Here is the second part. Awesome Kayran deserves a medal for being such an incredible beta. Tell me if I am overdoing it, angst is not really my thing, but there is no way around it in the canon situation of the moment.
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The Error of Judgement.
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By Ikuko
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Part two. Iron and Paper.
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He walked the familiar path to Crampton as the mill's smoke slowly replaced the dissipating fog of the gray morning. It was probably better not to think about the task ahead. He would talk to her as gently as he could when he got there but now the thoughts of telling Margaret the news of the death of her father were pulling heavily at him, gnawing at his resolution.
By the time he reached the house he needed all his will to uphold his determination. He raised his hand to knock on the door but instead placed the palm of his hand flat against the door panel, holding it for a moment as if trying to sense what was behind it. He took another sharp breath, gathering his will, and knocked. Then his hand slid down to the handle, almost caressing it, gathering the support from the cold metal.
He waited, but the house remained quiet. Was she away? It was still rather early. What should he do? Wait here? He was beginning to feel absurd after braving the feat of knocking at the empty house.
Irresolute, he stood on the steps, looking out at the bustle on the street with unseeing eyes. Should he wait? How to act when she comes? How should he say it to her? How would she react? Can he witness her tears without overstepping the bounds he set for himself?
He was startled at the sound behind him. The door lock clanked, opening. He cursed the slowness of the maid. He got up hastily, preparing what to say to the servant about his unexpected visit but there was no servant.
Margaret opened the door herself, blinking at the morning light.
'Mr Thornton!' Her full lips slightly parted in astonishment. He noticed that she was wearing the old light dress with a lot of pink in it and a large prosaic apron.
Of course she was surprised. He had not been to the house in so long! Mr. Thornton could read her face like a book, her expression revealed confusion, shyness, and what was that? Looked almost like a hope... No. It could not be. She was simply caught at an awkward moment, she was not expecting visitors at this moment, much less he, who had not come for so long while her father was waiting for him. Certainly his coming now would appear strange to her.
In another moment she mastered her expression into a civil, unreadable smile and invited him in with as much self-possession as was customary to her. She stepped back, inviting him in in gesture rather than in words.
He followed her in the tiny sitting room, but did not take the offered seat. It was his turn to be at loss of the world. Instead, he let his eyes wander over the quirky and cosy room he had not seen for so long.
Margaret made a valiant attempt for conversation, seeing his obvious discomfort.
'Mr. Thornton, you would excuse me for not receiving you properly. Unfortunately I am all alone today. Father has not yet returned from Oxford but he will be glad to hear that you dropped by for a visit.'
'Margaret,' he finally said hoarsely. She was clearly surprised at such intimate, emotional address from him.
He tried to start again, once more repeating her name, the only thing that was coming naturally to his lips:
'Margaret.'
He came closer and covered her hand with his, unaware how intimate this simple gesture was at that moment. There was a momentary strain in her arm but she did not take her hand away. She looked up, almost blushed but then grew alarmed at the look of sadness and pity in his eyes. She noticed his sombre attire and was struck by a sickening suspicion.
'Mr. Thornton?' she did not continue, afraid of what he could say.
Still holding his hand on hers, he slid his fingers under the palm of her hand, trying to find support in the soft warmth that was there.
'Margaret...' he started for the third time. 'I have received a letter from Mr. Bell just now...'
Margaret's eyes grew impossibly large, all the colour draining from the face and then, slowly, the pupils dilated in horror as she guessed the reason for his coming.
'Father...No...I can see it in your eyes. Something happened to him... No, no! He is dead, isn't he? Otherwise you would not be wearing this, would not be looking at me like this...'
He did not know how to answer, he did not expect her to guess the awful truth so readily. All he could do was to nod dumbly.
She tottered but felt the chair behind her and sat down heavily before he could move to assist her.
Her eyes remained dry, pale lips compressed while an expression of hopelessness and grief flooded her face. He felt all warmth leaving the small impassive hand he was still holding, and unconsciously rubbed it with his fingers as if to warm it.
'Margaret, let me call... what's her name, Dixon?'
She answered slowly, from some far away place in her unbearable grief:
'No... Dixon is away. I did not need much help being alone. She asked to visit her sister till Friday.'
'But the other girl, Martha?'
'Her mother was unwell today. She is staying there to help her. She will not be back until evening. There is no one.' Her voice was a colourless monotone.
"Is there anyone who can be with you?'
'No. I am all right. Mary might come for a minute of two later today, but she needs to return to work after her break'.
