To say that Margaret was distressed would be putting it mildly. She was lost in her sorrow, for he had been before her, asking her to tell him what she had planned to, and she had faltered. Not out of any distrust or continued fear for Frederick, but because he spoke so harshly. His enforced coldness was effective; she felt certain he would be unforgiving once she confessed. His demand for an explanation only sounded cruel, and when he leaned closer to her, she interpreted menace and anger instead of desperation. If he was to be so unforgiving, why should she say anything? Stubbornness overtook her in the wake of his harsh manner, and she felt reasonable for that moment in remaining silent, but then he had pierced her core by saying they were nothing to each other.

She had feared her actions cost her his love, but how could she have lost it so quickly? It had not been even a fortnight since Outwood station, and already he felt nothing for her? His words provoked her to cry out in pain. As justified as he was in thinking the worst of her, could he not see now how much she loved him? Surely he, who had once been able to read her expressions so clearly, could see the truth in her eyes. He had stopped at her outcry, and seemed to truly look at her for the first time. For a moment she thought he had stumbled, but he walked quickly away. She was wrong. He had not seen her.

That evening, she was sitting with her father, still recalling his hurtful words and blaming her silence. But that fleeting moment when his hard eyes had turned to pity gave her hope that his cruelty could not last forever, and she still wished to clear herself before him. She had failed today, but she would not again. No matter his manner, she would not be intimidated into silence any more. It had never been in her nature to retreat, so why had she begun to do so? She would not fall into such a weak practice. She would brave his displeasure and tell him the truth, and she would no longer wait for the chance. She stood, ready to walk out of the drawing room without saying a word to her father. He, curious of her movement, was about to ask where she was going.

Before she could take further steps and before he could say a word, however, the door-bell rang. She heard Dixon answer the door with a low murmur, but heard no answer. Instead, quick footsteps echoed loudly on the stairs as the unannounced visitor approached. She felt her heart clench in the certainty that it was he, and she was proved correct in the blink of an eye. She was struck at once by his flushed cheek and heaving chest, and her father now stood with her in some concern at Mr. Thornton's evident agitation.

But before Mr. Hale could inquire of him what he was about, he said hurriedly, "I beg your pardon, Mr. Hale, but I must request a few minutes alone with Miss Hale. It is a matter of some importance."

His request, made more curious by his impatient state, startled Mr. Hale. He looked to his daughter, who said nothing but became rather pale. Indeed, her chest began to rise and fall in more rapid succession as she looked at Mr. Thornton. She turned slightly to nod at her father, and he, entirely perplexed, said, "Of course, John. I . . ." He was at a loss from this unprecedented behavior and did not bother to finish his sentence, little as he knew what to say. He left the drawing room slowly, looking back and forth between the pair. It appeared they had already forgotten his presence, as their eyes were fixed on each other. He shook his head in bewilderment as he walked down the stairs.

As she heard Mr. Hale's footsteps fade, she felt hypnotized; she could not speak, but only look. Mr. Thornton was gazing intently at her, still greatly affected by something unknown, but at least he no longer looked irate. She could not imagine what he had to say, nor did she think she cared much. Now that he was here, all that mattered to her was that she explained herself. She readied her mind, trying to find the words to begin, but he likewise could not put off what he wished to say.

Before she could comprehend what was happening, he was at her side, taking her hand in that familiar way that choked her breath. "Miss Hale," he said gently. "Margaret." The use of her Christian name caused her heart to leap into her throat. The tender caress in his voice made her hope, and she looked up from where he held her hand to his eyes, eyes that had been full of anger only this afternoon. But now they were filled with desperate penitence. What was happening? "Forgive me, Margaret. Can you forgive me?" He pressed his lips to her hand fervently, and she was astounded. Her heart leapt and bounded within her, even amidst the shock and confusion that he would beg her forgiveness! What had happened? She was so ecstatic and so confounded.

"What have you done that is in need of forgiveness?" she asked incredulously.

"You know what I have done, Margaret," he gripped her hand tight, his face anguished. "I have doubted you. I have been cold to you. I abandoned you." His voice dropped to a whisper.

She was swift to assure him. "What have you done that I did not deserve? You had every reason to think badly of me, to doubt me. It is I who must ask forgiveness of you, I who was wrong."

He shook his head adamantly at her words, and she continued. "It is true! You were not wrong to mistrust me; I was wrong to mistrust you. I lost faith in you for only a moment, but it was the worst moment to doubt. I could and would have told you everything, but I did not. You did not deserve that. I have been regretting my silence ever since that night, even before then." She pressed her free hand to his arm. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

He pulled away from her. "But I do, Margaret. I do. You must know what I was thinking, what I believed."

She dropped her eyes to the floor and nodded. "You thought that I had another lover, that I had lied to you and misled you."

"Yes. How could I believe such a thing?" he asked furiously.

"Very easily!" she exclaimed. "That is why I did not blame you, for I would have thought the same thing!"

