When Margaret arrived back at the house, her father was waiting to spring on her in order to know that all had gone smoothly. Seeing little use in mentioning Mr. Thornton and knowing that telling Mr. Hale of the fight would give him unnecessary alarm, she simply stated that Frederick had gotten on the train and was safely on his way to London. Before leaving the station, she had looked for evidence of Leonards, but he had disappeared. From the direction she had seen him stagger off to, she knew it was impossible that he could have boarded the train to follow Frederick, and he had been in such a condition that she wondered if he would even recollect later that he had seen his prize. No doubt the experience would keep Frederick doubly on his guard while he remained in the country, so she supposed he was as safe as he would have been without the awful fright on the platform.
Her father was relieved by her report, but did not allow his tranquility to stay as he immediately began to fuss again over the addition of London to the plan. "What if he should be delayed? Or recognized? Was seeing Mr. Lennox really worth the risk?"
Margaret did her best to console him and look cheerful and optimistic. In any case, it was too late to change the plan, and her father's fretting was not helping her rattled nerves. "We have done our best to conceal him, Father. We must trust that in so doing we have kept him safe."
"And we must always do so, Margaret. No one can know he was here. It is better to hide him completely, for the protection of all." Mr. Hale seemed rather crazed in his desperate fear, and Margaret, to soothe him, had to agree.
But she was dismayed to speak the words, for they effectively sealed her lips against ever explaining herself to Mr. Thornton. And she was desperate to do so. The entire walk home had been miserable, as she regretted her inaction at the station. Why, when she had seen him, had she stood as though set in marble? He surely must have wanted to know what was taking place, and she could have so quickly erased that terrible look that even now plagued her memory. But no, she had allowed her doubt and fear to hold her back, and she would now pay the price for her folly. What must he think of her now?
The tears sprang to her eyes again, and rather than push them back, she fled the study and hastened to her room. Once there, she lay on her bed, clutching at the covers as the anguish washed over her. For what had she done to Mr. Thornton in the short work of an evening? She had feared and doubted him, even for a moment, and he had done nothing to deserve even the barest distrust.
And she knew now that was what had stopped her mouth, not her shock at seeing him nor her brother holding her fast, but the hint of memory when Dixon had proclaimed he would only be true to his duty. She had been frightened in that horrible moment that Dixon was right. How could she have allowed that idea to take root? She had tried to cast it aside! For she knew that he would have done anything for his duty to her, even ignore his other societal obligations. She knew that, and now she must live with the shame that she had lost sight of that truth, even for a split second. He would have done anything for love of her. She nearly hated herself for doubting him.
Remembering the sting of pain and wrath in his face set her crying afresh. For what conclusions must he have come to? She was alone with a stranger, at night, far from home. Perhaps that would have been bad enough, but he had seen her embrace him and then merely stare instead of immediately clarifying and rectifying the situation. What conclusion would she make if their roles were reversed?
Even just imagining him in another woman's arms made her sick with jealousy. How much worse must it be for him, who had actually seen her! She could not even bring herself to be indignant that he would not trust her character in such circumstances, not with how thoroughly her actions could be seen to belie her integrity. She knew if she saw him thus situated, she would be jealous, she would be heartbroken, she would be angry! To have assurances of affection only to see attentions given to another would stir her to fury. She would be confused and wounded by the obvious secrecy being exercised. Even for an innocent reason such as she had for her conduct, she would be hurt if he could not trust her with such a great secret.
And now she was barred from telling him what that secret was, because of her father's fearful command. She had depended on being able to see him and explain herself, but what explanation would he accept now? How could he trust her words of professed love if she refused to be open about the man at Outwood station? How could she appear as anything but duplicitous, now she was imprisoned by silence? She spent a miserable night in tears, despairing that she had lost Mr. Thornton's love in the matter of an instant.
In truth, her fears of what he must think of her were terribly accurate. He raged and stormed over what he had seen. What kind of witch was she, to encourage and secure him, only to prove her insincerity so blatantly? He could not fathom such a betrayal, such shameful deceit. He never would have believed it of her, this devil in angelic form. She had seemed to him so righteous, so pure, so honest, and yet there was that man! And she had dared to look shocked at seeing him at the station, still feigning a maidenly horror she couldn't possibly feel. No woman who dealt thus could have any proper feeling. What a fool he was to have been taken in by such a tainted soul.
And yet he still loved her – there was no denying that. If he did not, his jealousy and heartache would not tower over every other sense and feeling. He loved that woman who he thought he had known. And that love made a miniscule part of him still crave a reason, a justification, for what she had done. There must be something, he desperately pleaded with himself. She could not treat him thus without explanation. But the evidence of his eyes and the power of his jealousy overrode any rational grasp he made to clear her. There was no way to make it right, no matter how he tried to turn it. She had made him her dupe, and now he would have to wallow in and curse his stupidity.
