A/N: Oh, I am so glad that none of you have threatened to torch my house after leaving a chapter that way. For those unfamiliar with the book, the whole debate of the kindness/unkindness of giving charity to the strikers is not addressed between Margaret and John at any point (it's brought up with margaret and her dad, although he mentions john's opinions), but I thought it was important to highlight that although John's making some good moves, there is still a pretty big gulf between him and Margaret about the strike. And yeah, this is fanfiction and there will be inevitable moments of OOC-ness and an unwitting 21st-century spin on some things, but "the course of true love never did run smooth" and they've still got differences to resolve. I'm grateful that many of you reviewers out there understand that and don't hate me for putting conflict in there. But never fear! I am all for a happy ending, even if bumps are strewn about on the way to it. Back to your regularly-scheduled programming.

Margaret threw herself on her bed, exhausted by the turmoil within her that would not cease. After Mr. Thornton's departure, she had little idea of her mother's needs or the concerns she harbored for Bessy and her neighbors. All that filled her body and mind was Mr. Thornton and the conflicting emotions that he evoked within her in so short a period of time. She doubted they had been together for a full ten minutes and there was such an array of feelings to be taken from that time: surprise, embarrassment, reluctance, happiness, contentment, intensity, and then anger.

And such anger! She rolled on to her side as she remembered the harsh lines of his face as he cut their argument short. They had argued before, but he had never betrayed such a lack of control over his frustration. To see such ire in him frightened her a little, even if he did take pains to rein in whatever it was he truly wished to say. Why did he have to make life so difficult for her, for the people whose lives he affected?

For she could not, would not regret her words, urging kindness to those in need. And yet he would give no credence to such an idea, insisting on the logic that made her nearly hate him. Why could he cast aside such attempts on her part to make life more bearable for those suffering, and most of all, how could he? Was there no humanity in him at all? Was his entire life dictated by logic and reason? Was there no room in him for compassion?

Even as these questions tumbled over each other in her mind, fighting for prominence, she could not help thinking of his behavior to her parents, to herself, and most likely to his own family. Was there no humanity in the way he had been a friend to her father, a man who by virtue of his choices had been forced to leave behind most who would call him friend? Was there no compassion in his entire being as he offered her sympathy when she confessed to him of her mother? Was there not kindness in how he spoke to her mother and even aroused laughter from her ever-weakening body? She could not deny those actions, and yet he still was cold and indifferent to the plight of those he employed. There was no accounting for the inconsistency, no explanation, no reconciliation between the two men she saw in him. Was there?

She could not lie still as she thought of him and was soon pacing her room, hating the confusion she felt over him. Even just thinking of how he had recently changed around her was overwhelming. Her own anger dying away as the minutes passed, she was left with an image forcing entry into her thoughts, an image of his imploring eyes as he asked her what she found to like in Milton. She had understood the intensity of his expression, but not the unuttered question she felt surge from him. What had he really been asking her? What was in his eyes that she had felt too overcome to catch? Could it have been . . . ?

She stopped her pacing, disbelief at the impossible thought. No, he couldn't possibly. He couldn't possibly have been expressing such a sentiment. But perhaps, as she thought over their recent encounters, perhaps it explained his behavior to her in a way she had not considered. Could it be? Could that something she had not understood be . . . hope? Hope that he could be one of those things she had found to like in Milton. Hope that she could feel something for him. Hope that she would understand his attentions to her, what he might be feeling for her.

Once more she tried to convince herself that such a conclusion was impossible. Mr. Thornton could not like her. He was not doing anything other than try to be a friend for her father's sake. He could not like her. And she . . . she could not like him.

Doubt flooded her. She could like him, she knew very well. She already did, thanks to their recent meetings. But could she feel anything beyond that for him?

She felt her entire being flush as she thought over his conduct and her own words of how a man should court a woman. Only now did she see the connection: his offering his arm to her, his desire to remain in her company, his compliment to her and the subsequent embarrassment. How had she missed it? He was taking her words to heart and trying to show her his feelings!