Mr. Thornton was not prepared for this. She was completely alone at this terrible time. How could he leave her? He wished he could comfort her somehow but what can one say in the face of such tragedy? She seemed frozen in her sorrow, unresponsive to his halting words of sympathy.
Dispirited he relaxed his hold and her hand slipped despondently out of his. Still no tears were coming to her eyes, though the look of brittle despair was gone now, replaced with a sickly, filmy dizziness. Mr. Thornton paced the room restlessly, desperate to do something, anything of use. How can he possibly help her? Water. Yes, a drink of water might refresh her. Wine would be better but he was not familiar enough with the house to locate it. Water should be easy to find.
He crossed under the little arch which, as he guessed before, led to the kitchen. As his eyes swept the unfamiliar room in hope of finding a glass and a water pitcher, his thoughts were suddenly arrested by an unexpected realization. There was no sign of any servant around. He recalled that Margaret said she was all alone today and yet, there was the ironing board and a heavy iron, still hot, forgotten on its stand. She was doing the ironing by herself. This queenly, genteel, most lady-like creature he ever knew was doing her own ironing in that ridiculous apron and the old pinkish dress she was still wearing. No wonder she was not disposed to see visitors at that moment. Surprising that she would open the door for him at all.
He closed his eyes and shook his head before resuming the task of finding water. The very first cupboard he opened was a pantry, a pantry that had no lock on the door. Indeed there was little enough to lock away. He never realized how distressed for money Hales were until that moment. In fact, the cardboard had awoken in him the memory of their own poor cupboard long ago when they had to live on fifteen shillings a week. Not as bad admittedly. It was not a food supply of someone who had not enough food to survive but of someone who had to count pennies and deny themselves simple indulgence of fruits and puddings. There was tea of a good quality in the jar though and a small sliver of cheese. But even with these pitiful luxuries it had the same feel of habitual privations. He was now painfully conscious of the Margaret's ability to remain such a regal lady in the face of poverty so hopeless that she needed to do the meanest house work all by herself.
He found the glasses in the second and last cupboard in the kitchen, carefully stored away with the lovely china cups he saw when Margaret served tea for him, the touching remnants of more genteel life in Helstone. There was also a tin pitcher with water on the side board. The glass rattled against metal with the shaking of his hand as he poured water in.
On his return he found her in the very same attitude as he left her. He placed the glass in her cold hand but it took a few moments before her fingers held it strongly enough. Her hand was so weak and shaky that water spilled slightly, leaving a wet gleam on her pale lips. He had to swallow and get up. Probably he needed some water himself.
The lethargy that she was succumbing to was worrying him now. Her half-veiled eyes looked at something in front of her that was not there and she only spoke when he addressed her, almost like a somnambulant, without any power left to disguise her meaning or refuse the answer.
With all his being he wished that he was her only friend and protector, that he could just scoop this woman out of her grief and bring her into his life. He would want nothing better, but his stubborn conscience kept whispering to him that there must be someone, somewhere who by blood connection or by the bond of a long friendship had claims on her superior to his.
She was in no state to volunteer the information but the matter could not be postponed. He racked his brain for any scrap of information that would help him direct his questions. What did Bell say in his letter? There was a family abroad. Probably contacting them was the best way but what help could they offer her from afar and when the letter would even reach them?
He could not think of any other person in connection with her... No. That was not quite true, was it? That man. The man who she protected at significant risk to herself. The man who was her support and hope when her mother died. A lover, probably a fiancée. His jealousy was stinging him bitterly but her need was the greatest. Mr. Thornton sternly told himself that he must ask her about him impartially, as if he has no interest in the matter. If the aunt was abroad, that man probably needed to be contacted.
He swallowed hard and returned to sit by her side.
'Do you...' he started and then almost instantly stopped himself, hearing grim surliness in his own voice. He started once again, gently this time:
'Miss Hale, do you have any friends you might want to contact? Your family? Your friends? They must be alerted as soon as might be.' She only closed her eyes tiredly. 'That man you were walking with, can he be of help?'
'What man?'
He floundered at the explanation. How could he possibly tell her who he meant without betraying the months of burning jealousy?
'The man at the train station,' he finally said blandly, 'Can you contact him?'
'My brother? How do you know about Fred? Oh, yes, I recall. I am sorry. It does not matter, he is safe now. He is back in Spain. He happy, he is married now.'
'You have brother?' Mr. Thornton heart skipped a beat at the news of his imagined rival being her brother - and married! Why did not Hale say that he had a son? Did it mean that she was not so completely alone as he imagined she was?
'Your brother...' he reveled in unexpected pleasure of pronouncing these words again about the person who was haunting his worst nightmares lately. 'Can he come for you here?'
