POLES APART

A/N: Hi there everyone! My apologies for the long drought. I received such a wonderful response to my last posting that I feel really guilty for keeping you all hanging for so long. I hope this chapter will make up for it.

As for the questions / points raised by a few of you to my last chapter, I haven't had a chance to answer you all personally but they were very good points and I will definitely be working my explanations into upcoming chapters, so you'll just have to 'stay tuned'.

Thanks for all the support, reviews and follows! You guys are the best! Please keep the reviews coming.

Enjoy!

Chapter 5:

John Thornton had been seated at his desk for several hours, pouring over the Mill's ledgers in the dim lamp light, until his eyes were raw. No matter how much he stared at the figures he could not find any way around the looming crevasse that lay in the path of Marlborough mills. He had attempted to get further credit from the bank but even that had now been exhausted. Investors were hard to come by as the influx of cotton from abroad had flooded the market, and the harsh winter did nothing to encourage sales.

There was always speculation.

His mother was cautious but even she had been won round by Fanny's incessant chanting of the guaranteed success of her 'dear Watson's' scheme. Hannah knew the risks - better than anyone; yet even she was prepared to risk it all.

Why couldn't he? He knew that even if the mill was doomed he could at least afford to pay the workers for the next few months, giving them chance to find other employment. If he speculated and lost he would be ruined, and the mill would be forced to close immediately and those workers within her walls would be out on the street with not even a penny to show for it.

No, he couldn't allow that to happen. He had a responsibility to his employees. As their master they trusted him to make the right decisions for the mill and therefore for their future in the mill. He was not omnipotent and could therefore not control matters such as supply and demand, or industrial strikes, but he could control his money and how he spent it. He would not do to his workers what was once done to him. He at least had the power to spare them that.

He rubbed wearily at his scratchy eyes for the umpteenth time that night, trying to keep the beast – exhaustion, at bay. He was just preparing to look at the ledgers one last time to be absolutely sure that he hadn't overlooked anything when he heard a rapping at his office door. He realized now that the mill had become eerily silent since the shift had ended and the snow outside drowned out all other noises; wrapping him in a cocoon of silence. The knock at the door sounded sharp and harsh as it reverberated in the stillness and yet who ever made it had obviously been purposefully gentle in their action so as not to cause alarm.

He knew it must be his mother, come to search him out and make him retire for the night. She often waited up for him, but in this biting cold he would have thought even she would have succumbed to the warmth of her bed.

"Enter!" he bellowed.

No one could have been more astounded than he when the door opened to admit Miss Hale instead of Hannah Thornton!

"Miss Hale!?" he spluttered, as he hastily attempted to rise from his chair. In his shock and surprise he failed to register that his cravat was lying tossed in a heap on the side of his desk and that his hair was standing all on end due to the many times he had run his fingers through it in his frustration.

"It is freezing outside! Why are you not in bed?" he declared.

As he said this he suddenly realized that his own hands where numb with cold, his fire having died down to mere embers. In his absorption with his task he hadn't bothered to add another log. This he quickly did in an attempt to drive the chill from the air so that Margaret wouldn't catch her death in the icy office. He noticed that other than her slight dress, she wore only a thin woolen shawl draped precariously across her shoulders, which he could not imagine offered much in the way of warmth; and her beautiful brown hair, which was still piled high atop her head was dusted in a glittery sprinkling of snowflakes.

"As you are aware, I do not get much sleep these days, but I shall welcome the warmth of the fire for I am rather cold. I never thought the distance between the house and the mill so very far before, but tonight, trudging through the snow and the darkness, it felt interminable," she remarked as she walked towards the hearth with her hands extended to catch the warmth that was flickering into life as Thornton stirred the coals. "Thank you," she said as he pushed a chair towards her, seating her directly in front of the grate.

"You should not be here Miss Hale, and not just because it is cold," he admonished, feeling all of the impropriety of the situation, but hoping that she would remain all the same.

"Everyone is asleep; no one knows I am here."

"I know," was his only reply, as he cast his eyes back towards the fire.

