Making a decision is easy. Carrying it out is far more difficult. Margaret made this discovery as she tried to find a way to escape her home, even for a few short hours. But it seemed that both her father and Dixon were conspiring against her, however innocently they held her captive. Dixon was continually searching her out, having another inquiry about the house and every-day decisions to be made there. Mr. Hale, having recovered somewhat at the news that Frederick was safe, was determined to keep Margaret close. Between the two of them, Margaret had not a minute to herself.

She only kept herself from bursting by reminding herself that, to them, she was all they had left. They both depended on her, and she had to be sensitive to their needs. But after two days of stifling company, she feared she would run mad. She was relieved when Dixon came to the drawing room to announce with a disapproving scowl, "That man Higgins is here." Any variety was welcome to Margaret, so she gladly replied, "Show him up, Dixon."

"If you saw the state of his shoes, I'm sure you'd say the kitchen was the fitter place," she exclaimed in indignation.

"He can wipe them, I suppose," Mr. Hale said reasonably. He was no less eager for company now, the solitude he had imposed on himself beginning to lose its savor. He had expected Mr. Thornton to return, but as yet that had not happened. Dixon raised an eyebrow at his response, but she bustled away silently. Soon Nicholas was up the stairs, and Margaret stifled a laugh at seeing him in his stocking feet.

"Your servant, sir," he said gruffly, though his voice was a little quieter than she was used to hearing. He nodded to her. "Miss."

Mr. Hale was so glad of the company that he even went so far as to stand and shake Nicholas's hand in greeting. His friendly manner subdued Nicholas even further, and Margaret thought she could guess what was bothering him. "Mary told me the other day about Boucher. I am sorry for it, Nicholas. But I hope you are not over-troubled by his death."

He wondered at her perception, but did not hesitate to answer. "I don't see why I shouldn't be over-troubled, as hard on him as I was. I should have guided him to a better end, but I set him off the road. I must answer for him."

"Surely you do not blame yourself for his death," Mr. Hale said with some concern.

"Not exactly, sir, no, but I could have done more for him. Miss Margaret and you can answer for my temper, and I was not afraid to use it on him." He looked ashamed and awkward, but visibly shook himself. "But there's no use wishing for what was, and I am willing to take the responsibility I should. And that's why I'm here. I've been looking for work."

Such news took both Mr. Hale and Margaret by surprise, knowing how opposed Nicholas was to returning to work for the very masters he had fought against. But Nicholas's quieter tone kept them silent and allowed him to continue.

"I've been keeping a civil tongue in my head, not minding what anybody says back to me. And I'm doing it for Boucher's sake. Well," he winced in correcting himself, "not for his sake, but his children. That's my responsibility now he's gone. But there's not work here for a man such as me. Hamper knows I'm a good worker, but he wouldn't have someone in his mill like me, nor would any of the masters. I'm a trouble-maker in their eyes. And that's why I'm here, sir, to see if you could help me."

Mr. Hale asked, confused, "I would be glad to, but how?"

"Miss there has often talked about the South. I don't know how far it is, but if I could get down there where wages are good and everyone friendly-like as she says, maybe you could help me to find work there."

Margaret was astonished at such a proposal. For Nicholas to uproot himself and, still more, to humble himself enough to ask for help was unheard of. She could hardly believe what he was willing to do for the sake of those poor children. Now she understood Mary's embarrassment when she had asked about them; Mary knew what her father would do and was afraid of sounding boastful for her father's sake as he went beyond his duty to care for the children. What an admirable thing Nicholas was willing to do! But for all that, Margaret knew one thing above all.

"You must not go to the South," she interjected. "You could not stand it. I owe it to you to tell you this, Nicholas, for it's my own fault you feel it could be a better place for you. But you would not bear the dullness of life; it would eat you away like rust. I beg you, think no more of it."

