Just a perfect day
You made me forget myself
I thought I was someone else
Someone good
Oh, such a perfect day
I'm glad I spent it with you

-Lou Reed

-OO-

Margaret, dressed in her prettiest, comfiest linen dress and a light coat, leaned on the train window and daydreamed as the scenery rolled past, the train rattling and clacking on its tracks. She thought she had never been so happy in her life. Going to her beloved Helstone with her darling father, and with Mr Thornton, for whom her confused tangle of feelings were beginning to coalesce into a rather startling attachment. The more she knew of him, the more he explained his thoughts to her, the more he smiled at her or gave her a tender look (which was so full of emotion it had the immediate effect of making her feel somehow precious, something to be valued) the more she liked him, it was as simple as that.

And as her understanding and affection grew, she found him more and more beautiful to look at. Her eyes kept removing themselves from the window view to fix themselves on Mr Thornton's face; he was sitting opposite her, with her father beside her at first, but Father had resettled himself in the corner after a little while with a newspaper in his hands, to give them, with that delicacy so natural to him, a little more privacy to have their conversations.

Usually austere to the point of iciness, today the Master of the Mill's countenance was relaxed and prone to fleeting happy expressions; though he wore as usual sharp contrasts of black and white in coat and shirt. Whenever she took her eyes from the window and dwelt them on his face, he did the same, perhaps feeling some permission for it, and looked memorisingly at her, as if committing her to his heart.

"I love a journey by train," she said. "It has always been a pleasure to me. And trains are mysterious creatures. You never know what they will bring you to at the end of the journey."

He cleared his throat and seemed to pull himself to attention. "I know a good deal about the history of the steam locomotive, Miss Hale – would you like to hear some of it? Ahh I see that has terrified you – " a soft, amused smile - "and I'd not want to do that - in that case, how about something a woman once said about her first journey by locomotive: she called it, let's see if I can get this right, this magical machine, with its flying white breath ."

"That is very beautiful, and a wonderful description."

"I thought so. She 'ad more to say, but I can't recall it."

"Look there, Mr Thornton," and she pointed out something of interest on the landscape; he leaned forward to look. Their knees touched; smoothly, with no fuss, he moved his away and continued to look out with her.

"You have your back to the engine, John!" Mr Hale said from his corner. "You had better sit on Margaret's side, we can't have you feeling sick when we arrive in Helstone! You would get quite the wrong impression of the place and I know Margaret wants you to love it as she does."

Thornton looked at Margaret to see how she felt about that. He had no idea why sitting with his back to the engine might cause him to feel sick, but he was certainly not going to argue.

"Of course you must, Mr Thornton," she said immediately. "Then we shall be looking out at the same view."

The moment he sat down was the moment the train rocked and swayed and threw him against her, which made Margaret laugh. They passed the rest of the journey talking occasionally, occasionally in silence, but each blessed every now and then with a secret delicious pleasure of fleeting touch.

If she would fall asleep against me, he thought, imagine the joy of her needing me to lean against, so trustful... Of course it was impossible, but he could picture it so clearly. He knew he had to speak up to her soon, they had established some happier place between them but they could not rest in it forever. For now he held his peace and simply let the rest of the journey pass in this wonderful way, living for the now of it.

Mr Hale said he would take a carriage to the Parsonage as his 'breath seemed short today', but that John and Margaret should walk if they wished, so Margaret could better share her joy in the beauty of Helstone village on a spring day with their dear friend from the bleaker North. The 'carriage' available at Helstone station turned out to be an empty hay-cart, fitted with rough benches, and pulled by a Shire, driven by a fellow more than eager for the trade of the journey when Mr Thornton pulled out coins from his pocket. Mr Hale climbed into the cart with a hand from his friend, and waved them off, smiling happily; dear Helstone! Though he had been more at home in Milton than his wife or daughter, needing only his study and his books around him for a happy life, he too had missed it.

-OO-

"So much space - so much colour!" Thornton murmured, as they walked along the lane, spring hedgerows to right and left all busy with blossoms and life, and then a line of poplars each side like sentinels, . They stopped at a wooden gate to look over a field of pure bright yellows and greens in shades from moss to lime, dotted with black-and-white cows. He seemed so wondering about it all, taking it all in, just stopping to observe, and breathe, and let the fresh breezes pass over his skin.

