Chapter 7

"Have you ever seen a real fairy, Miss Margaret?"

Margaret looked up at Emma from the paper she had been correcting.

The little girl sat at the table near her, looking at the picture book of Margaret the fairy again and tracing the delicate winged figures in the illustrations with one finger.

"Where you come from, in the south, there must be plenty," she mused with a far-off look.

"I have seen the pictures you drew of your home. There are so many roses and woods, with hiding places for fairies and goblins and dwarfs. It must be magical."

Margaret could not stop a sad little smile from crossing her face.

"Oh, it is a wondrous place, Emma. When I was a child, I would spend hours walking through those flowery fields, wondering about all the magical creatures close by."

"But have you ever seen them?"

"I imagined I did sometimes. But they are very shy and good at hiding. Sometimes you think you might have seen them out of the corner of your eye, but whenever you try to get a closer look, they disappear."

Emma propped her chin up on her hand, in a way that Fanny Thornton would most certainly have disapproved of, and looked at her dreamily.

"I wish there were fairies in Milton. But I can't imagine there would be. It's too noisy and smoky. I don't think they would like it here."

Margaret let her gaze wander out of the window, beyond the small patch of muddy grass at the back of the house, leading down to the river, where she had gone on a few of her walks.

It was a particularly sombre day, with low hanging clouds, making the landscape appear even more grey and gloomy than usual.

It seemed like a very unlikely place to ever encounter a fairy. But how could she break a girl's heart by telling her that her home was devoid of the magic she herself had experienced as a child?

"I think - " she began carefully, weighing her words, "I think that fairies can be found even in Milton, if only one looks closely enough."

Emma's big blue eyes looked directly at her now, and Margaret felt a moment of unease at the realisation of how much they resembled her father's.

"Do you really think so?" There was a small tinge of hope in her voice.

Margaret's heart ached for this little girl. She had already grown very fond of Emma in these few weeks of knowing her.

She was so young, and there was a sense of loneliness about her, never having known her mother and with her father always unavailable.

"I wish I could go and see your village!"

"It's called Helstone," Margaret told her.

"Yes! I would wear a pretty spring dress and a hat with ribbons, and we would hold hands and skip through the blooming fields together," the girl smiled. "We would have such a splendid time. You and I, and Aunt Fanny, and…" she hesitated for a moment, "and Papa."

A strange look crossed Emma's features, as she lowered her eyes back to her fairy book without another word.

"Do you think your Papa would enjoy such an outing?" Margaret asked carefully.

Emma shrugged. "I don't know. I think so. Everyone would enjoy it, don't you think?"

But she sounded only half-convinced. She closed the book and stood, walked over to the window and sat near it, looking out over the river in silence.

With an internal sigh, Margaret rose from her seat and joined her by the window, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.

She would have liked to tell the girl that her father would enjoy such a venture, but she was not one to lie.

"Papa is a very important man," Emma told her with pride in her voice. "His factory is the best in all of Milton, and he is working very hard."

She paused, studying the window pane intently.

"Do you think Papa ever misses me when he is at the mill? Or when he is away on business?"

Margaret looked down at her hands. "I do not know your father very well, Emma. I would not trust myself to judge his feelings."

"But surely every father would miss his daughter, would he not?"

The girl gazed at her in near despair, and Margaret rushed to try and reassure her. "I do think he cares for you very much, Emma. He is working very hard to ensure that you will have a good life."

The girl crossed her arms in front of her chest, her face gloomy, almost as if she was fighting back tears.

"I miss him sometimes. He never has time to talk or play with me."

"Oh Emma," Margaret sighed in a soft tone. "I know you miss him. But it's not that simple. Your father always has a lot on his mind."

Absent-mindedly she reached out to lightly stroke the girl's hair. She wished she could have said something more comforting.

Oh, how she wished that Mr Thornton would realise how much his ignorance was hurting his child. He seemed unwilling to take up his role as a father, leaving everything to his sister and now to Margaret.

