I would like to say huge thank you to Kayran, who edited, advised and was generally incredibly patient with me, and to soccer4fc, who provided a thorough grammar check. They both are awesome. I am also updating already posted chapters, editing out the annoying mistakes, though it is already too late for those of you who hadto suffer through then already. I am sorry for that.

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Chapter 3. Tear in Strength.

By Ikuko

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Mr. Thornton stood up with the letter in his hand, unsure of his next action. The letter needed to be dispatched with the next post, if possible, but leaving Margaret was unthinkable. Why did she let both servants go this very day! Posting a letter would only take a few minutes, but how could he ask her to lock the door after him, or open it again upon his return? She needed someone, preferably a woman, to stay with her and help her.

His thoughts were interrupted by a sound of knocking at the kitchen door. Mr. Thornton briskly walked to the door and opened it to see a surprised Mary standing there.

'Master! I was only fetching some fresh bread and milk for Miss Margaret!'

Mr. Thornton was relieved to see another living soul in the house and Mary would do just fine for now.

'Miss Higgins, I need your help,' he said urgently.

'Oh, Master, but I have to be back at the mill before the noon break ends!'

'Miss Higgins, it will not take very long. Please. Miss Hale is not well. She has learned just now that her father passed away in Oxford, and is deeply distressed.'

'Master Hale is dead! Oh, poor old parson! Poor Miss Margaret!'

'Could you stay with her? She needs a woman's help. I must run some errands for her but I will be back in a few minutes.'

'Yes, Master. But I need to be at work by the end of the hour.'

'I will be back presently'

He left in haste. Indeed, it took him no more than a quarter hour to post the accursed letter.

From the street he could see the smoke stack of Marlborough Mills and the sight did not give him any comfort. The sequence of losses that was besieging him made the sight of them almost as melancholy as the sight of the recently bereaved house he just left. It seemed that the world around him was full with with hopeless toil and sorrow in the last few months, without repose or hope.

Mary opened the door for him. In her own way she was deeply attached to Margaret, expressing it in somewhat crude but well-meaning kindness. Mr. Thornton noted wryly that Mary was not idle in his absence. There was a tea prepared on the table, though the cup she poured for Margaret remained untouched.

And Margaret! During his short absence Mary somehow convinced her to change from her pinkish dress to the deep mourning once again. Mr. Thornton did not know whether to be annoyed by this observance of formality, or to admire Mary's sense in her attempts to stir her drooping, passive friend into some action. Mary's considerate attentions did not quite achieve the intended goal. The worried girl admitted that though Miss Margaret was amenable to every appeal, she did not respond to her, nor did she appear to understand what was happening around her and why.

Mary seemed to hesitate before going away.

'I do not fancy leaving poor Miss Margaret when she is so wan. Someone ought to be with her but I need to go back or Mr. Phillips would fine me for sure! I wish I could come in the evening but someone needs to look after the children!'

Mr. Thornton was now very concerned about Margaret's lethargy. He wished that a doctor would see her, lest she sink deeper an deeper until she slipped out of this life entirely. There was too much sorrow in her life for one person to bear.

'Go, Miss Higgins, I will stay here until Martha comes back. But could you do one more favour for me?'

'Yes, Master, but I need to get back right away,- '

'It will not take much of your time, Miss Higgins. You are working at Hamper's mill, aren't you? Could you pass a letter for Dr. Donaldson? It is almost directly on your way.'

He quickly wrote a few lines for the doctor explaining the situation and his concern with Miss Hale's despondency. Then he relieved Mary from her duties, once again asking to drop the note at Dr. Donaldson on her way to the mill.

The aunt might come in a day or two to whisk Margaret away from him but until she did, he was the nearest friend Margaret had. He was aware of the sickening feeling of guilt that was lacing his compassion. He was not as selfless as he would wish to be. Once, long ago, after her mother died, he wished that his love could support Margaret in her grief. Now it was finally required, at the cost of another tragedy to her.

If he was to stay here he felt he better make himself useful. The tea in Margaret's cup was quite cold now, forgotten on the table but Mary was thoughtful enough to bring the whole tea urn to the sitting room. Mr. Thornton refilled the cup and put it in her hand. To his gratification, she took the cup in both cold hands seeking the warmth. Tea seemed to revive her a little; at least some colour came to her lips and she no longer looked as chilled and trembling as when he had first returned to the room.