Margaret had removed her coat and sent it in the cart with her father. It felt so fresh and cool in just her dress. Thornton asked her permission to remove his own coat, and walked swinging it from one finger over his shoulder; he had rolled up both white sleeves to the elbow.

Margaret gave him a smile. "You can see now perhaps why Milton seemed so shocking to Mother and to me."

His eyes dwelt thoughtfully on the far-off firs that edged the rim of the sky. "I am surprised you could bear it as well as you did. But surely, Miss Hale, you would return here to live in a moment, if you could."

She hesitated over this question, which had something more to it than a passing comment, and finally said, "I am fond of Milton now, Mr Thornton. Where one feels at home is not all about whether the view is of fields or industry."

-OO-

Their peaceful, invigorating walk took them more than half an hour. They arrived finally at the Parsonage where they had arranged to meet Margaret's Papa, and found him sitting in the garden of the pretty redbrick cottage with its little smoking chimney, with the new vicar and his wife, and tea set out on a garden table. He greeted his daughter and Mr Thornton with so much delight that Margaret, who knew him well, felt the tea-party had struggled.

"... and this is John Thornton, our very good friend from Milton!" Mr Hale beamed.

The new parson, a butterball of a man, and his quakerish wife, looked at tall dark straight-lipped Mr Thornton with something like terror, which made Margaret want to laugh.

"So, Mr Thornton, you are from the North!" the Vicar said, at last.

Mr Thornton acknowledged it. His eyes were narrowed, his brows drawn down, and he was tense. Margaret recognised the signs and wanted to ... protect him. He was preparing to defend himself. How many times had this happened to him before? Having to face those who considered him lesser – a man of wealth but no class? Fronting out taunts and pretending none of them hit home. She longed to draw a little circle of protection around him, and for him to know he was no longer alone within it.

"It is very wild, in the North, I hear," put in his wife. "Is that not so, Miss Hale? You are brave to live there I think, considering you come from... such a different environment!"

"It doesn't take any more courage to live in Milton than to survive the sharpness and busyness and competition of London society!" Margaret smilingly said. "Less, I would say. Milton has a warmth about it; people help one another, even the poorest."

"And you are a... manufacturer," the Reverend Butterball persisted with this alien stranger, clearly rough, most likely heathen, whom the ex-Reverend had seen fit to bring to his home.

"Mr Thornton's mill produces excellent cotton," Margaret said quickly, "which is very light and comfortable to wear on a hot day."

"Though we get few enough of those in Milton," put in Thornton, who never begged approval from anybody.

"Mr Hale here says you are studying... Plato, I believe? with him. That's quite marvellous, you know. Very good indeed!"

Thornton gave him a look; just a look. It gave nothing away, but the Reverend recoiled from it anyway. "Some of us manufacturers can read quite passably," he said. "Not all of course, and in the wilds of Milton books are mostly used to keep our factory chimneys smokin'."

"John is joking with you!" said Mr Hale, desperately disappointed that the arrival of his friend and daughter had not, after all, eased the tension of the occasion. "Aren't you, John?"

"Well, reading, of course, is much overrated," smiled the vicar's wife. "I have always said so. It can lead one so easily into ignorance."

"More than that, Elsie, It can be very dangerous," her husband nodded along. "There is only one Book. I believe it is too much reading which led Mr Hale here to draw the... conclusions which he did."

Margaret looked down, Mr Hale gazed with a vague smile into the distance, and Mr Thornton's eyes described a rolling circle the way they did when he heard Fanny sing.

"My father was a wonderful vicar. Everyone here loved him and trusted him," Margaret said with some heat. She noticed how Mr Thornton's eyes dwelt on her father with fondness, engaging those mild eyes, giving him a comrade's smile.

"And, along with books, it seems you have got rid of all the beautiful yellow roses," Margaret's eyes were flying indignantly around the garden.

"No-one has a need of roses. They grow all the time, and everywhere, whether one like it or no. We have seven children. Children must play somewhere!"

"I used to play here," Margaret said, softly. "I made way for the roses."

"Well," Richard Hale said, looking at his daughter's face and alarmed by the way the way this was heading, " It has been so very good of you to have us, but we mustn't outstay our welcome!" making a finality of it. "Our carriage will be here soon, I believe, John?" – his pupil consulted his pocket watch and gave the time.