Nicholas looked dismayed at her protest, but nodded his head slowly in agreement. There was nothing to stop his gloomy look, though, as he felt there was no hope for him to find work anywhere.

But the wheels in Margaret's head had not ceased to turn. "Nicholas, have you been to Marlborough Mills for work?"

He snorted. "Ay, I've been to Thornton's. The overlooker bid me go, and was none too friendly about it."

"I wish you had seen Mr. Thornton. Would you try again? I should be so glad if you would. And speak to Mr. Thornton. He would judge you fairly, I'm sure of it."

Nicholas narrowed his eyes at her request. She had spoken in Mr. Thornton's defense before, and with the same surety. For her to do so again brought some suspicion to his mind of what exactly she thought of Mr. Thornton. Though she did not flinch from his penetrating stare, the thought had taken hold, and he would suspect that there was more than met the eye in her speaking for him. How a man such as that could catch the fancy of a girl like Miss Hale he did not know, but if she did commend and admire him, perhaps Mr. Thornton was not completely bad.

He sighed. "All right, I'll do it for your sake, Miss, but I cannot promise he'll be as glad of the notion as you may think."

Mr. Thornton was having trouble tying his cravat again. It had been giving him difficulty for many days now, but it was being especially stubborn this morning. He irritably yanked it off and began again, muttering curses under his breath. His stormy countenance had not escaped his mother's notice at breakfast, and she was curious what this innocuous item of clothing had done to earn his enmity. Although she had heard enough from her servants to guess at what was making him behave like a disturbed beast.

"Can you stop for a moment, John? I want to speak to you."

He turned to her, his eyebrows low and brooding, but he sat directly, throwing the cravat aside with a vengeance.

"It's about Betsy. She says she must leave us, that her lover's death has so affected her spirits that she cannot work." He shifted about in the chair but still said nothing. Mrs. Thornton drew a deep breath. "She also tells me something about your Miss Hale."

He flinched and jerked, as though attempting to brush off a persistent fly. "She is not my Miss Hale, Mother."

His unmasked distress made her confident he knew of what she might say, and she was tempted by his petulance to stop. But she wanted to be certain he was clear of that woman and so continued. "Betsy says the night on which her lover was last seen at the station, Miss Hale was there, walking about with a young man who Betsy believes killed him by some push."

He stood and began to pace. "Leonards did not die of a push. I asked the surgeon myself. He told me there was an internal complaint, made worse by the fact that Leonards was a drunkard."

"So you know all of this!" she exclaimed. He had made no denial of Miss Hale's presence at the station; so what did she care for the dead man? His case was negligible in comparison to Miss Hale's behavior. "You know that Miss Hale was there at the station with another man."

He stopped his pacing and looked directly at her. "Yes, Mother. I know."

"Then she has abused and mistreated you shamefully. How could she be such a deceitful tart to you?"

"No, Mother, no! I will not speak against her, and I will not let you do so." He knew how hypocritical he sounded, as he had not hesitated to think in such a way about Margaret himself. But just as he could not bear to see her publicly shamed, he could not stand to hear his mother's venomous words. She did not struggle as he did; she had no opposing side within that cried out Margaret's blamelessness.

Mrs. Thornton would not be stopped, however. Her suspicions about Miss Hale were viciously confirmed, and she could not allow her son to lie back and accept such treatment. "Not speak against her? John! She drew you in, made you offer to her, and has strung you along like a puppet for her own amusement! Her pretended regard does not deserve your defense, as she must have intended to play you off against this very man! And who knows that there are not others she has deceived and toyed with in a similar manner?"

"Stop, Mother!" He was thunderous. "You do not know everything. You cannot say such things about her."

"You do not know everything, either," she countered with some heat. "You must believe this man is another lover."

His fury died down by the sudden pain at her choice of words. "I do not know any more, Mother. At times I do believe he is her lover. At others . . . I cannot say. But despite everything I do not know, there is something I believe."

"Oh, and what may that be?" she asked contemptuously.

