For John Thornton, the external world had ceased to exist.

He passed through it in a state of automatism, unaware, unseeing, unhearing. One long stride after another, a rush of cobblestones. But at the end of the street, he stopped, woken by the shock of other bodies hustling through the narrow turn and steep flight of stairs that led away from Crampton.

He took the steps at a more measured pace, conscious for the first time, of the damp smell of rain in the air, the rising wind and lowering sky funnelling through parallel walls of brown brick. Slowly, he was beginning to reclaim himself. Never before had he experienced such a terrifying absence of rational thought, his entire being a husk, beaten and buffeted from within by a whirlpool of emotion; and at the vortex of it all, was the bitter agony of rejection.

It was easy enough to put one foot before the other, to feel the gritty crunch of dirt between boot and pavement, but to keep one's mind from straying to what was buried in the heart, to keep one's countenance strictly schooled to some semblance of normality, was quite a different proposition altogether.

Proposition. To propose. Now, perhaps, was the time to cultivate a life-long aversion for the word. To purge it forever from his vocabulary. Did commonplace phobias begin like this? The fear of water, open spaces, darkness, dogs – an ironic smile found its way to his lips. He, John Thornton, a Milton manufacturer and a magistrate, was afraid of a word.

The ground levelled out, opening into the wide, noisy thoroughfare of New Street, with its rows of shops, omnibuses, human traffic and unabashed mercantile activity. Breath came more easily now; a sense of homecoming, relief, that he was crossing an invisible border into his own country – it was ridiculous of course - Crampton was after all, a suburb of Milton, but such was its association with the Hales that it was becoming to him, almost a part of the South.

The Hales. What would Mr Hale think of him now? No doubt she would confide the morning's horrors to her father. At once, he saw the old gentleman's kindly brow knitting into a disapproving frown, the silent eloquence of hurt and betrayal in his eyes. They were friends, even kindred spirits in a way that neither had expected, but he readily admitted to himself that Mr Hale's goodwill was unlikely to extend to giving away his only daughter to a mere mill owner. A tradesman. It was an appellation that lay in murky middle-ground between snobbery and truth, and if pressed, one that he had to acknowledge. He was nothing, if not brutally honest with himself.

Tradesman - the very word seared his lips. That Mr Hale might perceive his proposal as an affront had been a risk that he, at the height of his passion, had been prepared to take, but now that he had rolled the dice and lost, the thought of having thrown way Mr Hale's regard struck him like a physical blow.

So, it was with something less than his usual assurance that he entered the gate of his own little fiefdom; crossing the courtyard hemmed by the looming bulk of the mill and the great house that abutted it, he looked up, the briefest of hesitations, before continuing his progress. And if the black-clad woman waiting at the first floor window of the grey-stoned house had seen the consternation writ large on her son's pale brow, she gave no sign of it.

He was home. The ceaseless whirring of machinery, a subtle vibration under his feet confirmed his journey's conclusion. Yet, there was no comfort in the thought, only a leaden heaviness in the heart, an immense tiredness and at the end of it all, a confession to be made.

He paused at the threshold, shivering, but not with cold. Strange, how her waving dark hair came so vividly to him, like the shining softness of a bolt of silk; his hands, not his mind owned the memory. Only yesterday, it was on this very flagstone, the one with a long sideways crack, black and spreading like a wintry branch where she had -

Where. It was not a place, but rather, a moment in time slipped beyond all recalling.

Abruptly, he closed the door; there was a sharp prickling behind his eyes, and for a few eternal minutes, he was achingly alone, in a world of misted glass.

When he was again his own master, John Thornton entered the hall and began unfastening his gloves; absently, fingers sought the familiar buttons, and finding none, his perplexed gaze turned downwards.

His hands were bare. For a time, he stared, unwilling to believe the testimony of his own eyes. A frantic search of his pockets yielded nothing.

Then he remembered with a sharp stab of dismay, exactly where he had left them.