"I will not take up more of your time, but I shall rest here in the garden, with your permission, Reverend, until it arrives. There is more than an hour to show Mr Thornton some of the village, Margaret! Show him the church!"

Mr Hale took a seat in the shade, and settled peacefully, with an expression of bliss on his face.

Thornton thanked their hosts in the manner of one who has been warmly welcomed and extended the most gracious courtesy, then held the garden gate open for Margaret and followed her through. As soon as they were out of sight of the house their heads turned to one another, their eyes met.

"You must think I was dreaming when I told you of the wonders of Helstone, Mr Thornton!" Margaret burst out, but she was smiling.

"Don't feel too badly, Miss Hale. Milton has its fair share of fools. And the scenery is all you said it would be and more. I have never seen so many bright colours in a landscape."

They walked along the hedgerow for a while, taking in all the sights and scents, content to walk, and look, sometimes in a pleasant silence.

"I used to lie here in the grass," she confided. "And sometimes I would fall asleep!"

"Would you care to do so again today? I'd not let the wolves get you," he dared to tease her, and she sent smiling eyes darting his way.

They rounded a hedge corner into where the field opened up and came across a scene of three boys fighting – or, as they drew nearer, it became apparent it was more the case of two boys setting upon a third, who lay on the ground hoarsely shouting as kicks and blows landed.

Without stopping to think about it, Thornton stepped forward, grabbed one collar in each hand, and hauled them off. He did it easily, like picking cotton-bolls from the floor, and held one lad dangling from each hand, the tendons in his forearms easily flexing to take the weight as the miscreants twisted and struggled and bellowed coarse words which made Margaret gasp.

"Not in front of the lady, or you're goin' in the stream," Thornton told them, hard, not shifting his grip. "An' two on one smaller one is no fight, looks like bullyin' to me plain and clear." He dropped them to the grass and they glared up at him, rubbing imagined bruises. The smaller boy had seized the chance to scramble up and dash through the hedgerow to safety. Thornton reached out a hand to each lad and yanked them to stand.

"Not that way," he turned them round to send them off in the opposite direction. "Leave him be and go do something other than scrappin'. Make whistles or poach hares or dam the stream or whatever lads do round 'ere to kip out o'mischief!"

When they had gone, Margaret gazed at him with such admiration he thought he had better temper it, "No need to look at me as if I pulled the lion off Daniel, Miss Hale. They'll be at it again minute we're out of sight. Lads being lads; it's what they do."

"Did you?" she asked as they resumed their walk. She could hardly imagine it – imperious, tight Mr Thornton fighting the way those boys had, ferocious fisticuffs in the dust and dirt of Milton alleys, then the memory of Stevens came to her mind, the snarl on this very man's face, the sound of fist slamming into flesh, a kick aimed to hurt, and a little frown puzzled her brow.

"All men can be violent," he said, shoving his hands into his pockets, watching her. "Unless they've had their sting pulled - by livin' too long in London society, perhaps." His ironic eye caught hers.

She smiled peaceably, "I think perhaps you are thinking of Henry Lennox and his brother Maxwell, Mr Thornton. They are good solid people, if somewhat dull compared with Milton men."

"I'd not doubted it," he said stiffly, not taking her tease as it was meant, and she turned her head to see his chin up, haughty and dark.

"I understand your anger with Mr Stevens better than I did, Mr Thornton. The memory of such a disaster and such a loss of life must never leave you," she said gravely. "But I confess I was shocked by the violence you showed."

He kicked a stone and sent it flying into the distance. "I did tell you I've a temper. But I've never used violence where it wasn't... at least deserved." He looked at her, an anxiousness about him. Did she think he might be violent with a woman? that she might have to live in fear of his exploding temper, as some wives did?

"I'm sure you haven't. I wasn't putting you on trial for it," she assured him. "It was not the best of first impressions, is all. You improved on acquaintance," and now she unleashed on him such a sweet smile his heart ached, he actually had to put his hand to it.

She saw him absently rub his chest through his white shirt and wondered what he was thinking. She added, "There is sometimes a use for violence, perhaps. Father got us away just in time. Another minute with the saintly Reverend and his wife and I'd have been urging you to kick them into the thorns!" which made them both smile.

They had left the field now for the main street of Helstone, all cobbles and green grass verges, which happened to lead past some pretty little cottages with their gardens of lupins and wild red poppies and purple foxgloves, and then here they were at the church, with its wooden wych-gate and the bench before it.

