Chapter 20


John completed his daily tasks as usual.

Like one of the machines in his factory, his body went through all the necessary motions to get the job done.

His hand wrote some important letters and filled out his accounts, his eyes observed the bustling activity in the sheds, his mouth bellowed instructions. He heard them as though they were uttered by someone else, reaching his ears in an unfamiliar way.

Inside he felt numb. It was not a feeling he was wholly unfamiliar with. He had felt it after learning about his father's death. He had also felt it to some degree after losing his mother and later his wife.

It was as though someone had punched him in the face so hard that he had lost his bearings, walking in a daze.

He had not slept a wink in what seemed like forever, and he doubted that he would anytime soon.

Four days. It had been four days since Margaret Hale had confronted him about his feelings for her.

They had not seen much of each other since. She had not come to sit with Emma and him in the evenings, which he could not blame her for.

She knew.

Even though he had not said it out loud, he knew that she had seen right through him. And now she would surely leave, and he could not bear it.

John had been through some hardship in his life. Had anyone told him some months ago that the thought of Margaret Hale leaving Milton would be one of the tougher blows to his heart, he would have dismissed them as utter fools.

How she had managed to get to him in such a way, he would never know. All he knew was that he felt like dying.

How was he going to manage without her? How to console Emma? It was worse than losing her mother whom she had not known.

He would need to look for another governess, but he dreaded the thought of letting another woman into his house. To take her place. No, there was no way. Nobody could ever replace Margaret Hale.

Worst of all was that it was his own blasted fault. Somehow, he had given himself away. He should have been more careful around her.

He felt guilty for having placed her in such a position – the gossip amongst their servants.

Of course, she would leave. She was a respectable young woman.

John slammed his ledger shut in frustration and rose from his chair.

He was expected at the club in an hour for a meeting with Hamper and Slickson, and if there was one thing that could dampen his mood even further, it was being forced to listen to the other mill masters gloat about their investment with Latimer and attempting to ridicule him for not taking part.

He had never cared about others' opinions. As a master, he had always broken convention, from educating himself on the workings of the entire machinery and fixing things with his own hands, to installing wheels in all his sheds, protecting the workers from diseases like brown lung and consumption.

He did not care what others thought about his decisions, but he felt especially ill-prepared to face any of them today.

In truth, the only thing he longed for was to sit in a very quiet, very dark room, with his eyes closed, if only for a few minutes, to find some momentary relief from all the things that seemed to crash down upon him from all sides, making him feel utterly drained, both physically and emotionally and with the beginnings of a tension headache, which was never a good sign.

Alas, he could not let anyone see it.

Not his workers, not the other masters, least of all Emma or…he did not want to think of it…Miss Hale herself. Not if there was still a slim chance that she would change her mind and stay.

He would never give her any reason to doubt his promise that she would be safe, even if locking this part of himself away, the part that felt so much, would slowly choke him to death.

A minute later, John Thornton could be seen exiting his office, tall and proud, impeccable in his black frock coat and top hat, his face, as usual, one of stern determination.

He walked, with his head held high and his shoulders straight, and no one who did not know him well would have caught the flicker of something painful in his eyes.

..ooOOoo..

Marlborough Street was one of the main roads near the centre of Milton. It was a wide street, framed by various shops, and was always bustling with activity.

Big carts were regularly passing back and forth between the nearby water canal in the west and Marlborough Mills, carrying bales of raw cotton which had been shipped in from Liverpool.

Toward the east side, the street sloped upwards, leading up a hill toward Market Street.

On that day, one of the heavy four-wheeled carts which were used for transporting goods had made its usual way up the street and stopped at the corner near the coaching inn.

The carter had jumped off his seat for a short break before reloading the cart with goods to take back out of the city.

He had unhitched his horse to take it into the stables for some water and feed, and while he was leading it along, he recognised a man he knew and waved and called out to him.

He did not notice that his cart was not secured properly.

He did not notice that it was a tad too close to the edge of the square, where the ground was uneven and the road sloped down.

And while he was engrossed in his conversation, laughing at a joke the other man had told, he did not notice that, very slowly, the wheels began dipping over the edge, catching on some loose cobblestones.

He only realised what was happening, when a strange sound made him spin around, just in time to see the back wheels of the cart losing grip on the street.

Shocked, he stood there, gaping, for a moment; then he yelled out, but it was too late.