To the great relief of Mr. Thornton, the doctor came sooner than he had any hope of expecting him.

'Ah, Thornton. You are lucky the girl caught me when I was leaving to see old Mr. Norris just down the street. What a sad business. Poor Mr. Hale, do you know what happened?'

Thornton answered as well as he could.

She submitted to Dr. Donaldson's examination in the same state of apathy. He shook his head several times, saying that he could not find any immediate danger, but was concerned about the deep lethargy she was falling into. Her answers came in whispers if they came at all. Once or twice Thornton had to repeat doctor's questions to her, as it seemed that she answered more readily in reply to his voice.

'I would not worry overmuch,' said Dr. Donaldson. Try to recall her from her apathy by any means possible. I will give her some draughts, it will help in the meanwhile.'
He rummaged in his spacious bag and produced a vial.
'Is it morphine?'
'No, she is unresponsive as it is. This it will strengthen her nerves but won't make her drowsy. Call her, talk to her. Don't let her sink deeper. If you succeed, with this draught she should improve somewhat within half an hour.'

Mr Thornton saw him out to the hall and fumbled with his pocket book.

'Oh, never mind that, it was just a friendly visit... well, all right, if you insist. She is a good girl. I would still like to see her give into a natural response to the grief. If she cries her sorrow out she will be able to deal with her grief better. She is very strong, it is astonishing what such noble creatures can bear. At the moment the danger is in herself. Her own strength is her enemy, she keeps herself under control when any other woman would faint or dissolve in tears. But I have seen this young lady in the worst of times, what a queen she is. She put her own grief on hold to help her poor father and I must say, he was not of much use just then. You only see one like this in a lifetime.'

Thornton only nodded. Not receiving any reply to his words, the good doctor turned and had a good look at the anguished face of the younger man. The light of sudden realization crossed his face and he turned away uncomfortably.

'Oh. Well, take care of her, then. She should not be left alone if it can be helped. Call her. She listens to your voice, you should be able to do it. Take heart, take heart. Remarkably strong they are, these thoroughbred creatures. Good day, Mr. Thornton.'

Indeed, soon after he saw the doctor out, Mr. Thornton noticed that Margaret became more responsive and aware of her surroundings, as the draughts administered gradually took effect. In one of the strange turns that distress occasionally takes, she seemed humiliated by the weakness she displayed to him, and attempted to recover her civil manners and find a refuge in halted conversation. He did his best to keep the pretence of a polite discourse, sensing that talking was helpful for her recovery. A new thought struck her then, and with trembling voice she asked if he knew when and where the funeral would take place.

There was no choice but to explain her about the delay of the letter. He saw how every new terrible realization – that her father was dead all these days that she spent in serene ignorance at home, that the funeral was taking place far away in Oxford at this very time and that Mr. Bell was apparently grievously ill himself – added unbearable weight to her already deep sorrow.

She told him about the last letter she received from from her father on Friday. It spoke of his content and love, and gave her such comfort and hope for the future when she read it... and he was already dead at that very time!

He felt acutely the bond of grief that existed between them. The stranger's hand that had written the letter from Mr Bell did not suggest any hope for Bell's recovery. Without him, they were possibly the only ones in the entire world who would truly grieve over the passing of that gentle soul, that delicate and lofty mind that was Mr. Hale.

He spoke to her every word of comfort he could think of, trying to convince her that though orphaned, she was neither alone nor unloved, and that life would go on and held many joys ahead. The sadness is transitory, there will be gladness again, and the grief will eventually fade into resignation and acceptance, he told her.

She listened to him in sad patience, but an least she listened at all. He was convincing himself that his words awoke some glimmer of hope in her, that the colour was returning to her lips and that she seemed stronger, but when she tried to get up she nearly fainted from actual weakness. He caught her just as she swayed. Before he realized it, she was there, the smell of her hair, her soft weight filling his arms.

Mr. Thornton looked quickly around himself, seeking a comfortable place to lie her down. She started to stir as her moment of dizziness passed but he only tightened his hold which was, if only he would be honest with himself, much more an embrace than a hold. She relented, hiding her face in his chest and inhaling deeply.