"Yes," she said, a heady rush of courage, (or foolishness), driving her forward; "but you think so ill of me already, I can hardly sink lower in your estimation." She looked fleetingly into his eyes as she said this, and thought she caught a glimpse of the blaze she had seen there before.

Margaret, conscience stricken, hastily looked back at the fire; but Thornton, who had looked up at her during her brazen speech, now continued to observe her. Her every movement enthralled him. She attempted to brush a stray strand of hair from her face, which being slightly damp from the now melting snow, was stuck to her cheek. As she pushed the hair behind her ear with the soft pad of her finger he felt his whole body shudder with an unknown intensity.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other in his agitation and rested his arm against the mantle above the fireplace, but he could not tear his eyes away from her bewitching form.

The conversation had stalled; he was too spellbound to even notice the passing of time and she, now that she was here in his office, was incredibly aware of how awkward it would be to say what she had originally set out to say. In addition to the awkwardness she was feeling she was also feeling incredibly self conscious. She was bitterly cold but her palms were sweaty and she thought her heart was beating so loud that it must be echoing around the office. It certainly beat faster every time she glanced up to find Thornton still staring at her in such an overtly lascivious manner.

She had noted upon entering the small office, the disheveled appearance of its only occupant. His hair was ruffled and the stubble on his chin and cheeks made his face appear almost dirty in the dim light cast by the lamp on his desk. Most shocking to her had been when she had noticed that he had removed his cravat and his collar was unbuttoned to reveal the taught muscles of his throat beneath the soft white cotton. For some inexplicable reason to Margaret, this view – like no other, had caused her pulse to at first stop all together and after several long seconds begin racing along at such an alarming rate she felt she may even swoon. It was this view, and the herculean effort it took for her not to reach her hand out to stroke the dark shadow of his exposed neck, that caused the sudden surge of heat now coursing through her veins.

She had been very grateful when he had offered her a chair in front of the fire, but now the heat that seemed to be radiating out of her made the need for the fire somewhat superfluous. Margaret truly couldn't understand her body's strange reaction; after all, she had been alone with Mr. Thornton on several occasions and had never experienced this level of discomfiture or anxiety, and yet despite these seemingly negative responses, she had no desire what-so-ever to leave the dim little room.

After several deep and steadying breaths, and an inward resolve to not look at Mr. Thornton's neck anymore, lest she truly did succumb to a fainting fit, she eventually managed to garner enough courage to finally speak.

"I know you would have me believe that you think only of profits and business as regards your employees, but I do not believe you. There was a time when I truly thought you had entirely divorced yourself from feelings of morality and responsibility pertaining to the welfare of your hands, but I was prejudiced against you due to my own irrational arrogance and I did not judge you fairly; for that I am truly sorry Mr. Thornton."

She had tried to force her eyes to maintain eye contact, (whilst simultaneously trying to school her traitorous heart beat) and maintain a practiced air of dignity while she spoke, so that he would know she was in earnest; but as soon as she finished her sentence she immediately looked back at the fire, hoping that the ruby glow from the now fiery blaze would camouflage the bloom of red that washed over her cheeks.

"You never accused me of anything which I did not admit to freely," he replied, rather confused by her apology and her inexplicable embarrassment, but also silently rapturous that she appeared so determined to think well of him.

"You have always been very adamant in your attempts to make others believe that your sole care and responsibility is towards your balance sheet and your investors, but you can no longer deceive me."

"You mistake me Miss Hale; I have never, nor do I now, have any wish to deceive you. I have only ever been truthful and honest in my own appraisal. I understand that sometimes what is beneficial to the mill and her investors will also be of benefit to her workers; and though admittedly this is a happy coincidence I can assure you it was certainly not my aim."

"The wheel that you had installed, how was that of any benefit to your investors?" she asked; his calm passive denial of her assertions evaporating her awkwardness. Her rapid pulse was now only the result of her firm resolve, and steeling herself for the inevitable argument she turned herself in the chair so that she faced him head on – determined to make him admit his humility and recognize that caring for his fellow man was a strength and not the weakness he seemed to believe it to be.