There was no stopping the heavy vehicle as it began tumbling down Marlborough Street, rapidly picking up speed.

..ooOOoo..

On that same afternoon, not a mile away, there was a little fair with a puppet theatre and market stalls selling sweet treats and toys for the children.

It was nothing grand, but Margaret had decided to take Emma there for a leisurely afternoon. The child had never been to an event like this before, and it was also a welcome distraction for Margaret herself.

They ate sticky caramels, watched a juggler, and bought some marbles at one of the stalls. Margaret bought another two bags for the Boucher children, longing to bring them a little joy in what she knew to be a harsh life.

As they made their way back toward Marlborough Mills, Emma chattered away about all she had seen, her cheeks rosy and her eyes glowing with joy and excitement.

Just as they were about to enter through the green mill gates, they saw Mary Higgins walking across the courtyard toward the street after having run a few errands for the cook. She was holding the hand of little Tom Boucher, who had waited for her outside the house.

Upon seeing Margaret, Mary's face broke into a small smile, and she gingerly walked over to them for a brief exchange, pulling the boy along with her.

Margaret saw Tommy throw a curious glance at Emma, who reciprocated his look, her eyes moving over his ragged clothes and slightly dirt-smeared face.

"I have something for you, Tommy," Margaret remembered, pulling the two small paper bags from her reticule and handing one to him and one to Mary. "For the others."

The boy curiously opened his bag to take a peak and his eyes widened at the wondrous gift, likely one of the most precious things he had ever received.

"I have one too," Emma told him with a shy little smile, holding out her bag for him to see, and while Margaret and Mary exchanged a few pleasantries, the two children crouched down on the ground and took out a few of their marbles to attempt a little game.

Margaret doubted that Mr Thornton would have approved of Emma's acquaintance with a Boucher child, but the girl very seldomly encountered other children, and she would not rob her of the rare occasion.

The two young women were about to say their goodbyes when one of Tommy's marbles skipped further than he had intended and rolled out into the middle of the road.

Without thinking, the little lad dashed after his treasure.

Suddenly the air was broken by a conglomerate of noises. A strange rattling sound, distant at first, but growing louder within seconds, people screaming, and the crash of something breaking.

Margaret spun around, her mouth flying open in shock at what she saw:

A big, four-wheeled cart, apparently lacking both driver and horse, was tumbling down Marlborough Street, picking up speed with every second, quickly growing into a deadly menace that could not be stopped.

Margaret lunged for Emma, grabbed the girl by her upper arms and practically yanked her back into the gateway of Marlborough Mills.

It was then that she noticed Tommy in the street, crouched down to pick up his marble, growing aware, a moment too late, of what was heading straight toward him.

A scream broke from Margaret's chest, her arm instinctively stretched out to the child. "TOMMY!"

It was at this second, that John Thornton turned the corner from Hulme Street onto Marlborough, on his way back to the mill after an excruciating meeting with the other masters.

He stopped dead in his tracks upon the noise and screams breaking the air and looked up from where his eyes had been trained firmly to the ground, just in time to realise what was about to happen:

A boy in the middle of the street, rising to his feet from where he had been crouched down and turning toward a runaway cart which was heading straight for him.

The child stood, frozen in shock, his eyes wide with horror, seemingly unable to move even an inch to get out of harm's way.

Without having time to ponder the consequences of his actions, John leaped forward, into the street.

People screamed, terrified.

John could hear the blood thumping in his ears as, within two big steps, he reached the child and wrenched him off the ground into his arms.

The cart was mere seconds away, there was no time to get back to safety, so, with adrenaline pumping through his entire body, John acted purely on instinct, and threw himself down, the boy still tightly clasped in his arms, pressed to his chest.

He made sure the little one was on top as he hit the ground, barely feeling the sudden stab of pain that went through him, as his side collided with the cobblestones, then he turned them, so the child was beneath him, covering it with his body for protection.

He closed his eyes and lay as flat as he could, ducking his head and covering the back of it with his hands. He did not have time to send a prayer to the heavens before the heavy vehicle went over them.

..ooOOoo..

In every life, there are moments which render us powerless.

There are blows of fate that hit us with such force that all words fail us, and all our strength is taken up by the desperate attempt to just keep breathing.

As Margaret Hale stood at the gates of Marlborough Mills and watched John Thornton's body disappear under the cart, the whole of the world seemed to stop.

