Margaret had never seen Mr. Thornton looking so disheveled. He had no jacket, and his sleeves were rolled up, exposing his forearms. He still wore his cravat, though it and his hair were more tousled than usual. With the aid ofthe light of a dim lamp, she was close enough to see the shadow of the evening stubble forming on his face. He smelled of soap and the mill. The smells of Milton had been jarring to her at first, but she found she liked the combination of freshly spun cotton and machine that permeated Marlborough Mills A small bead of sweat had formed on his forehead. She wondered if she should use her handkerchief to wipe his brow. Margaret's cheeks warmed at the intimacy of her examination of him and was startled out of her own thoughts by his sudden movement.

"I got it!" John yelled as the key half tinkled onto the floor.

"It will open?" Margaret exclaimed.

"Well, no, but the broken piece is out, and now I can pick the lock," he said with an unguarded grin at her. Margaret shared in his enthusiasm.

"Well done," she said. They would be out soon enough, she thought.

It was nearing an hour since dislodging the key and at least two since she had arrived to the mill. Margaret had repositioned herself and sat beside Mr. Thornton, her arm tiring from holding the lamp up. He had requested more pins from her, as pin after pin bent or broke in his attempts. Her updo was loosened, but still in place. In frustration, he finally threw the last hairpin she had given him across the storage room, where she heard it clink against the wall before ricocheting back and landing in between them. He cursed under his breath and sat against the door in defeat. Margaret silently moved to sit against the door beside him. She turned the lamp off and let her eyes adjust to the room.

It had grown dark, but the moon was glowing through the window such that she could see him well-enough. The silence was not pleasant, as she could feel the frustration radiating from him.

"I saw Nicholas today," she blurted out, eager to distract him from the problem at hand. He made a noncommittal noise to acknowledge her statement. Margaret was undaunted. Her hand moved to the hairpin on the ground between them, and she fidgeted with it as she spoke, spinning it on its head.

"I brought them a basket. You know, when I first met Bessy Higgins, she did not know what to make of me and I of her. I wanted to bring a basket to them, as an act of friendship, but I was terrified of offending her. When I told her this, she said the people of Milton are good at finding offense if there is even a remote possibility of doing so. She said it would take at least a couple years for me to acclimate," Margaret chuckled to herself at the memory. She leaned her head against the door, looking wistfully up to the window, her hand still absentmindedly fidgeting with her hairpin.

"Bessy and Nicholas were my first friends in Milton. Mary is quiet, but she is coming into her own. They have been very kind to me. So have you," Margaret said. She felt him turn to look at her, but she did not return his gaze.

"Bessy was astute. It did take me some time to get used to life here. Milton is very different, but I find myself warmed to it now. I sometimes wonder how I kept myself occupied in Helston. There is idleness in that little hamlet. Here, there is always somewhere to go or something to do. And there is none of the artifice of London that I used to detest."

"Do you miss it?"

"Helston? Of course I do. I enjoy the greenery, and it is a place where I have fond memories of my mother. But home is here now, with my father. London…well, I only miss Edith. I have learned that home is more about the people than the place."

"I am sorry about Bessy, Miss Hale. I should have said that to you before," John said quietly. "She worked here…"

"Yes. She did not get sick here, Mr. Thornton. Nicholas moved her here because it was better for her."

"I do what I can to keep my hands healthy—"

"Must you refer to them that way? Your hands are people, Mr. Thornton. With hearts and minds, too," Margaret chastised.

"I never said they weren't. How were the children?"

Margaret wanted to argue further but thought better of it. She eyed him for a moment before answering, "As well as all children are on Christmas. Tom was reading a Christmas poem I had included in their basket. The oldest girl, Jane, has taken to helping Mary, and they had made quite a small feast for themselves. Nicholas and Mary are doing a fine job with them."

"Higgins is a good man," John affirmed. Margaret turned to look at him now, surprised.

"Are you allowed to speak so well of a hand, Mr. Thornton?" she asked in mock surprise.

"Being a good man is beyond masters and workers. Doing right by those children, his work ethic. His scheme opening the kitchen. That is enough to know his character."

"I am sure Mr. Hamper would have a thing or two to say about that. Best not be letting any of the masters hear you speak so well of a worker," Margaret teased. "You know, I said a similar thing to Nicholas the other day when he was visiting with Tom. He is starting not to think so ill of you," she smiled at him.

"Does Higgins visit often?"

"Not as often as I would like. He brings Tom in for supper occasionally, or Nicholas will come speak to father. We do not receive many visitors. Father misses your company, Mr. Thornton." Margaret drew her knees up close to her, fidgeting to find a comfortable position on the ground. She propped an elbow on her knee and rested her chin in her hand, turning to her right to look at him.

