us, you have no obligation to me," she said.
"We both know that is not true, Miss Hale," John replied, sticking his hands in his pockets for warmth. He reclined casually on the wall, but kept his eyes locked on hers.
"I can handle whatever situation arises from this. I do not consider it your duty to rescue me from gossip or…" Margaret began, and he smiled at her consistency before interrupting.
"You have already made that clear, Miss Hale. This situation is quite different. I have my own reputation to consider as well as yours," John said plainly. He would never force her into a marriage, but their options were growing fewer by the minute. Margaret bowed her head for a moment before raising it again. Her chin perked out in defiance. To what exactly, John was not sure.
"I know it is different. You think me naïve, but I am not," she said. "I just…I know you find my company insupportable at present, and it is not fair to you…" She trailed off.
John did not respond. He would do anything for Margaret. He already had. He would save her from any heartache or difficulty or trouble, even though she rarely needed or wanted to be save. And he would save her from him.
"I do need the lamp. Will you hold it up for me?" John asked, returning to the door to resume his efforts with her hair pins and the lock.
"Yes, of course," Margaret said, shuffling to the lamp and then beside him. She turned it on enough for his use and held it. John took a breath, now relishing her proximity and how she smelt of roses and home. He was determined to set her free.