"I believe that she is in some difficulty, some trouble, and that has led to her other actions."

"And that difficulty has caused her to take on another lover, to treat you as though you were less than the dirt under her feet." She could not be forgiving to Miss Hale, a woman who had broken her son so thoroughly. How could he defend her and believe her in some dire strait when it was obvious she was nothing but a conniving jezebel?

He did not say anything to her, but returned to the mirror with the cravat. He wished the subject closed, but she was not done. It was with a grim satisfaction that she said, "Well, I suppose I will have to go and speak with her about her conduct."

He whirled. "What?"

"I made a promise to her mother that I would not allow her daughter to go wrong without advising and remonstrating with her. I shall certainly let her know my opinion." She could not hide a ferocious glee at the prospect of setting Miss Hale down.

He immediately saw what was in her thoughts. "Mother, no. She is in need of guidance and counsel, but not the kind you would offer, not in your current mood."

"I must keep my word to Mrs. Hale, John!" she said obstinately.

"But I'm sure Mrs. Hale did not mean to leave Margaret open to insult. She is in need of a friend, someone who will advise her in kindness and gentleness. If you will not speak to her in such a way, if you are using your promise as an excuse to belittle and shame her, it is better that you do not go at all."

"Are you forbidding me to go, John?" she exclaimed in chagrin.

"I would not dare forbid you from doing anything, Mother," he seemed to spit out her title in his now-quiet wrath. "I am only telling you what I think. It would be better for you to stay away from her." With that said, he stalked out of the room, and Mrs. Thornton was left reeling at his coldness.

Her decision was made. She would not go.

Mr. Thornton's already-sour mood, made worse by the confrontation with his mother, did not improve as the hours passed. He was ashamed of his anger at his mother, but he was more confused at his defense of Margaret. Did he not blame her in the same way his mother did? Was he not rightly jealous and broken over what she had done? Yes, he was, but every minute that passed, it seemed, the part of him that insisted on trusting her became stronger and more powerful. There were moments he almost let himself believe in that hope. But then the memory of her in that man's arms would force its way in again, and he would furiously put down the hope, knowing all the while that it would reassert itself soon enough.

He was returning to the mill after conducting some business when a rough man stepped in his path just outside the gate. He pulled up abruptly and recognized him, as this man had been waiting outside the gate when he had left. "You're here still?"

"Ay, sir. I must speak to you."

His crusty voice sounded familiar, but Mr. Thornton could not place where he might have heard it. He had no objections to speaking to the man as yet, so he beckoned with his head, saying, "You'd better come in, then."

As the man followed him silently, his overlooker stopped him in the yard, muttering, "You should know, sir, that man is Higgins, one of the union leaders." Mr. Thornton looked back at him sharply, knowing the name as he did. Higgins had a reputation among the masters as a firebrand; what could he want here?

He did not order Higgins away, but studiously ignored him the rest of the way to his office. When he did look at him after seating himself, Higgins had removed his cap and was looking uncomfortable. "Well, sir, what do you want with me?"

"My name is Higgins –"

"I know who you are," he interrupted. "What do you want?" Once more the voice had a familiar sound to it, but he did not want to be distracted with trying to place it.

"I want work," was the simple reply.

"Work! You've got a nerve." After all men like him had done, how he could dare ask for work was nothing short of impudent.

"Hamper will speak to my being a good hand."

"I don't think you want me to ask Hamper for what he thinks of you. I might hear more than you like."

"I keep no secrets about the kind of man I am; you would not hear anything I wouldn't tell you myself."

"So then you shouldn't be surprised that I would rather set fire to the cotton-waste. How do I know you wouldn't just make trouble? Or just save up money against another strike?"

"I'd be thankful to be able to do that, but I need work for another purpose. For the family of a man driven mad by those Irish workers of yours. He destroyed himself and left a family to be cared for, and I'm the one to do it."