Oh, she had played her part well. She had been so convincing as the upstanding, shy, moral center who was just as inexperienced in love as he. How much he had believed in her; he had even defended her to his mother's harsh judgments! Could this actress really be the woman he so adored? Was any part of it real?
This was the battle he waged, the staggering revelation of and subsequent belief in her artful performance and the persistent argument and hope that she was actually sincere. He had never before doubted her, never questioned her veracity or her feelings. Everything about her bespoke her genuine affection for him; it had been skin-tinglingly real. That was the woman he knew, the woman he loved. She was not capable of lying in such a manner.
But his jealousy and rage would not allow him to convince himself that she could still be that woman. No, he had seen enough to let him remain angry, heartbroken, and entirely wasted. The Margaret he loved was a phantom, and she was lost to him.
Mrs. Hale's funeral was a quiet and close affair. The service was cold and brief as read by the officiating clergyman, and Margaret lamented the lack of mourners to pay their respects. She rarely wished to be in Helstone any more, but she could not help thinking of how many parishioners and friends would have gathered together there to honor the vicar's wife. Now there was no one to mourn with them; Mr. Bell had not been able to come because of illness, and Mr. Hale felt deeply the effects of abandonment and isolation.
He could hardly attend to the service, his vacant eyes seeing nothing of what was before him. He repeated the familiar words read by the clergyman mechanically, barely grasping why such words were so known to him and the little comfort they gave. Margaret was called upon to be his guide as he blindly and mutely required her arm once it was all over. She tried to offer such faithful and holy comfort as had strengthened her, but he paid her words no attention, lost in his mind as he was.
Margaret had another reason to be anxious on this sorrowful day, a reason her father had momentarily forgotten in his grief. Frederick had sent a letter received that morning to say that Henry was not in town. His clerk expected him back in two or three days, and Frederick had decided to stay on for an additional day or two on the chance he might see him. Margaret now repented of urging Frederick so strongly to consult with Henry, now such urging had doubtless been part of what kept Frederick in London. At the time, her suggestion had seemed safe enough, but everything that happened afterward made the scheme so undesirable. Now she must wait longer for confirmation of Frederick's safety, and her stomach would remain in knots until said confirmation came.
Such thoughts in addition to this final farewell to her mother distracted her from noticing anybody. But Dixon touched her arm as they left the church, directing her attention to Nicholas and Mary Higgins, who stood nearby. Margaret had some room left within her to be grateful for their consideration, and she nodded to them in acknowledgement of their respect. Mary had been so quiet at the Hale home while under Dixon's direction the past few days, that Margaret had hardly thought she would have told her father about the funeral. Clearly, though, she had, and Margaret smiled sadly at their show of friendship. She could expect no similar attention from the friend she wanted most.
Her attention was so focused on helping her father that she did not realize the friend she so desired was there. Dixon had been lagging as she sobbed and covered her face with a handkerchief, so she did not know Mr. Thornton was close at hand until he spoke to her.
"I beg your pardon, but can you tell me how Mr. Hale is?" He forced himself to include her name. "And Miss Hale, too?"
"They are much as is to be expected," Dixon replied, wiping away her tears furiously. "Master is terribly broken down. Miss Hale bears up better than likely."
He was silent at first, his mind consumed with wondering exactly why Margaret would be bearing up "better than likely". No matter how heartless she had been to him, she must have some consideration for the woman who bore her. But she did not have to bear her loss alone. He had thought at one time that he could comfort and console her, but it was not to be. She had another to be that friend, that comforter she could rely on.
"I suppose I may call on Mr. Hale. He will admit me, I presume?" He must remain cold to her, but he still had a friend in Mr. Hale, and he would not neglect him, though his daughter was so cruel.
"I dare say Master will see you. He was very sorry to have sent you away so quickly the other day, but circumstances were not so agreeable then."
She moved away from him, and he was left to wonder at what Dixon or even Mr. Hale may know. Had they also been concealing that man he saw? Was Mr. Hale so nervous that day he visited because he knew the disappointment and pain sure to come Mr. Thornton's way? He did not want to consider any complicity on Mr. Hale's part in the affair; he would not consider it. Margaret alone was to blame.
Yet even in his enduring anger, his heart panged at the condemnation. There was still that part of him that would not believe she was so fallen and corrupt. He bore himself away quickly, trusting to his rapid stride to mask his tormented face from the crowd.