"As I have explained before, the profit is not immediate but it allows…"

"Yes, I know," she interrupted, her nervous energy and her annoyance forcing her to stand up and face him eye to eye,(or as close as possible as he was at least a good foot taller than she was); "it keeps your workers healthier, allowing them to work for you for longer. But my father once told me that the other masters didn't agree with you. They believed that the cost far outweighed any potential profit, which would be minimal and would probably take years to realize - if ever."

Thornton didn't argue back. His mouth curled in a wry smile as he watched this beautiful woman defend him and his actions from himself. He noted too how her thin shawl, which she had draped haphazardly across her shoulders, had slipped down to rest in the crook of her arms as she had sprung up from the chair. She was now mere inches from him and he could clearly see the tiny drops of water that had formed on her dark brown lashes as the snowflakes that had settled there had melted with the heat of the fire.

Or perhaps they had melted with the heat that seemed to writhe like a wild beast in the narrow space between their two bodies as they stood opposite each other, as if facing off for a duel.

He recalled the one previous occasion they had been so close – the day she had thrown her arms about his neck to save him from the rioters. That day, the fear he had felt for her safety had deadened all other responses, and his numbed senses thought only of a way to protect her; now, clouded by exhaustion, fire and lust, he thought only of a way to possess her. In his delirium, he advanced a step closer to her until their bodies were almost touching, and when he spoke it was in a husky whisper.

"Next you will tell me how my canteen must have been done purely to feed the hungry, as it costs more to run than it actually saves, and the result of the workers full bellies is that they become lethargic and work slower. Or perhaps you'll say that employing Nicholas Higgins was done simply to help him feed the orphaned children of a man I hardly knew, rather than because I believed him to be a good hard worker who had a lot to offer my mill. And you will argue your point so savagely and yet so effectively that the result will be that you shall make me realize just how much money I could save by abandoning all these humanitarian schemes; - and when I do abandon them maybe then I shall finally convince you that if you were to cut open my heart you would find the words 'good business sense' etched across it over and over again, ad infinitum."

Was he teasing her? She couldn't think properly…

His words were absorbed by the vacuum between them, in which all time and space seemed to have disappeared. He watched, as one bewitched, the rapid rise and fall of her chest and the soft red pout of her lips as she struggled to catch her breath.

She in turn was mesmerized by his intoxicating voice and the raw masculinity of his jaw muscles as they flexed and strained with each syllable.

The pause was long and heavy as she tried to regain her thought processes so that when she did finally reply her voice would not betray her.

"Well then in closing let me just say this: whatever your aim and whatever the result, you are a good master. Nay," she hastened to correct herself, "You are a good man. You are more than just the master of Marlborough mills; I'm sorry I didn't realize it sooner – the foolishness of youth perhaps…" she said, smiling up at him, remembering his admonishment of his sister that morning.

She stared into his eyes, no longer shying away from the raging fire that burned there. She examined his tired visage; his mussed black hair and the dark shadow that covered his chin. She now gave herself full rein to scrutinize every aspect of his countenance. In her study she noticed how the dusky shadow on his face spread down his muscular throat and further down towards his chest where it was met by a mass of thick black curls which were just visible in the v-shape of his open shirt collar. Her desire to reach her hand out towards him and bury her thin white fingers in this thick dark mass was almost overpowering. She could feel her heart continue to race along, swept up in the blaze, but she couldn't look away.

Thornton felt the breath catch in his throat. She was so close to him…the heat was unbearable…the temptation seductive, like a drug; pushing him forward…daring him on.

She looked at him so earnestly, her pale face pleading with him; but somewhere, deep in the recesses' of his memory, there came the small whimper of an almost forgotten about hurt; a pain which had been so all encompassing, so deep and fierce, the memory alone was enough to drive the strength from his limbs. He remembered that he had misunderstood Margaret Hale once before to his detriment; he would not do so again – he could not endure it!

Tearing his eyes away from her soft face and turning his back to her, he finally spoke in a voice of strained calm.