Mr. Thornton snorted. Likely tale this man had. "If I were to believe your story, and I can't say I'm inclined to, I'd suggest you turn to something else. Don't stay in Milton; you're too well-known here."

"If it were warmer, I'd be glad to take Paddy's work and never see Milton again. But it's winter and those children will starve."

Mr. Thornton's limited patience had already been stretched to the brink this day, and he did not have time to listen to the invented account of a man who would only cause trouble. "I've given you my answer; there's no use asking again. I'll not give you work."

Higgins smirked, an expression that was wholly unexpected. "I knew I was wasting my time. I was asked to speak to you by a woman, one as seemed to think you'd a soft place in your heart. But she was mistaken. And I'm not the first to be misled by a woman." He nodded curtly and was out the door before Mr. Thornton could respond. What woman would ask a union leader to come to him for employment?

Immediately an answer came to him, and that answer also placed where he had heard that man's voice and name before. Only Margaret would think to put two such opposing forces together. It was so like her. And she had recommended him to Higgins on account of a "soft spot" in his heart? Well, he had made no bones about showing her his heart, but for her to make such a suggestion after all that had happened since Outwood station was confusing.

If she thought to send Higgins his way, maybe there was something to the man's story. And if that were true, how ashamed he was for dismissing him so shortly. He had been hasty to judge because he was in a poor mood, and he should have put that attitude aside and judged with disinterest. He stood and went to the gate, inquiring of the porter how long Higgins had been waiting to speak to him.

"He was outside the gate before I arrived at eight o'clock, sir. That was five hours ago now."

Five hours! That was a long time to wait for anything, doing nothing but hoping and fearing. For him to wait so long in combination with Mr. Thornton's belief in Margaret's involvement, struck him even more with the thought that Higgins had been sincere.

An hour was sufficient for him to make inquiries and verify that Higgins's story was, in fact, true. It was noble of him to do such a thing for another man's family, but Mr. Thornton's surprise was the greater in discovering the history and quarrel between Higgins and Boucher. The simple generosity of Higgins was enough to convince Mr. Thornton to give him a fair chance, and he was soon at his door in Frances street, ready to beg his pardon for his temper and to offer him work.

As he approached the house, the door was hanging open, children chasing each other in and out freely. These were the children Higgins had spoken of, no doubt. Once again he regretted his impatient and ill mood. But he did not regret it very long, for he heard a well-known voice within the house through the open door.

"You told him I sent you?" He had not heard her soft and clear voice for a long time, considering she had not said a word to him when he had visited her father. He closed his eyes briefly, her voice recalling to him her sweetness and compassion. He hadn't realized how fiercely he felt the loss of hearing her speak, and his heart pricked at him painfully as he listened. Why could he not bring himself to reason and completely persuade himself that she was a fraud?

"I don't know if I called you by name," Higgins was saying. "I don't think I did. I said a woman had advised me to come and see if there was a soft place in his heart. But pay it no mind, Miss. He wasn't over-civil to me, but I had no high hopes as you seemed to."

He stepped inside the door as she said, "I am sorry I asked you to go to Mr. Thornton's. I am disappointed in him." Her back was to him, but as Higgins was facing her, he saw Mr. Thornton the instant he set foot inside. He jerked his head up in confused astonishment, and she shifted to see what had drawn his attention so suddenly. Her face went red at seeing Mr. Thornton and she shot to her feet. It seemed she did not know where to look, as her face turned from him to Higgins to the floor and back. He was unsure of what to say in her presence, and there were several silent and uncomfortable seconds before she mumbled, "Excuse me," and rushed past him out the door.

He watched after her for a moment once she was gone, and so missed the amused smirk Higgins wore. Mr. Thornton did not know that her embarrassment and his lingering gaze were unconsciously proving a suspicion the shrewd workman had been pondering. But he had a set purpose in coming here, so he turned back to Higgins quickly, or at least he thought he was quick.