It was now a day past when Margaret had hoped to hear from Frederick. Each morning she looked for some word of him and nothing came. Had he decided to stay even longer and was afraid to tell her? Or had the worst happened? She tried to assure herself that if he had been discovered, there would be some news of it, but this did not help to convince her. She wished there were some way she could write to him and tell him to forget that she had ever proposed he delay his going, but she would not have known where to direct such a letter.
Her father, now the funeral was over, had remembered his son and, much like his wife before him, did not forget to ask if any letter had come. And as each day passed, Margaret was finding it more difficult to affect confidence. Her excuses for Frederick's silence were becoming increasingly thin, and Mr. Hale could see it. But rather than rouse himself to soothe his daughter's agitation, he only sank further into the melancholy that had taken root in him since his wife's passing the week before. Margaret would not blame him for his ceaseless misery, but she found herself wishing he would make some effort to console her in turn. After all, he was not the only one to lose Mrs. Hale. She was lonely in her suffering, and she did not have anyone to turn to, now she had driven Mr. Thornton away.
But she had to do her best once more to cover her sadness and make the necessary adjustments as the household adapted to the loss of the mistress. She went about her tasks and duties quietly and with little fuss, strengthening Dixon's belief that Margaret was bearing up rather well under the circumstances. But in truth she was tormented. She had lost a kind friend, she was not allowed to truly mourn her mother, she was bearing the brunt of the responsibility and anxiety of Frederick's questionable whereabouts, and she grieved every hour for John Thornton.
She was trying to push her gloomy thoughts behind her while sitting with her father when the chief object of her grief was announced by Dixon. She had thought the sound of the bell meant some shopman had come, giving the commotion little heed. But now Mr. Thornton was in the doorway, and the old ache in her chest returned on beholding him. He was soon before Mr. Hale, wringing his hand in unspoken sympathy. The sight brought her to tears that did not spill over, both grateful that he would at least remember her father and desolate in the certainty he would show her no such kindness.
He did not want to look at her when he first entered the drawing room, but he knew he could not in all decency avoid her when his avowed purpose was to condole with the family. He had prepared himself for two days to see her, and he would not fail himself now. After greeting Mr. Hale, he turned to her. He saw immediately that Dixon's report of how Margaret fared could not be further from the truth. Her pleading eyes were dimmed with unshed tears, and her face expressed so much lonely suffering, he did not resist the urge to walk to her and take her hand in his. He could not help it; she looked so forlorn. This woman who felt and bore so much was the woman he loved, and he sorrowed and blamed himself for forsaking her.
"Miss Hale," he spoke softly and tenderly. "I am very sorry for the loss you have endured. If there is anything I or my family may do to help, please know we are at your service whenever you need us." He spoke and held her hand so gently that Margaret's tears did burst through, and she turned away so as not to be overwrought in her father's presence. She had not expected his caring words or friendly look, little as she felt she deserved them. But he was more generous than she had thought, and she hated once more how ill she had judged him. It was all she could do to not go to his arms and find comfort in his embrace.
As she turned from him, he was at first tempted to touch her arm and bring her back, but almost immediately that haunting image from the station reappeared in his mind. How could he have forgotten it? He straightened and returned to sit by her father, reminding himself that if she suffered alone, it was all her own doing. He would not comfort her with his love, and clearly the stranger had abandoned her, even during her great need. He would not feel sorry for her.
And yet, as he spoke to Mr. Hale and could not stop looking at her sitting quietly, he saw once more his Margaret, sorrowful and full of real and sincere feeling. This woman who sat across the room was surely not the deceitful enchantress his jealousy told him she was. But what explanation had she to offer? What was the true story behind the events at Outwood station? For the first time, he wanted to ask her what it was he did not know, what more there was that she could tell him, what danger kept her from confiding in him. But his warring sides would not allow this brief rational desire to linger, not while the image of that man remained. As long as she was silent and unwilling to be honest with him, he would not be the first to speak, continuing to perceive her as the unattainable actress.
Presently Dixon came to the door, saying quietly to Margaret, "Miss Hale, you are wanted." She looked so disturbed that Margaret immediately quailed under the thought that Frederick was in danger; she left the room hurriedly.
"What is it, Dixon? Is it about Fred?" she asked once they were safely removed from the room.
"No, Miss, but it is a police inspector wanting to see you."
This did nothing to dissolve Margaret's fear, and she stepped to the study door with a feeling of foreboding.
A/N: So it's clear I've got angst here, and I know some of you are not happy about it - believe me, I don't write angst for angst's sake. Our lovebirds are victims of terrible timing. I promise I didn't try to drag it out, and I hope that the resolution is all the sweeter because of this drama. I actually kind of have a purpose for all this, and I don't know if it will be clear in a couple chapters or not, but . . . my story, my rules, I guess. Don't give up! And don't hate me! I still welcome your reviews.