His feelings.

He had feelings for her. This realization floored her. She forgot all else in this simple fact. He had feelings for her! But this realization brought her no peace, no joy, no happiness. How could it? For in such a wretched state, she could not see any possible way that she could return those feelings. Could she?

"Fool!" he exploded to himself as he stormed away from the Hale residence. He gave no heed to the curious looks given him by those he passed; what cared he for them? He could only concentrate on the cruel dispute he had with Margaret and what a simpleton he could be for hoping to be worthy of her. Her blank refusal to grasp his perspective of the strike was proof enough that she would never see him as anything but the tyrannical master she had been poisoned to perceive in him. She was too stubborn, and he had no chance to make her see reason, to understand that there was more at stake here than the rate of wage his workers received.

He continued in this thunderous train of thought most of his way home, alternately cursing his blasted temper and wondering why the Hales had to come to Milton in the first place. He did not want to focus on anything but his anger, because despite what Miss Hale thought, he knew that he was not to blame for the situation. He knew it! He wanted to remain in his righteous indignation. She was too blind to see the two sides of the question, and he wanted to convince himself that his loss of temper was justified.

When he reached the mill gate, he came to a stop. His fury disappeared with his ferocious stride. He could only stand there in despair over his behavior. Losing his temper, revealing so blatantly his anger to her was undeniably wrong, and he knew it. He hated to admit it, but there it was. No matter that they were on opposing sides, he should have maintained control. If he had done so, maybe he could have helped her understand . . . but, no, she would never accept any explanation he had to give. She would never give him any chance, and he had no hope.

He had almost convinced himself she began to feel something for him during that moment her eyes locked onto his. He knew he took great risk by revealing himself so fully, but the sparkle in her eye seemed to reward that risk and requite him without words. He knew she could not feel as deeply as he did. And yet, she had accepted his look. And she shared it. Perhaps there was hope then, in that precious moment. But it had broken, and the brief illusion he built up had shattered.

He walked into the dining room where his mother spent her days to find her and Fanny occupied in talk over the dinner party. He did not want to give alarm to his mother or a ready track for Fanny to ridicule him, so he forced himself to speak with equanimity, despite the grief that associated itself with his message. "Mrs. Hale received your invitation, Mother, and was very pleased. She herself cannot come to the party, but she answered for Mr. and Miss Hale's coming." Somehow he kept his control as he spoke her name.

"I wonder that she cannot take the trouble to answer with a note, as anybody else would," Mrs. Thornton replied. "I suppose she is too much of a fine lady for that."

"I'm sure you will receive a note from the Hales all the same; she knew I was in the house when she received your note and wished to thank me in person; that's all."

Hearing a hint of defense in his words, Mrs. Thornton looked closer at her son, but he seemed perfectly cool. "I suppose she is too unwell to come herself." She could not entirely hide the censure in her voice, as she disapproved of such affectations by a "fine lady" who labelled herself an invalid to avoid Milton society.

He knew her double meaning, but he did not feel it his right to betray Margaret's confidence and reveal the extent of Mrs. Hale's illness simply to secure his mother's compassion. But he did think that Mrs. Hale deserved more justice from his mother as he said, "Mother, I do believe that Mrs. Hale is very far from well. They are not the kind of family to make false excuses."

"How you profess to understand these Hales, John!" his sister exclaimed. "Are they really so very different from other people?"

He would not reply. Mrs. Thornton responded, "They do not seem to me out of the common way. He appears a worthy kind of man." She refrained from casting further aspersions on the mother. If John vouched for Mrs. Hale, she would give her the benefit of the doubt. She kept silent on her lingering belief that Mrs. Hale would not be above giving a false excuse to stay away if she were not ill, however, no matter John's trust. "As for Miss Hale, she gives herself airs, which is a puzzle to me. They are not rich, after all, and never have been from all I can hear."