"You are over tired Miss Hale, may I suggest that you get some much needed rest. We can talk of this in the morning." His fingers clenched in a tight fist, the knuckles of which he agitatedly and repeated rubbed against his closed lips in a vain attempt to compose himself.

"In the morning you will have remembered all of the reasons you have to mistrust and hate me, I would rather talk now," she replied almost breathlessly, stepping closer towards him.

He spun back around to face her, his eyes flashing back to her face. "Do you not think that I have cause to mistrust and hate you? Are you at last prepared to offer up a defense for your behavior?" he answered scathingly as the old wounds scorched and stung as if she had just carved them anew.

"Please Mr. Thornton;" she pleaded. "That night at the station, you did not see what you thought you saw. You thought …" but he cut her off before she could continue the explanation she had planned out so carefully in her head.

"Save your breath Miss Hale!" he spat. He moved away from the fire (away from her), back around the other side of his large desk, hoping the cold night air on that side of his office would slake the fire in his veins. "What you do is of no concern to me. I ask only that while you are a guest of my mother's you behave with the strictest decorum and not cause my mother to suffer any humiliation of your causing."

Her reference to the station had jarred him out of his stupor, and the awakening was no less rude than it was heart-wrenching.

"Please, Mr. Thornton, I know what you and your mother must think of me, but will you not even let me explain?" she begged, but her entreaty fell on deaf ears. He had already walked back around his desk in the direction of the door, in an obvious attempt to conclude their discourse.

"I gave you an opportunity to explain yourself several weeks ago, but you did not feel that I was worthy of an explanation; now your excuses are of little value - I know what I saw. I bid you good night madam." He strode purposefully toward the door and opening it he motioned her dismissal.

Margaret had always been a strong willed woman but with all she so lately had to bear her spirits were worn low and her strength and will extinguished. She could hardly credit that a few moments before she had been swept along on some euphoric and intensely intimate tide, and yet now she was being coldly ejected from his presence, such as a dog may be chased from a room when it had tracked mud all over the carpet. Her heart crumbled and she raced past Thornton in a blur of angry tears - out into the desolate yard.

He forced himself not to look back at her as she ran out into the night, her slight frame engulfed in the howling blizzard.

The thick snow was almost blinding but she could just make out the soft warm glow of the candle that had been left in the window near the door for Mr. Thornton. She wrapped her shawl tight about her shoulders and though slipping slightly on the snow covered cobbles she hurriedly made her way towards the house.

Once inside she hurried up the stairs, stumbling in the dark; her tears making it even more difficult to see where she was going. Finally, she made it to the sanctuary of her room, and after gently closing the door she collapsed on her bed, silent tears racing down her frozen cheeks.

She lay huddled on top of the covers for nearly an hour; her body wracked by sobs and shivering with the cloying cold that had driven the heat of Mr. Thornton's office and of Mr. Thornton's presence from her frail bones. Her thin slippers had become soaked through with the icy melted snow and her toes were numb; her shawl had slipped from her shoulders as she had collapsed on the bed and now lay in a useless heap on the floor; and her beautiful rich dark locks, which were damp and falling out of their pins, lay splayed across the coverlet of the bed where her head was buried between the large pillows.

She had no idea what had compelled her to seek out Mr. Thornton this night. The force was strong and yet alien to her. It was unrelenting as it spurred her on, and the answering responses that were elicited by her own body in reaction to its fervor were heady and intoxicating. The resulting emptiness left in its wake was all consuming. She had experienced loss on many levels since arriving in Milton, but the deep cavernous ache she felt at the loss of Mr. Thornton's presence and the subsequent loss of his respect and love, was unlike anything she had heretofore felt. It engulfed her in undulating waves of pain, loneliness; and she realized now when it was too late, with a savagely broken heart that ached with unfulfilled need and all-encompassing guilt at now knowing what she had caused him to suffer several months previously.

And so she lay, crumpled and broken, until exhaustion won out and she eventually succumbed to sleep. Her head resting on the forgotten gloves that she had still held in her hands after she had run out of the mill masters office into the cold dark night.