"Sit here with me a moment, Mr Thornton? I have a story to tell you."

They seated themselves with the church behind them, though her companion turned to look at it, which brought his arm along the back of the seat almost behind her. Neither of them knew whether to move or stay; after a moment he unobtrusively removed it.

"This was your father's church?"

"Yes, and I was very fond of it. I have spent many hours in this church – it is quiet now, but often it is positively ringing with singing and bells! Someday I may tell you about my childhood here, and how I was sent to live with my cousin Edith and Aunt Shaw in London, and it was in my Aunt's house where I met Henry shortly before his brother and Edith married."

She was looking down at her laps, twisting her fingers together as she spoke, choosing her words carefully. He listened, giving her all his frowning attention.

"A while ago, Mr Thornton, you asked me a question, you made an assumption – " this being that same difficult memory again, when he had accused her of 'having others', 'many men who had offered her their heart' – "and it is true I had received a proposal, and in a way it was my fault and the fault of this church," she smiled a little, down into her lap. "I made the mistake of describing my idea of the perfect wedding to Mr Lennox, during what I considered the over-elaborate fussy occasion of my cousin Edith's marriage to his brother Maxwell, and he ... he took from that that I ..." now she was truly stuck.

"I see," he took pity on her, to put a stop to her struggle.

"I had never viewed him that way, and I ... had to disappoint him." her large candid eyes lifted to his. "And that is all there was to it, Mr Thornton. You may have assumed more, I don't know..." her voice faltered and fell silent.

His eyes looked very blue today. Reflecting some tints of the glorious Helstone sky. He took some time to reply, and he spoke very gently when he did,

"Describe to me your perfect wedding, Miss Hale?"

She smiled at him, relieved and happy he had understood, and she felt at last they had moved on from some of the troubles of their past. She spoke of a summer's day and walking to the church on a beautiful morning... and he listened very seriously and did not take anything from it which she had not intended.

"It sounds idyllic, Miss Hale. Though how practical it'ud be... I have a feeling that the families of the lucky couple feel they deserve a say in the matter and insist on putting their various threads in the shuttle so the fabric of this 'simple wedding' grows and grows... but I know little about it."

While a pleasant, even thrilling, subject for them to dance around, it was becoming trickier; he fell into a silence, thinking of first impressions and how wrong they could be. Hers of him as a man prone to dangerous violence, which he was not, being icily controlled and well-armed with a sharp tongue to use rather than his fists; and he who had thought she had turned down a whole line of would-be lovers before rejecting him, his just another unsuccessful suit she would barely give a thought to before the next came along. How strange that she had only had one other, she whom his heart considered the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and the sweetest, and most full of interesting character; but he supposed she had that air of self-possession, a coolness and a dignity about her which would prevent all but the boldest man chancing his luck, or one given a reason to suppose she would look upon his suit with favour.

-OO-

It was time to walk back. Their hands bumped against one another as they walked side by side; it would have felt natural for them to catch hold and walk as children do in pairs on the way to their lessons, but for now this secret touch was thrilling enough. They came to a stile and he was allowed to help her over it.

She exclaimed as a strand from the overhanging bushes got entangled in her hair and stopped dead on the other side, captured. He saw the problem – "Stay still Miss Hale – an' don't touch it, it's covered all over wi'thorns," leaped the stile with a hand on it and busied himself for a few moments carefully, gently, making sense of the knotty tangle. Finally she was freed and, unable to stop himself, from behind her he dropped his hands to her shoulders... but only for a moment - oh, how he wanted them to stay! - but he won the battle and removed them almost immediately. He hoped she would not think he had taken advantage to steal something he should not have, he could not bear that she think him an opportunist lecher.

But she turned and smiled and thanked him nicely and they walked on.

Gi'me a chance, Margaret! Let me prove myself to you!

His heartache was back. He had a strand of her hair in his hand. It seemed too precious to drop like waste; he pocketed it.

-OO-

Notes:

The full quote which Mr Thornton can't quite remember: "You can't imagine how strange it seemed to be, journeying on thus without any visible cause of progress other than the magical machine, with its flying white breath and rhythmical, unvarying pace". – Fanny Kemble, an actress, on her first train journey, a decade and a half before this one.