Motherhood changes one forever, Margaret thought as she watched a mother partridge wiggle her way across the walk, chicks trooping along, unmolested, in her wake. Every so often she would pause and glance back, allowing the last one to find its place once more in the line.

Leaving Greenville had proved to be much harder than coming in since their presence and the event of the Oppengarde Massacre had so been organized as to possibly implicate them in the events of poor Marjina's death. Tearfully, Henry recalled the course of the that evening, and John, the ever silent pillar of fortitude, told only what needed to be said and left out his little wife, sure that if he were to mention her involvement their kindly hosts would turn like a pack of hounds upon them. Already the surviving slaves had either been sold or drawn out and hung, the escapees (of which there were three,) gone forever into the Underground Railroad to Canada.

Margaret felt keenly their struggle, and even understood the motives that led to that terrible night, her memories drawing her back unrelentingly towards her dewy youth. There had been a horse a few miles outside of Helstone; a wild and flighty beast the farmer had purchased for his son. The boy was a cruel evil little thing however, and, unable to control him, whipped him into a passives stupor, the fire all but gone from the creatures eyes. One day, however, the boy bought another horse, this time a young stallion that he placed with the beaten gelding. The old nag would allow the boy to slash him and the whip to bite into his flesh, but when the boy turned his hateful fury on the stallion, the gelding rushed forth and stomped him to death. The poor beaten beast was then brought out and shot, and the young stallion was moved to a stock farm near Margaret's where he was used for light labour and loved by the farmer and his wife until his death in the twilight of his life.

The moral of that story had been told in kitchens and parlours for years later whenever someone or something was abused, and Margaret tended to agree with the old wives and young servants. If you treat something with abuse, it may abide the insult to itself, but in the case of others, it may simply snap and choose to protect what it values more than itself.

These poor men and women were no different. They did what Margaret would have. They were able to handle the insult of slavery bravely themselves, but when someone they loved was hurt, it bubbled into a painful sore, and could not longer be borne. Margaret, though she did not tell, secretly hoped those slaves had made it to Canada. Their driver had disappeared, going, she assumed, to the same place as those escaped men.

Henry, broken from the loss, did not speak to Margaret for days, merely choosing to take his tea in silence and allow John to smooth over business for their swift return to England. He had made a couple of deals, and they seemed lucrative, but in the long term there seemed to have been much more lost in the endeavour than gained and everyone wished to go home.

The coach was to take them back up where the ship was docked in Boston, and Margaret, tired and sore, would be glad to see her son again. He would not yet be a year old, but would have changed in ways Margaret could not even imagine. He would have longer hair, his eyelashes would be long, and his round, soft baby face would light up to see his poor Mama again, back from her adventure, one which she would tell him someday. She could see her cousin, and sit in her parlour, discussing America, and how she never wished to set foot upon that prairie soil again in her life...at least not Southern soil.

John, who had been sitting with her as she thought, put his arm around her waist and tugged her close. The troubles of the business had gotten to him as well she could see. There was a crack in his facade, and the carefully constructed mask has slipped. She stroked his cheek, and he took her hand, kissing her palm.

"Are you alright, Maggie Dear?" He asked.

"Yes, I think so," Margaret whispered back, "but I will miss the air here. It is so clean, and so empty."

"It is," John agreed, "but I miss Owen. I am glad he did not join us here."

"I know," Margaret nodded into his shoulder, one hand on her stomach, "and that we will be taking the steamer back."

"Lennox has decided to stay in Boston," John announced, oblivious to her unconscious gesture.

"Pray why?" Margaret cried, "he wishes to stay here?"

"I will let him explain Maggie, but he claims there is nothing left for him in England. He cannot live there now, he says, without thinking of what he has lost here."

"But he cannot mourn forever, surely!" Margaret shook her head, "John, why?"

"He will tell you," John patted her hand, and just noticed the way he still cupped her stomach.

"Margaret," he began tentatively, "are you well?"

"Yes," Margaret cocked her head, following his gaze. "Why?"

"Oh, its nothing," John shrugged.

"John..." there was a pause, "...do you think...?"

"I don't know."

"But what if..." Margaret's heart fluttered, a mix of dread and excitement filling her heart. She did not know what to think. If they were right, this would be less than fortunate timing, what with all the worry and anxiety they had all suffered. How could she manage? She did not know, and anyhow, she was not sure it was anything at all, though she secretly wished it would be, and what she would name it, be a boy or a girl.

"Please let it be so," she kissed John, and stared out into the yard.

AN: Hello so sorry I killed Marjina. I think I might change it so that Henry stays back WITH her because she survived to help her, and I feel like I've been axing too many characters. No longer, though. I hope. R&R if you are still into this, and the saga will continue (maybe later than hoped, because of life and other such things, but still!)

**AN: Ermagerd! I just noticed all the mistakes I made with that last upload, so I shall fix them and put up the fixed chapter! Again, oops!