Mrs Thornton had been waiting, watching her son from the gap he had carelessly left, with the door narrowly ajar. A single brace of candles illuminated the office, so that he was surrounded by the brown shadows of dusk. A mess of ledger books lay open on the mahogany desk, a crumpled cravat beside the inkwell, but she could not see his face because he was in his chair, its tall back towards her. All she could see of him was the pale glow of a rolled-up shirtsleeve, his dark head resting in the crook of his arm.

A growing wedge yellow light under the door heralded her arrival; a flutter of flame as cool air from the corridor outside flooded in.

"John. It's nearly midnight."

He roused at once, an instant of confusion before he could muster a smile. "Mother?"

Glancing at the ledger books, she said, "Surely the accounts can wait till the morning."

He pulled up a chair for her, close beside his own, so that she too, was within the circle of candle-light.

"They needed looking over, and there will be enough to do tomorrow."

Scattered on the desk were sheets of paper covered with figures, tabulated in his neat, vigorous hand. Work was an excellent salve for the spirit; she knew from bitter experience that it left no time for the mind to turn upon and devour itself. Long days and nights at the draper's shop had told her of her son's silent grief, and now, a handful of numbers signified his unspoken anguish.

How different he was from Fanny, with her golden hair and fussy prettiness. Hers was a superficial beauty that would fade with age, entirely in keeping with her character. But John had always been striking, if not handsome. Dark colouring, keen blue eyes, a severity and reserve bred, perhaps by the adversity of his boyhood had made him something of an enigma among the young ladies of Milton. A most desirable young man, except to the one woman he had chosen to love.

She stifled the hatred rising in her heart, watched him close the books, arrange his papers.

"John, will you – will you ever return to Crampton?"

A pause. At last, he said, "Yes. Mr Hale was kind enough to lend me a few books. I suppose I should return them."

"You could send a servant, John."

"No, mother. That would be a discourtesy. I owe Mr Hale an apology, and I have no wish to give him more grief than I already have by omitting it."

"An apology?" she exclaimed in disbelief. "The debt is his – and Miss Hale's, not yours!"

He was surprised at the violence of her response. Then, the smile that always came a little unwillingly, lit his face as he took her hand and held it. "Mother, won't you listen to me? If a poor fellow, one of the men, or an apprentice presumed to beg me for Fanny's hand, would you not take offence?"

She was silent.

Slowly, he rose, constrained at first by her grasp, and as she relinquished her hold he began to pace, up, down, again and again as he always did when he was troubled. Boy and man, he could never stay still; it was perhaps the one thing that he had inherited from George. Her gaze followed him, black and unrelenting.

"I was once a draper's boy, and Miss Hale is a lady."

At once, she flung up her head, for she could no longer bear the despondency in his voice. "Those days are over, John. You must not speak of them again. You are her superior in fortune, intellect and endeavour, and any man or woman who thinks otherwise is a fool!"

He said nothing, but she understood her son better than any soul living; his mind was made up, and not for anything on earth would he change it. Reaching for his cravat, she smoothed out the creases and folded it into a neat square.

Without looking up, she asked, "So. When will you go?"

"Tomorrow, if I can spare the time."

"And will you ask her –"

"Never."

Satisfied, Mrs Thornton closed her eyes. A heady, combustible mixture of joy, relief and righteous anger engulfed her. She could never feel the same about Fanny – it was only John who could provoke such emotion within her, a reminder that she still possessed him, no – rather, that they still belonged to each other.

"Come, mother, let's go. It has been a long day." She opened her eyes and saw how weary he looked.

"Yes, it's time this day ended," Mrs Thornton said softly, as she extinguished the candles.

Author's note:

Many thanks to everyone for the encouraging reviews! I was rather overwhelmed, to be honest! The entire bit about Mr Thornton feeling that he needed to apologise to Mr Hale, and fearing for his friendship is entirely made up and didn't come out in the TV series or the book. But I thought that he just might, given his honesty and how much he valued Mr Hale's friendship – so you know now I'm not being strictly true to either book or TV series. I should add that Mr Thornton's journey home from Crampton was covered in the novel, and is definitely more angsty than my version. Hopefully Chapter 2 works. Thanks for reading!