July, 26th

Margaret:

I wake up early and dive headfirst into a flurry of activity. I call Melanie and ask her if we can do anything for Marlborough Mills, if we can lend them money to rebuild, to come back to life. She says it's alright and drafts a proposal she mails me before noon, which looks good enough to me.

She sets an appointment with John for tomorrow, Friday, in a restaurant she always uses for business meals. I'm not sure whether to go or not but Melanie says I should learn the ropes of managing finances by being present in meetings like this one.

I'm really nervous. I feel like a caged tiger in my home, I walk up and down and then get down and walk on the street. It's hot and humid, people go about their own business, my turmoil just for me to deal with. The first fat drops of rain smash on the top of my head - I went out without an umbrella so I get into the first open business. Turns out it's a bookstore and I browse lazily while the rain subsides.

I find a book with quotes by famous thinkers, the kind of book I believe to be like a soap of culture - to slather on you and impress your acquaintances but it really doesn't stay with you long. I page through it and this quote really jumps up. It's by Goethe and reads: "If I love you, what business it is to you?"

I laugh mutely. "Quite a good business, actually. Just please, take it" I think to myself. I'm truly afraid that he won't take the loan because it comes from me. Let's hope that doesn't happen.

This bookshop seems to be for tourists but there are a few interesting things for locals too. There's a photographic history of England by areas and I look for the North volume. There it is. I pull it from the shelf and look for the Lancashire cotton mills history and peruse the pictures. This one looks like... is it...? Mmmh...

July, 27th

John:

Mrs. Sanders called yesterday and said she had found an investor interested in bringing the Mills back from the dead. We'd meet in this restaurant at 11.30 and I arrive early, as usual, and sit in a table set for three people. I wait. 11.30 come and go and nobody shows up. I pull out my phone and turn it on discreetly; I don't want to bother other customers with it. There's no message from her.

It's 12.15 and I'm debating whether to stay and order for one, or more accordingly to my finances these days, simply leave. Mrs. Sanders' phone is off or in a no coverage area. I suppose I can stay a little longer in London, Watson's apartment is truly convenient in that regard but I wish I didn't have to.

I allow myself to weigh in new information. Someone named Henry gave Margaret a pretty ring. Why do men give rings to young and beautiful ladies? There's the odd situation, of course, in most cases I'd guess it's engagement. Talk about being a loser.

Margaret Hale appears often in my dreams. She is always beyond my reach: she's riding a bus in the opposite direction, in a garden two storeys below, talking to someone else, not seeing me. Or she's in disguise: I am sharing some hard words with Daniel, my mother or any of my employee, and suddenly realize it's Margaret who I'm talking to. She is at her father's funeral, the last time I saw her, and I can't believe how cruel I was. My worst nightmare is her marrying that man who held her hands at the funeral, that... that elegant, worldly man who's not me. And only once or twice my dream was perfect, she came laughing, dancing and spreading her arms, warm and lovely and close.

I always wake up from those dreams in a mess, because although they leave me in a foul mood for a good part of the day I simply don't want them to go away. As if summoned by my hopes and dreams (unfortunately the bad ones) I met her two days ago. She has changed; I thought she looked older, but still so beautiful to me that I spent every second of the party drinking her in, memorizing her features, her voice, the fascinating way she moves herself, particularly her hands. While we talked, I think I only blinked once.

Maybe my dreams are playing tricks with me because a woman who looks just like Margaret has just entered the restaurant and is talking to the head waiter. He nods and walks ceremoniously towards me, hiding her from my view, but then he arrives to my table and it's her.

Margaret Hale is here and not Melanie Sanders. I get up from my chair to greet her, too stunned to actually be able to articulate anything. She smiles nervously and sits down, opens her purse and pulls a little folder out.

-"I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Thornton. Melanie had an appointment out of town this morning and her car had a puncture; nothing serious, fortunately, but she's not going to come. She must be somewhere else this afternoon - she tried to contact you but said your phone was off". I don't think I had seen her nervous before and I like it, although I'd rather she was calm.

-"Since we're here", she continues, "I would say we had lunch and I introduce you to our idea. Do you agree?"

-"Of course", I find my voice to state something beyond obvious while I wonder about "our idea".

We take a moment to order and I strive to select an item from the menu that won't get stuck to my teeth (this pesto thing is excluded) or may make a mess on my shirt (so pasta is out too). Margaret says the chicken salad is good and asks for sparkling water; the day is hot and I prefer a beer, and after a little consideration I ask for a chicken salad too. I imagine I'll later have to eat something else but try not to think about it right now.

The food comes surprisingly quick and I admit it's more generous than I had thought.

-"I'm not sure you're aware that recently I inherited a large sum of money", she blushes as she pours her water but holds herself together, and her voice gains certainty and strength, "mostly in investments and real estate, and after hearing of your difficulties and discussing to Melanie about possible avenues, I would like to offer you a loan".

-"A loan?", I repeat. "You have no idea how much I've tried to get a loan from banks but was refused time and again", I add mentally.

-"Yes, a loan", she smiles shyly, "of three and a half millions".

-"Euro?" it's all I manage.

-"Pounds" she says. "I hope it's enough for starting. I'm also" she rushes but then pauses and continues more slowly, "the owner of the premises of Marlborough Mills so the rent is part of the loan too. There are many details in the draft you must agree to, and you may want to go through them with an attorney and maybe make some comments, but essentially that's the proposal". She finishes and her eyes haven't left mine. Straight, open, unwavering.

I'm not sure what to say. I take the draft she offers me and skim over it; everything looks in order but I must read it closely before I sign it.

-"Why?" It's not polite to ask such question but it springs, unbidden, to my lips.

Margaret ponders a reply.

-"Do you remember a conversation we had long ago, one day after a class?" she asks and I think I know which one she refers to. The one I thought myself to have won but I haven't been so sure lately.

-"When you accused me of being an accomplice to a system that denies opportunities to those who need them more?", I repeat her earlier words.

She smiles and looks down to her plate, a little embarrassed.

-"I don't remember using those exact words but you're probably right", she looks up and flushes again. "Well, I've been thinking... I think you raised some very good points then... of being responsible and doing what is in our power, of the importance of local business and local economy." She looks sideways and I force myself not to stare at the velvety harmony of lines of her jaw, neck and collarbone. "Everyone I met in Milton was related to Marlborough Mills, everyone. I cannot be able to help you and not do it". She shakes her head thoughtfully.

-"As I mentioned at your cousin's dinner", we're falling back into our old patterns of conversation, but hopefully older and wiser, "it's not the end of the world. Businesses going down happens all the time".

-"Well, horrible things have happened and the world hasn't ended yet", she raises to the challenge, "but what does that mean? That they weren't terrible enough, of that there is still hope?" she finishes the question with a smile.

-"And what is hope?" I shoot back.

-"Hope is the lack of complete certainty bad things have, Mr. Thornton" and I almost applaud that one. "At least that's how I see it".

We're finishing our lunch now. Margaret waves the waiter and says that Mrs. Sanders should pay for our lunch, to which I try to refuse but she wouldn't hear me. She goes to the restroom and is back quickly and then we say goodbye.

-"Mr. Thornton", she says when we're about to part ways on the street, "now I must run an errand to some place not far from here. If you don't have anywhere else to be this afternoon, would you like to come with me?"