But what Emma truly needed was not solely someone to educate her; she needed someone who genuinely cared for her.

Looking back, Margaret once again realised her own luck. Yes, she had grown up without her mother, but her own dear Papa had always been available to her and Fred.

He had been someone she had turned to with her sorrows and who had revelled in the good things that had happened to her, someone she had always been able to rely on.

It was something Emma was sorely missing. Margaret was trying very hard to compensate for that void by being there for her, even more than she was asked to be, but deep down she knew that it could never be enough.

Ignoring all bounds that had been set for her, she carefully reached out and pulled the girl closer until Emma's little head rested against her shoulder.

"You are very much loved, Emma. Anyone who meets you cannot help it, for you are such a lovely girl," she told her, without a shadow of doubt in her voice.

"Really?" Emma sniffled, to which Margaret nodded firmly.

"And as for your Papa," she went on, "I'm sure he loves you too, even if he may have trouble showing it sometimes."

..ooOoo..

That night, after Emma had gone to bed, Margaret once again sat down in the drawing room with Fanny to work on the linen together.

As she had anticipated, not long after they had taken up their needles, the door opened, and Mr Thornton entered, carrying a book, just like he had done the night before.

He stopped for a moment at the sight of the governess, but quickly caught himself and, deliberately avoiding her gaze, strode over to his chair by the fireplace, opened up his book and sat down to read.

The silence that fell over the room felt almost stifling to Margaret.

Fanny seemed to have come to the conclusion that it was safest not to start any conversation whilst the other two were in a room together, and so they remained silent, save for the occasional rustling whenever Mr Thornton turned a page in his book.

It was almost eleven o'clock when Fanny decided that it was time to retire to bed, and Margaret quickly finished her work to be able to escape to her own quarters – something she had longed to do for the past two hours.

They bid Mr Thornton good night and were just about to step out of the room when his voice stopped them.

"Miss Hale, do you have a moment?"

'Oh, please no!' was all she could think as she tried hard to not show any sign of irritation.

Fanny threw her brother a questioning look, which he caught.

Something unspoken seemed to pass between them, and a second later, the young mistress took her leave, keeping the door somewhat ajar to protect the governess' respectability.

Margaret turned around to face the man she had so nearly escaped a moment ago, dreading whatever he would have to say to her this time.

She watched as he put his book aside and rose from his chair, clasping his hands behind his back.

For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.

Then: "Miss Hale, I must apologise for my behaviour last night. I spoke to you out of turn. So long as it does not impact your work, it is none of my business whom you associate with in your leisure time."

To say that she was surprised at this speech would have been an understatement, and for a moment, Margaret was at loss for words.

"Even if those associations are with the daughter of a union leader?" she then asked, unable to keep the tinge of defiance out of her voice. Something about him always seemed to put her on edge.

"I greatly dislike the idea," he replied in a stern voice. "But here in the north, we value our independence, and trying to restrict yours was out of line. It shall not happen again."

How to respond to that? She did not know what to make of this man, and it felt as though he became more unpredictable with every passing day.

Straightening her back, she looked up into his face, telling herself not to be intimidated by his presence.

"I accept your apology, Mr Thornton; now, if you would excuse me, I shall retire. It is quite late."

She was just about to quit the room, when, once more, he called out to her: "Miss Hale?"

With her back to him, she closed her eyes in annoyance for a moment before forcing a hopefully somewhat neutral and polite expression onto her face and turning around to him again.

"Yes, sir?"

"I wanted to inquire about Emma's progress with her studies."

Of course.

"Emma is doing very well, Mr Thornton," she was quick to tell him. "She is reading full books now and her manners are impeccable, as you surely have noticed during dinner time. She is very eager to learn."

"That is certainly good to hear, I thank you." His voice was void of emotion.

Margaret felt that she was finally allowed to retire; but the moment she had reached the door, Emma's face appeared before her eyes, and she stopped, her heart suddenly thumping loudly in her chest.