There was a burning sensation in her throat from the scream she herself did not hear.

Everything around her was a blur: the cart moving over the two with a dangerous rattle, then surpassing them, more people screaming, running for their lives.

A sudden crack of one of the wheels, the vehicle dipping dangerously, skidding, then crashing loudly into the wall of a little shop on the right, sending a rain of wooden splinters all over the street.

There was a moment of silence.

All the people around stood in shock as their eyes moved unanimously from the broken vehicle to the spot in the street, where the motionless body of a man was still covering that of a small boy.

And then…miraculously, John Thornton lifted his head. There was a collective gasp as he moved, a bit shakily, into a kneeling position, looking down at little Tommy Boucher, who was lying on his side beneath him.

At once, Margaret felt her feet move, leaping forward with a muffled sob.

"Papa!" she heard Emma's voice behind her, unusually high, and choked with tears.

"Tommy!" Mary was right behind them.

If Margret's first impulse had been to throw her arms around Mr Thornton and cling to him for dear life, she was able to stop herself just in time, coming to an abrupt halt, only a few feet from him, suddenly not daring to move any closer.

Mr Thornton's coat was torn to shreds on his right arm, exposing the white of his shirtsleeve. His top hat was nowhere near, he must have dropped it somewhere in the street. His hair was ruffled, his shoulders and chest moving rapidly from heavy breaths.

Tommy had his eyes open, blinking confusedly, his face contorted in pain. He had a bleeding wound on the side of his head, where he must have hit the cobblestones.

Margaret felt a little hand on hers. Emma had come to stand beside her, closely followed by Mary who was crouching down to look into Tommy's face.

None of them dared move close enough to touch the man or child, almost out of fear that they were faced with ghosts, for it seemed impossible that anyone would rise after an encounter such as this.

The scene was quickly drawing a crowd, and within half a minute they were surrounded by a cluster of people.

And then, wordlessly, Mr Thornton pulled himself to his feet, reaching for Tommy and picking him up in his arms.

A murmur went through the crowd as the man they had believed dead only moments before began walking toward the entrance of Marlborough Mills, slowly, carrying the child who was laying limply in his arms, not unconscious, but injured and trembling from the shock.

Thornton had his eyes trained firmly ahead, his face strangely blank, giving away neither physical pain nor emotion.

Margaret's feet moved of their own accord, following closely behind him, her hand clutching Emma's who was too stunned to make a sound.

The workers who had been going about their duties fell silent, as they watched the strange procession of their Master, in a torn-up frock coat, carrying a little boy, followed by the governess and daughter of the house and the younger Higgins girl.

Those who had stood close enough to the gates to have witnessed the turmoil in the street quickly whispered to the others.

"A doctor! We need a doctor!" someone called.

Nicholas Higgins pushed through a crowd of workers and ran toward them.

"Tom! What on earth happened?" His voice was desperate.

Margaret, who was slowly rising from her daze, turned to him. "Nicholas! Go for the doctor! Quick!"

Nicholas' eyes darted restlessly from Margaret to Thornton to Tommy and back.

"Go for the doctor," Margaret repeated, glad that her voice sounded firmer this time. "Tommy will be all right, I promise."

Still unconvinced, the worker took a heavy breath to say something, but thought better of it; with a last glance at the child in Thornton's arms, he nodded and turned, running across the yard at a speed one had rarely seen in him, and disappeared out through the gates.

Mr Thornton had reached the house and Mary quick-wittedly jumped forward to open the door for him.

He crossed the entrance hall and walked into the small downstairs sitting room that had not been used since Fanny had left the house.

There was the sound of commotion, and a moment later, both Jane and Clara flew down the stairs, having obviously seen them in the yard through one of the upstairs windows.

"Dear God, is he dead?" Jane exclaimed, rushing past Margaret and Mary to look at little Tommy whom Thornton had just placed on the settee in the centre of the room.

He stepped back, moving away from the boy and immediately the child was surrounded by the two maids, Mary and Emma, who had stepped closer in a mixture of terror and curiosity.

Margaret stood a few feet away, watching them prop Tommy's head up on a pillow and murmuring words of consolation in hopes of calming him down. Clara dashed out for a bowl of water and cloth to clean the wound on his head, which, fortunately, appeared to look worse than it actually was.