'No. He can not return to England, it was terrible risk to come when Mama was dying. But he can not come, not again! He would be hanged. I might have to go there unless my aunt takes me in. Fred always wanted me to come to him but it is so far, so far from... Milton!'
Thornton was torn between the traitorous happiness that she was not attached to another man and the sudden horrified realization that nothing holds her in Milton after her father's death and that her departure, probably forever, was now a matter of days. But once again he shut out his selfish wishes and toiled on with what he saw as her best interests. He needed to know about her friends and relations, it was his duty to alert them of her desperate plight, for they had the first right of assisting her.
Slowly he pulled the information about mutiny from her. She was so deeply lost in her grief that she seemed unaware what she was saying and to whom was listening. She muttered distractedly about her fears that now Mr. Thornton thought poorly of her, to the face of the very man she was fretting about, oblivious to laying her heart bare in front of him.
His own heart started to beat thickly in his chest when he realized that his opinion was so important to her. It took all the resolution Mr. Thornton could master not to take her in his arms and assure her that there was nothing in the world that would induce him to think poorly of her. And yet – he had, hadn't he? He suspected this woman unjustly of misconduct she had never committed. He was blinded with jealousy when he had no right to be thus. He spoke to her viciously and permitted his mother to remonstrate with her.
He closed his eyes and the scene replayed in his mind as if it happened a moment ago. How unthinkingly cruel he was! She accepted his words in proud silence, not attempting to justify herself, merely flinching at his brutal lashing. His behaviour then was unforgivable. All he could do now was perform his duty, even if it would take her away from him as the result. He stood up and walked to the window, pressing his throbbing forehead to the cool glass.
Mustering his will once again, he persisted in talking to her, asking about any friend that she might have that needed to be informed of her plight. At first she did not seem to quite understand his purpose; but then she seemed to awake from her languid state for a brief moment and looked at him mildly surprised.
'My aunt and cousin, no, they are not abroad. They returned a few weeks ago.'
His treasonous heart sank. Of course a creature like this could not possibly be unwanted and friendless. The aunt, curse her.
'Do you think your aunt and cousin would be able and willing to assist you?' he asked, hoping against hope to hear that they were unfriendly, destitute and unwilling to take her in, leaving him a chance to stay in her life as her friend and supporter.
'I think so, I hope so. My aunt always treated me like a second daughter, and my cousin is very affectionate. I spent much of my childhood in their house as they were better situated in life than my poor parents. My aunt and cousin are very kind.'
That hope dashed too he had to resign now to the fact that as soon as the aunt would learn of Margaret's situation, she would be likely to take the orphaned girl to London, away from him forever. Yet it had to be done. Against every wish he had in his heart he urged her to write to her aunt. He searched the room for the paper and ink and brought them to her, willing to spare her any unnecessary effort in her distress. She appeared a little more aware of her surrounding but still very weak.
He tried to encourage her gently.
'Margaret, I am sorry to trouble you further at such a moment but this matter cannot be postponed. Your aunt needs to be informed.'
'I must write to her... yes. So she would help... Take me in to her home again, away from...' she looked at him pleadingly, and hesitated a tiny moment. '...here.'
'She is your only family left in England. If, as you say, she is attached to you, of course she would want to extend her kindness to someone in your situation. I know how devastating it is to lose someone, one you love so dearly.'
'More than one,' she echoed mournfully, her eyes still tracing his features as if trying to commit them to her memory forever.
He stuttered, losing the train of what he was saying at the moment. Of course. There was more than one loss. He took in a short breath through his teeth.
'Yes, your mother too, this was a very cruel year for you.'
At his mention of her mother Margaret closed her eyes as if he reprimanded her. She did not lift them again, resolutely looking down at her hands. He felt a pang of loss, wishing to see her eyes again.
Obeying him like a child she took the pen he offered and started a letter but after the first lines her hand sank back on the table, powerless to continue as soon as she came to the nature of the communication she was to make. He felt the cruelty of forcing her any further yet he needed to finish this wretched business, no matter what it cost him and send the letter that would take this girl out of his life and to some unknown 'Aunt Shaw'.
'Margaret, would you like me to write on your behalf?' He asked compassionately. 'You are much too distressed to continue'.
He took the pen from her unresisting fingers. She did not object so he wrote quickly, trying not to think about it, adding a few brisk, impersonal sentences conveying the necessary information. Still he had to trouble her for more effort. She was cajoled eventually to address and sign the letter before she sank back into her lethargy. With a heavy heart he sealed the accursed letter, the letter that would take the most important person in his life away from him forever.