She had to speak to him – however much she dreaded it, however much she was certain that it would be to no avail – Emma had grown so close to her in such a short time, maybe closer, she dared believe, than even to Fanny.

The child had trusted Margaret with her sadness, her loneliness, and, try as she might, she could not stand by and remain silent. Emma had no one else to advocate for her.

But what was she going to say?

She fought the impulse to appeal to his conscience and tell him outright that his child needed him to be there for her more.

She knew he would take it as an effrontery, which would, once more, lead to a quarrel.

No, if she wanted to make him listen, she had to try a different approach.

"Mr Thornton?" She turned towards him again to find him looking at her intently and took a deep breath.

"Emma admires you very much, you know." she told him, glad that her voice sounded calmer than she felt.

"She speaks very highly of you. About how your mill is the best in all of Milton and how hard you work. She very much looks up to you."

She paused, trying to gauge his reaction to her words, but he just stood, unmoving, still looking at her with an unreadable expression.

Feeling rather nervous, she continued: "I think she misses you sometimes. You are always so busy, she rarely has a chance to see you or speak to you."

Unconsciously she took a small step toward him. "I think she would like to spend a little more time with you, Mr Thornton."

Very aware that she was walking on thin ice, she fell silent and prayed that he would not lash out again.

He did not. Instead, he turned from her and stepped over to the fireplace, placing one hand on the mantelpiece as he stared into the flames.

"I have done my best, Miss Hale, to ensure that my daughter is well taken care of in every regard. I promised her mother on her deathbed that I would do whatever it takes to see her safe, healthy, and well-educated; and, I daresay I have, so far, kept my word. My feelings, regarding any other matter, I cannot vouch for."

Margaret could only gape at him, shocked.

"So you are saying - " she burst out, before she could stop herself, "that you don't care about her?"

He stood up straight and turned to look at her. "You mistake me, Miss Hale, I do care about Emma. But I cannot afford sentimentality. I doubt it would serve either of us."

Margaret felt a lump in her throat, which made it hard to swallow.

"Spending a little time with her and talking with her once in a while – surely, that cannot be called excessive sentimentality?"

She bravely held his gaze.

"Being a father – it's not solely providing for her physical needs. It is being there for her, listening to her, knowing her likes and dislikes. She needs someone to turn to for comfort, someone she can trust."

She saw his face darken slightly. "You seem to know an awful lot about my daughter, Miss Hale."

"I know a few things about children, about people." she answered. "These needs are not solely those of your daughter. They are natural in each and every one of us. We all need someone to turn to, no matter our age. But children are much more vulnerable. They depend on us to survive, not only in body, but also in soul."

Something in his face changed at her last words. He appeared almost shocked, although she could have been mistaken, for she had a hard time reading his countenance.

"You speak well, Miss Hale," he told her with apparent calmness, but there was a small tremble in his voice, which gave him away. He was anything but composed.

"But you do not have children of your own. It is always easy to judge things from the outside."

"I may not have children of my own," she said firmly, "but I had a father. And I know how glad I was that I could turn to him in times of need. How grateful I will forever be for every moment I was able to spend with him. He was always there to guide me, and whatever faith I have in this life, I owe to him."

Margaret was near the end of her tether in this conversation. She could only pray that some of her words would reach him, as she continued:

"You must have had a father too, Mr Thornton. You must remember what it was like to look up to him, to have him be proud of you…"

It was at that moment that something inside him seemed to snap.

If he had appeared slightly impatient with their talk a moment before, now his expression could not be mistaken for anything but fury.

His brow furrowed in anger, his blue eyes glowed dangerously, his hands clenched into fists at his sides as he took a step toward her, still not quite close, but close enough to intimidate her.

"My father?" he ground out. "My father killed himself when I was fourteen and left me to take care of a family whose respectability he had ruined! He gambled away our livelihood in a speculation and left us with nothing but debt and despair! He was not someone to look up to."