"And she's not accomplished, Mother; she cannot play."

He could not stop himself from interrupting. "Go on, Fanny. What else does she lack to bring her up to your standard?" As angry as he was at Margaret, he could not abide to hear her insulted, especially by one such as Fanny who could not know how to judge Margaret's real worth.

"I heard Miss Hale say herself she cannot play, John. You needn't be so hard on Fanny."

Silence was all her reply, but when Fanny was absorbed in her own task, he placed a hand on Mrs. Thornton's shoulder and said quietly, "I wish you would like Miss Hale."

"Why?" She was suddenly wary of such a request.

"I foresee trouble and loneliness for her and she has not many friends. Her father is my friend, and I know she would benefit from any care you can offer her." He tried to keep his tone inconspicuous, but his mother was ready to suspect more.

"You're never thinking of marrying her?" she asked, half bewildered and half expressing a joke, hoping he would give her a flat denial.

"She would never have me," he replied, trying to keep his pain masked. He would not have his mother know his foolish pretensions for the world. He would give them up and forget Margaret; better his mother never know how close he had come to confessing his previous intentions.

Relieved at his statement, she agreed with him. "No, she wouldn't. She has too good an opinion of herself to take you. Why, she laughed in my face at the thought of it. I'd like to know where she could find someone better."

He could bear no more and left the room as quickly as he dared. He took himself to his office and made himself focus on business. Time had gone on long enough and he needed the mill running or risk total collapse. He spent several hours getting things in order, for he would soon send for hands from Ireland. It would be more trouble and expense than he cared to go to, but he must do it or go under. He hoped throwing himself into the work would relieve his mind of her, but despite his best efforts to keep single-minded, his thoughts strayed to her offended face more than once before the day ended.

His mother did not see him the next day. He had disappeared from the house before breakfast and there was no telling where he might have gone. But he could not have given her any indication of his destination had she seen him, anyway. He hardly knew where he was walking to. Sleep had eluded him and he felt nothing but a desire to work through his contradictory thoughts. For Margaret was never far from him, as much as he might have decided to give up any idea of her the day before. She could not be banished so easily and he felt his feeble resolve teetering.

Before he knew it, he was on the familiar path to Crampton, habit having overtaken conscious thought. When he came to himself and saw where he was headed, he took in his surroundings and saw the cemetery not far. With a reluctant and heavy heart, he directed his steps inside and was soon at his father's grave.

Although ruined at his death, Mrs. Thornton had insisted the expense be scrounged up to pay for a proper burial, but John had been less than pleased at the effort. They had been left behind with nothing and he was meant to still honor this man who abandoned them? As time passed, his bitterness and resentment had subsided in the memory and loss of a good father, but visiting his place of rest was still not a customary occurrence. However, he needed to stop and collect his thoughts, and here was as good a place as any to do it.

His anger toward Margaret was gone. Only shame and sorrow remained. He had spoken ill to her and come to the realization she would never view him as simply John Thornton the man. If he could have persuaded her that he was only that, really, maybe he would have had a fighting chance, but that was not to be. And why should it be otherwise? In Margaret's limited perspective, it was only natural she should take up the cause of those who suffered. Even as he offered her explanations for his business, he had only relied on logic and reason to speak for him. He needed to run his business on such principles, but he had given no indication that outside of the mill he had human feeling. And the little he had done to make any headway with her had clearly come too late. Why should she accept a man she would never see as a man? She would never see him as anything but the master she first judged him and seen him to be. He despaired of that ever changing. So he must forget her and put past himself these tormenting thoughts and feelings that had plagued him since leaving her home. He was adamant that he would move on; he was firmly resolved to do it.

"Mr. Thornton?" a quiet and familiar voice spoke.

He turned to see her approach and his heart traitorously bounded.

So much for his resolution.