A faint sound behind her made Margaret turn around, and she had to stifle a gasp at the sight that greeted her.

John Thornton was leaning heavily against the doorframe, his eyes closed, his breathing irregular. He seemed as though he was about to collapse.

"Mr Thornton!"

His name was barely a whisper on her lips as she rushed to his side and, uncaring of what anyone might say, reached out her hands, grasping his upper arms in an attempt to hold him steady.

He flinched, trying to move his right arm away, and sucked in a breath as his face contorted in pain.

"Mr Thornton, you are hurt."

John was unable to reply; keeping his eyes closed, he desperately tried to keep his head from spinning.

The rush of adrenaline which had held him up until now was fading rapidly, and he was gripped by an uncontrollable tremor, his body breaking out in sweat, shivering, as the initial shock began to lift, making him more receptive to the stabbing pain in his side.

Margaret did not know what to do. The others, who were still fussing over Tommy, had not yet noticed the state Mr Thornton was in, and she knew that he was not the sort of man who would have wished for their attention at this moment.

"Can you walk?" she whispered to him. "Mr Thornton, do you think you can walk to your study?"

It was only a few steps across the hall, and he could sit down there. She would have to make sure that the doctor came to see him after he had tended to Tommy.

Thornton's eyes opened a little at her words, blinking, as his body swayed dangerously.

"Hold on to me," she murmured, carefully stepping closer and wrapping her arm around him in an attempt to steady him.

It was a move she had not thought through well. He was several inches taller than she was and so heavy that, had he lost his balance, they would both have tumbled to the floor.

But through some miracle, he did manage to hold himself up, likely more through sheer stubborn willpower than anything else, and make the few steps over through the door of his study.

A moment later, he sunk down into the nearest chair, and Margaret carefully released him, barely noticing in her agitation that they had never been this close to one another, nor that the door had slid closed behind them.

She could not bring herself to care at that moment, crouching down before him and helplessly watching as his head lolled and his eyes closed once again.

Her left hand flew to his uninjured arm while her other grasped for the first thing she could reach – his hand. "Are you in pain?" she asked, trying to keep him from slipping away.

"Stay with me, Mr Thornton, please! The doctor will be here soon."

He did lift his head a few inches at her plea, blinking weakly.

She was sure from the way he held his arm that he was injured. How badly, she could not see. If she could only get his coat off.

"Can you help me?" She grasped the left side of his coat and tried moving it so he could slide his good arm out of the sleeve. He sensed what she was trying to do and attempted to help, but it only made the trembling worse.

Margaret somehow managed to get his arm out of his coat and moved the garment around his back to carefully pull it off.

His shirt sleeve was ripped and stained with blood. Margaret tried to move the fabric out of the way enough to look at his skin. From what she could see it looked like an abrasion, running from the middle of his upper arm, over his elbow down his lower arm.

It looked rather painful but was fortunately not bleeding too badly. This was a relief, although Margaret knew that it did not mean much. There was no way of telling whether he did not have other injuries. A broken rib, internal bleeding…things she rather did not think about.

It was a miracle that he was still alive.

Had the load bed of the cart been just a bit lower, reducing the clearance between the wooden planks and the ground, had the vehicle swayed to one side just a little, had that wheel broken off only a few seconds earlier, both he and Tommy would have been dead.

It was only now that this thought was slowly sinking in for Margaret, and it suddenly felt as though all the tension she had held in her body for the past half hour began moving upward inside her, building the heavy pressure of tears behind her eyes.

Audible breaths, coming in short gasps, tore her attention back to Mr Thornton, who was shivering heavily, his whole body convulsing as though he was going through a fit.

Praying that the doctor would be here soon, Margaret did the only thing she could think of; she rose up on her knees and carefully placed her hands back on his shoulders. It brought her face much closer to his than was considered acceptable, but it did not matter now.

Making low shushing noises, trying to calm the shaking, she prayed that the closeness of another human would manage to soothe him a bit. He seemed to have trouble breathing, and, on instinct, she reached for his cravat, gently tugged at it, and found that it came open surprisingly easily.

She pulled it from around his neck, trying to ignore the fact that it caused the collar of his shirt to fall open, exposing the skin at the base of his neck to her.

Margaret quickly tore her eyes away, looking intently at the piece of fabric as she placed it neatly on the armrest of his chair.