"I have been busy at the mill," John responded curtly, avoiding her eyes.

Margaret took a deep breath and hoped she could speak in a way that would not cause offense or incite his temper. She did not regret her rejection, but she did lament the way things were between them. She regretted that she could not be more open with him about Frederick, to try to explain her actions. At least before the riot they could speak, or debate, freely, without so much weighing on them both. After his misguided proposal, Margaret often thought about how at least he was a person who spoke what he felt when he felt it. She preferred his Northern rawness. It was a welcome change from a lifetime of attempting to maintain harmony in the Hale household when her parents were not honest with each other and no one spoke candidly about their feelings to the people who needed to hear it. Gathering her courage, she spoke.

"You do not come because of me."

John was silent, suddenly extremely interested in the wall in front of him.

"I do not fault you for not wanting to see me. I understand it, though I am sorry for it," Margaret resumed her fiddling with her hairpin. She spun it on its head, and when it teetered over, it made a tinkling sound that filled the silence between them.

"Sorry for what?" John finally asked. Margaret winced at the hardness of his tone.

"I regret the loss of your company, is all," Margaret said as calmly as possible. He turned to look at her and their eyes met. She could see a question in his eyes, and she told her heart to have courage. They could at least be friends. "For my father's part and my own."

He looked away from her then, and she suppressed a sigh. He still thought so poorly of her. When he was not right in front of her, she could at least pretend that the loss of his good opinion did not bother her. But it did. And she did not understand why.

"We should try again," she said quietly. She reached for the hairpin on the floor at the same time he did and their hands collided, their fingers almost entwined over the hairpin.

"I can try for a bit," she said, and he retracted his hand and scooted himself out of her way, turning on the lamp as he did so to help light her way. He held it up for her.

Margaret examined it before sticking her hairpin inside the lock again.

"There is a mechanism on the side," John explained, "At least I think there is. If you listen, you can hear the hairpin push against something that makes a click. It's a small spot, and you have to hit it just right." Margaret angled the hairpin and pressed, and she could feel a slight give in the lock, as if she was hitting a gear of sorts, but the hairpin bent the more she pushed. John moved the light closer to the lock, and her face grew hot from the heat.

"I can feel the latch or whatever it is," she said. She quickly reached for another hairpin, taking it out without thinking, and a few strands of her hair fell into her face. She tried to use the second pin to leverage the first, but they were too weak. It explained why John kept breaking them; the iron was too heavy for the hairpins. If she could push a tiny bit harder and not have it break…

"I almost have it," Margaret said with quiet anticipation, concentrating. She moved her head to encourage the hair that was falling into her eyes to move. It did not, so her vision remained slightly obscured. She huffed in annoyance, her focus not breaking from the task at hand, until she felt John's hand suddenly at her face. He brushed the strands of hair behind her ear. It was fast, certainly coming from his natural helpful impulse to fix problems he sees, for when Margaret glanced at him, he wasn't looking at her and didn't seem to even realize what he had done, and just as soon as her focus broke, so did both the hairpins, the lock no closer to opening than before.

Margaret cursed loudly and stepped away in frustration. There was possibility they would be able to pick the lock with weak hairpins. She turned away from Mr. Thornton and rubbed her eyes, squinting away the tears that were forming in exasperation. She had cursed only a few times in her life, the most memorable of which was when she fell off a tree she had climbed and sprained her ankle something awful the summer before Frederick left for the Navy. Her mother had been nearby and washed her mouth out with soap, though Margaret had always felt it had been an aptly timed word. Margaret took a deep breath, counted to five, and composed herself. It would not do to act so unladylike in the presence of the most gentleman-like man in Milton. Especially when he already thought poorly of her. She fixed her hair, using the couple of small remaining hairpins to keep it up and looking what she hoped was passable, if less elegant. She turned to face him again.

"Mr. Thornton, I must apologize for my outburst…what is so humorous?" Margaret said, astounded to see him smiling at her and clearly suppressing a chuckle.

"Forgive me, Miss Hale, I just have never…well, I've never heard you speak in such a way. It's completely appropriate and…endearing. You don't need to apologize to me," he said, crossing his arms as he leaned against the door again. Margaret glared at him.

"This is no time for teasing," she replied.

"You are right," he said, straightening his face. Or attempting to. Margaret felt a smile reluctantly break through her ire. The least they could do is face their situation with good humor.

"I suppose all of this is absurd. What are we going to do now, Mr. Thornton?"

"Have supper," he replied casually.

"Excuse me?"

"Is there food in that Christmas basket?"

Margaret smiled, "Of course there is. I assemble baskets of the highest quality."

"I do not doubt it," John replied. "Let's eat."