He suddenly appeared such a daunting figure that Margaret took a subconscious step backwards. Her back connected with the door, unintentionally pushing it further open.

Even though his voice was barely above a whisper, it did not take away much from the danger in it as he continued:

"If there was only a small part of that man in me, Miss Hale, I wouldn't know how to be a father."

He turned away from her, stepped past her, and then he was gone.

Margaret stood, frozen.

She felt utterly numb.

It took a while for his words to sink in and make any sense to her at all.

Killed himself. These two words echoed in her mind over and over again.

What a dreadful loss; what a tragedy for a family. And at fourteen. He had been so young, and Fanny Thornton even much younger.

'Oh dear God, what have I done?'

Without thinking; without knowing anything of him at all, she had blindly assumed that his childhood must have been similarly happy to her own.

How naïve of her to presume that everyone would have grown up in a loving home?

And suicide…it was not merely losing a parent. It meant social degradation, the loss of their family honour, possibly even being shunned by their acquaintances.

And yet…here they were, a very respectable family in Milton, owning one of the most prosperous mills in all of the city.

Even with her very limited understanding of manufacturing and trade, Margaret had to admit that, considering those circumstances, that was quite an impressive achievement.

For some reason, she could not shake off the way he had looked at her, just before he had stormed out of the room.

There had been anger, and a strange defiance, but somewhere underneath, there had also been pain – an emotion, Margaret recognised, that she had not believed him capable of.

The thought suddenly struck her as stupid. Had she truly thought that he was so devoid of feeling, even when she knew deep down that no human being could function in such a way?

After all, even Mr Thornton was only a man.

The realisation shifted something in her mind.

What if he was not as indifferent as he seemed? What if he was merely an expert at hiding away his sentiments?

Doing so might have been necessary in order to survive such dreadful events as the ones he had relayed to her.

"You mistake me, Miss Hale, I do care about Emma. But I cannot afford sentimentality. I doubt it would serve either of us."

Sentimentality. A notion that a man in his position could likely not show too much, even if he felt it. Not if he wanted to retain the image of the powerful and stern mill master he must have worked very hard to create.

So what if it was not disinterest that caused his lack of association with Emma?

What if he had internalised these distant, sometimes downright cold ways to a point where he did not know how to act any other way?

A dreadful thought took hold of Margaret, refusing to let go of her – the thought of a man who cared but could not show it.

Cut off from any true connection with his child. What a lonely existence that must be.

But if this was truly the case...Margaret could not help but wonder if there was not something – anything – that could be done.

..ooOoo..

In the semi-darkness of his bedroom, John Thornton was pacing back and forth between the door, his bed, and the window leading out into the obscured courtyard.

His breathing was heavy, his hands repeatedly clenching and unclenching; anyone who would have seen him like this might have been reminded of a caged animal just about to go spare.

He still could not believe the things he had said to Miss Hale, the things he had given away.

He had never planned to bare his shame and disgrace to her; all that he had always been so careful to keep hidden from everyone.

He could not fathom what it was about her that broke him every time. It seemed as if he could not function properly when she spoke to him or looked at him with those big, innocent eyes.

Her words about Emma had been like a knife, twisting in his chest.

What did she know? She had not the slightest inkling of the world he lived in, with her child-like naivety and idealism.

She had accused him of not caring – well, he could see how she would have come to such a conclusion.

Although she seemed unusually strong-willed, downright stubborn at times, she appeared to him a gentle soul.

Almost like a flower, beautiful and tender, yet strong enough to survive heavy rainstorms and stand in bloom once they had passed.

That place in the south where she came from was so different from Milton, John could scarcely imagine it.

He was not one of her southern gentlemen; he knew himself to be crude and unrefined. For sixteen years he had been fighting the demons his father had invoked.

Duty. That was what his life had always been about.

The duty to leave school and take care of his family.

The duty to find employment and work sixteen hours a day, to forgo any small joys other young men might have indulged in, in order to put every spare shilling aside.