An unfamiliar sensation broke through the haze of John's mind, the faint scent of roses and thyme, the trace of warm breath against his face.

And he felt as though something inside him suddenly loosened, a tight knot within his chest that he had not even known had been there, dissolving in a powerful rush of warmth that spread through him, unloading itself in a shaky whimper, as he fell forward – and into her.

His arms came around her, pulling himself closer to her, burying his face in the crook of her neck.

"Margaret!"

Her Christian name, a mere whisper against her skin, brought tears to her eyes.

She felt another shiver run through him, this tall, strong man finally being brought to the end of his tether. She tightened her arms around him carefully, not wanting to hurt him.

Neither of them knew how long they sat like this, holding each other. First, it was solely out of the need to calm him and keep him from falling into a faint; but gradually, the trembling stopped, his breathing calmed, and the tension in his body lessened; and still, they did not let go.

Margaret had never been this close to a man. It was a sensation she had never imagined. He was warm, his body strong and firm, whereas hers was soft. He smelled of smoke and sandalwood and a little bit of sweat.

His chest rose and fell against her, his breath warm on the skin of her neck where his head was still buried, almost like a child, seeking shelter.

Margaret closed her eyes and allowed herself a moment to marvel at that unfamiliar feeling his proximity stirred in her, making her body tingle in a strange way and her heartbeat quicken a little.

She knew that if anyone found them in this position, it would be the definitive end of her reputation, but she could not bring herself to care.

If this was the only time in her life that she was allowed to hold this man, she would take it and pray that it would never end.

She felt his hands on her upper back, tentatively pulling her closer against him still.

"Don't leave."

His voice was weak, the words nothing short of a plea, and Margaret knew instinctively that he was referring to much more than this mere moment.

She did not have the words to form an answer. But her right hand came up to cup the back of his head to stroke his hair. It was soft under her fingertips, just like Emma's. They were so much alike in a number of ways that Margaret had not even noticed for quite some time.

A noise in the hall outside made her raise her head. There were voices, footsteps.

"I think the doctor is here," she whispered, carefully untangling herself from him and rising to her feet.

He looked up at her with tired eyes, weakly sinking back against the headrest of his chair. He was deadly pale, and she felt a pang of worry.

"I shall go and summon him. That arm needs to be looked at," she told him. "Don't move."

And with that, she quickly dashed out of the room, leaving the door open.

Dr Donaldson had just stepped into the sitting room and was looking at Tommy.

"He's had quite a blow, but it does not look too bad. Maybe a mild concussion," he mumbled, cupping the boy's face and looking into his eyes to check the dilation of the pupils.

"He needs rest. And a good meal, for he looks as though he's close to starving. Let him have some hot broth and something nourishing. Meat and potatoes."

He was about to take his leave, when Margaret stopped him at the door, informing him that he was needed in the study. She kept her voice low, not wanting to draw any unnecessary attention.

The doctor seemed to understand and quickly disappeared through the door, closing it behind himself and leaving Margaret standing in the hall, nervously shifting from one foot to the other.

..ooOOoo..

A while later, Doctor Donaldson stepped back out of the study. He threw a quick glance at Margaret who was still standing where he had left her, having been unable to leave as the minutes had dragged on, feeling like hours.

"How is he, doctor?" she could not help but quietly ask.

She knew it was not her place to inquire about such a thing, but one look at her pale and worried face was enough for the older man to take mercy on her.

"He was lucky. It's nothing too serious. A few bruised ribs, some scratches, but no broken bones. It is mostly shock. I have given him something for the nerves, and he'll need to take it easy for a few days."

He put on his top hat and began making his way toward the door.

"The boy is all right. His guardian shall take him home as soon as he's had some proper food. Maybe you could tell the maids that they should send a manservant to help Mr Thornton upstairs for some rest."

Margaret simply nodded and bid her goodbyes. She longed to go back into the study but knew that it would have been highly inappropriate. What had passed between them had already been too much. She could not risk any more.

So she found Emma, who was still rather distraught, and did her best to console the girl.

They sat down in the girl's room, called for Jane to bring them some tea, and Margaret spent the rest of the afternoon convincing Emma that her father was all right and only in need of a bit of rest.

Mr Thornton did not come down to dinner that night, so Margaret ate with Emma as they did on the nights when he was at the club.

Then, exhausted, both physically and emotionally from the day's events, they retired to bed early.