"So Miss Hale was the lady who asked you to come to me," he said, his voice a little more tremulous than intended. He coughed in an attempt to clear and calm it. "You might have told me."

"And you'd have been a bit more civil?" Nicholas responded with a satirical grin. "Didn't see the point."

"Whose children are those? Yours?" He nodded his head toward the door where they still ran in and out as they liked.

"They're not mine and they're mine."

"Then they are the children you spoke of?"

"The ones you did not believe existed. I've not forgotten." He was annoyingly smug in being proved truthful.

Mr. Thornton paused for a moment. "Nor have I. I spoke to you in a way I had no business to. I was in a temper, but that was not your doing. I admit I did not believe you; I could not have taken care of a man such as Boucher's children. But I know now you spoke the truth. I beg your pardon, for doubting your word and for my uncharitable manner to you."

Gone was the satirical look, the smug smirk. He had perplexed the man into silence, and now Higgins only wanted to look at the floor. "Well, Boucher's dead, and I'm sorry. That's the end of it."

"Will you take work with me? That's what I came to ask."

This question brought Higgins's eyes up again. "After all you must think of me, you think we can get along for the sake of these children?"

Mr. Thornton allowed himself a small laugh. "You will note I did not propose we get on well together. There is one comfort, I suppose, that neither of us can think worse of each other than we already do."

"That's true," he said, a hint of a smirk returning. "I'll come, and what's more, I'll thank you. That's a good deal from me."

Struck with a sudden inspiration, Mr. Thornton extended his hand, saying, "And this is a good deal from me." The gesture clearly flummoxed Higgins, but he met him with his own hand, and they shook firmly.

They spoke a few more words on business, but Mr. Thornton was swift to take his leave. He had little time to spare, and the hour he had spent investigating Higgins's claims had been more time than he should have taken. He was rounding the corner when he saw Margaret leaving another house. He wished to overtake her, to see how she would receive him, to find out if she had any explanation to offer him. But he also feared that he would only find evidence of her deceitfulness if he pressed her. There was just one side of himself that could win, however, when so close to her. Against all his jealousy's protestations, his feet took him to her, and he was soon at her side. She visibly started when he spoke her name.

"Miss Hale, you might be interested to know you were premature in expressing your disappointment. I have taken Higgins on." He did not know how he would sound on speaking to her, but in forcing himself to be cool and collected, his tone was rather stern and cold.

She looked at the ground. "I am glad of it." She sounded anything but.

"I understand he told you what I said to him. I confess I did not know it was you who urged him to come to me."

"Yes, he did tell me. But he did not tell you the exact truth –" She stopped short and blushed, and he was quick to interpret her hesitation. She had remembered her own lie.

"The exact truth. Very few people do speak the exact truth. I have given up hoping for it." She still would not meet his eye, and he wanted to shake her, if only to shock her into facing him directly. "Miss Hale, have you nothing to tell me? Do you not think I deserve some part of the truth?"

She did finally look up at him, her eyes brimming with tears once again. Her face had transformed into a look of misery rather than mere discomfort. Her mouth opened and shut as though she wanted to speak, but she said nothing. He leaned in, his eyes begging her to say anything, but his drawing nearer prompted her to drop her eyes again. Her silence was infuriating. He stepped away, the scowl on his face unmistakable.

"You have nothing to say, then. I thought perhaps you would, but I was mistaken. I see we are nothing to each other."

He was about to leave once and for all when she cried, "Nothing!" He halted mid-step. "Nothing to each other?" She did not break out into sobs, but one tear did escape down her cheek as she looked at him with a face full of pleading and anguish. He could not move as he watched her, astounded. Her single tear, the obvious heartache in her words and bearing, and the familiar shine in her eyes captivated him. Never during his turmoil had the conviction of her innocence and devotion felt stronger. She was heart-rendingly sincere. His harsh words had pierced her.

He could not bear her silence, her tears. He let cowardice overtake him and he fled.