The duty to repay his father's creditors and restore his family's name.

In the quest to rise above his station John had gone further than anyone would have thought him capable of.

He had become the youngest master in all of Milton, with the most modern and successful mill, and hundreds of workers depending on him.

When his mother had died suddenly, almost ten years ago, he had taken it upon himself to care for Fanny, to ensure that she went to the best school and had everything she needed, and he had made a home for them at the mill.

Out of a sense of obligation, he had married.

The connection with Ann had not been one of love, although they had always been on good terms.

It had been an alliance of convenience, providing her with financial security and him with a wife, as was expected of a man of his standing, in addition to the connection with her father, a banker and a very influential confederate in John's business.

Only a few months into their marriage, Ann had been with child. Everything had seemed fine; the pregnancy had passed without complications.

But then, on the night of Emma's birth, Ann had lost too much blood.

Dr Donaldson, John's trusted physician, had done everything in his power to save her life; however, he had been unsuccessful.

And so John had been burdened with yet another duty – the duty of providing for a child; more than that: the duty of being a father.

He vividly remembered holding little Emma for the first time, with her big, blue, trusting eyes, staring up at him as she had gripped his finger in her small fist.

She had been so tiny, so fragile; for a moment there, he had almost felt himself begin to melt.

But then, quickly, the feeling had been replaced by one of sheer panic.

Thoughts of his own father had started pervading his mind. A man who, like John himself, had done everything he could, but in the end, had let them down.

He could not fail this little girl, could not let his sentiments get the better of him and distract him from what he had to do, which was to work, day and night, to make sure that Emma would never go through anything like what his father had put them through.

John had prided himself on having accomplished that – and now, this young woman from the south somehow brought forth all those things he had tried so hard to push into the back of his mind for years.

In truth, he did not know how to speak to Emma, how to even look at her.

She bore such a striking resemblance with the image that stared back at him from the mirror – it unsettled him.

The way this child looked up to him with such trust and adoration - it made him all the more afraid of failing her.

John was not a coward; he was prepared to face up to any man who was willing to cross him and stand his ground.

But he could scarcely hold that little girl's gaze for more than a brief moment, and he hated himself for it.

He forced himself to stop pacing and tried to calm his breathing.

He slipped out of his coat and flung it over the backrest of a nearby chair.

He went through all the notions of preparing himself for bed, his hands working of their own accord, almost like one of the machines at the mill, moving, and yet, lifeless.

Eventually, he dropped onto his bed and buried his face in the pillow.

He was tempted to curse the day Margaret Hale had entered his life, wreaking such havoc inside him, bewitching his mind with some peculiar power, making him tremble, and unearthing all that he had kept under lock and key.

And he was sure she did not even realise it.

A mere look, a few words, and there he was, in the grip of a strange passion he could not control, not knowing whether he wanted to shout at her or…kiss her.

Pull her to him, press her against the wall, bury his face in her hair and let his hands slowly roam her delicate body. The vision of touching her made him quiver…

'Stop it!'

John clenched his right hand into a fist and punched his pillow with an angry groan. He could not let himself go like this; he could not lose control.

The mere thought of her, however alluring, made him writhe with guilt.

How could he taint her like this, even if it was only in his mind? It was unspeakable.

For he knew that, even though she had no means of her own and was therefore his subordinate, her refined manners and upbringing placed her far above him in so many ways.

He would never be worthy of even thinking of a woman like her.

Slowly, John turned onto his back and pressed both hands to his face. He felt utterly worn out, almost as though he had run for miles, his body numb from the turmoil of his emotions, neither of which he could accurately process.

And suddenly, he felt like that boy again who had just learned of his father's death - lying all alone on his bed in the school's dorm room, knowing that, come morning, he would have to pack his things and go home, give up his dream of one day going to Oxford, and watch his future melt away right before his eyes.

A boy, all alone with his sorrows, and too numb to cry about them.