Behind the half open door in the next room he noticed a washing stand and guessed that it must be some bedroom. He shouldered the door open and carried her inside. This was when the first shuddering sob shook her frame. He stooped to deposit her on the bed but she was clinging to him so desperately that he was obliged to sit down on the bed beside her. He tried to tell himself sternly to get up and let her rest, but instead he lifted her arms and placed them around his own neck, just as they were on that memorable day during the strike, in realization of the dreams that were haunting him for many months now.

It was then that another racking sob tore through her and the tears that were held for so long were finally released. She was holding on him as the last support in her life, crying her heart out into his already soaked shirt.

His mind was torn, he could not leave her like this, surely? Not until the cursed servant come back. No, he would stay to comfort her, no matter how much it would hurt him to be so close to her and yet be unable to speak or act out his feelings for her. The feelings that had to be locked away as deep in his heart as possible.

She was helpless, friendless, and he would not use her moment of weakness in such a beastly way. He was a grown man, capable of controlling his emotions and actions, even if her swollen lips were only inches away from his and even if she was clinging to him like that, completely enveloped in his arms. He would not kiss the warm temple pressed to his face, nor the tremble of wet lashes he could feel with his lips. He was merely comforting a person in deep distress, that was all. Yes, he could taste her tears seeping between his unmoving lips, but it was simply because her face was so wet with them.

Her weeping gradually grew quieter until she stilled in his embrace with only an occasional choking sob shaking her fragile frame. He knew he should move away but could not force himself to do so yet. Her arms were still around his neck, just as they were at the top of the stairs long ago, he tried not to think of the parts of her pressed to him so closely. He lifted his head away from the temptation of her lips and her face slid down, now hidden between his shoulder and his neck. He closed his eyes, too drained to fight with himself and finding a refuge in immobility.

It was then when he felt it. On the sensitive skin of his neck, just below his ear her lips moved planting a quiet kiss. His heart seemed to stop as that tiny contact radiating from the single point burst all the invisible walls dividing them, like a single tap removing the keystone brings a whole building down. He was falling, spiraling out of control. In the effort to grasp something, anything tangible, he twisted her in his arms almost violently, needing to see her face to make sure that he did not imagine it. It was flushed from crying her eyes were still puffy and red; they remained closed for a moment longer, but then opened and met his questioning gaze boldly, unapologetically... His heart was beating thickly in his chest, and his head was spinning. She lifted her face higher, as if offering her lips to him. Heaven forgive him, he forgot everything and accepted the offering.

The world went still and then fell away completely. The tide that had been slowly building during the months of denial, jealousy, despair and helpless longing broke through and swept off all remnants of his self-control.

He did not know how much time has passed. Nothing in the world seemed to matter anymore. He crushed her even closer to his chest when a chill from his shirt, wet with her recent tears, jolted his consciousness. He almost recovered his senses for a moment, dimly sensing that he was overstepping some boundaries he had recently set for himself, but not quite remembering what they were. He stilled the assault on her lips, yet he was helpless to move away. And then she stirred impatiently, as if expecting him to continue. When he remained passive her lips moved under his, hesitantly, experimentally, trying to replicate what he had just done to her. Her timid endeavor swept away the last remnants of sanity he had, drowning him in the stormy sea of passion.

Sadness was still there, underlying every emotion but however grieved they were, they both felt the desperate need for this simple, natural affirmation that life and joy that still existed in the world. This woman in his arms she was to be loved and cherished, grief should not ever touch her. He kissed away the tears that should not stain her face, her swollen lips and eyes, trying to take away her terrible loss. Tearing off the black of their mourning, removing the dressing of sorrow from her and himself so that nothing would remind them of the grief, nothing would come between them, until there was only the ivory silk of skin. The sadness was ephemeral. The hurt they brought each other has passed, – even this brief pain, that made her whimper in his arms – but she pulled him back to her again – She felt the same as he did. – It was all so right – there was no death – no loss – no ruin – no grief – only life and joy in his arms – she was his life itself – so warm – so bright – blessed – rapturous – it was – ...bliss...

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To be continued

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What? There is nothing more here. No, it was strictly T, not a toe out of line, see for yourself, and I am not responsible for anyone's imagination. Not legally, at any rate.

Anyway, see you again when the next chapter will be ready. That is, if you liked this one. And if you did, it is nice to say so. Bye. My punctuation needs rest and probably a cold shower.