"I was so jealous," he admitted quietly.

She stepped closer to him. "I would have been, as well. I understand your feelings. You did not know the truth."

"I should have trusted you. I should not have lost faith."

His despondent vehemence made her heart swell. She had hurt him so much, and yet he blamed himself for his understandable reaction. What could have prompted this turn-around? She must convince him of his innocence. She must heal him of his hurt. "John," she said softly.

It was the first time she had ever spoken his name, and his eyes rose to meet hers in joyful wonder. His name on her lips sounded so secure and cherished. She lifted a hand to his cheek. "You have done nothing wrong. You only felt what was natural to feel. I hurt you and kept the truth from you, and you were right to be angry. I knew what you must think, and I never blamed you for it. I could not. I am sorry for what I did and what I must have put you through. I cannot imagine what pain I would feel in your position, and I am so ashamed that I did that to you." Her eyes watered, but as yet the tears did not threaten to spill over. He saw the familiar moisture appear and pressed his own hand to the one that held his face. "I freely forgive you," she murmured, "even though I don't believe you have done anything to require it. And I beg your forgiveness, for my own doubt, for my secrecy, for giving you pain."

He gazed at her steadily, his eyes going over every inch of her face. It had been too long since he had looked at her so candidly, and he reveled in the mere sight of her. His voice was just as soft and gentle as he said, "I forgive you, Margaret."

Was this reconciliation really going to be so simple? She could see plainly he was not playing her false, but what had happened to make him so understanding? Especially considering she still had said nothing about Frederick. "I want to tell you the truth," she said nervously. "About the man at the station, about why I lied."

His voice stayed quiet. "You do not need to. I have decided to trust you, and I do not want you to break confidences just to appease me."

"It wouldn't be to appease you," she assured him, still marveling at his straight-forward avowal of his trust in her. Her curiosity of his transformation needed to be answered, for she could think of nothing to account for it. "But what makes you trust me so implicitly? You certainly did not a few hours ago."

He held her gaze for a moment before sighing. "I can guess that my behavior makes little sense to you. I am still trying to make sense of it myself."

"Please? Please tell me what changed?"

He nodded, motioning for her to sit on the couch. He sat opposite her and reached for her hands. Such a gesture would have not been surprising two weeks ago, but would have been unthinkable only ten minutes before. Margaret thought she would burst from happiness as he caressed her skin; she had never thought she would experience his touch again, and yet here he was!

"Margaret . . ." he hesitated as he grasped for the right words. "You know how jealous I was, how angry. I didn't say anything, but I'm sure you felt it." She nodded silently. "I had never felt so betrayed, and there was a part of me that was certain you were laughing at me, victorious in your deception of a simple manufacturer. I did not want to believe you were capable of real feeling, not after the way you deceived me. I am ashamed to speak of these thoughts, mistaken as they were, but I was in a torment, not knowing who that man was or why you would do such a thing." Evidence of his past suffering was clear in his face. "And so I let my jealousy rule over me, clouding my reason and rejecting any rational explanation.

"But all the while there was still an unconquerable hope that you were not so evil, that there was something in your defense. As angry as I was, that hope never left me. I did not want to give in to it; I had not been able to explain your behavior in any way, and I felt I must constantly crush that hope. You could not be the woman I loved."

She was brought low as he admitted to such painful and severe judgments. She reminded herself that she would not blame him for his fallen opinion, but that did not make it any easier to hear.

"And then I saw you this afternoon," he smiled ruefully. "You still did not give me reason for your actions, but then you reacted to my last words. I saw I had cut you, and I saw the woman I loved, the one full of feeling, who was as heartbroken as I. I could not face that woman who I was now hurting, so I left. And I wandered . . . I know not where. And as I walked, I finally allowed my anger and jealousy to be overcome by that fighting belief in your goodness. I had not felt so rational in days.

"And I realized something when my mind cleared away the poison. I realized that not only do I love Margaret Hale," her heart soared at his declaration, "I know her." Once more his smile became tender. "I know her strength and her compassion. I know she is honest, even if there is a chance she will offend the listener. I know she is not so duplicitous and cruel as to mislead any man in the way I first thought she misled me. I know the lengths she will go to in order to protect another. She will go out in front of a violent mob and throw herself between them and the man they so despise. She will defend any who deserve more than they are given. As the months have gone by, as I have visited her and talked to her and loved her, I have come to know her.

"And if she will go so far to protect another person in need as to compromise her honesty to a police inspector, there must be reason." His eyes were solemn and intense now and she blushed under their power. "I did not know what the reason was, but it must be something. Something serious enough that you did not confide in me, that you lied to the inspector, that even your father was ready to hurry me out of your house.

"I do not know why you acted as you did, Margaret, but I know you. And if I know you and love you as I ought, I will trust you. I will trust that you are innocent of wrong-doing and that you did not lie about your feelings for me. You would not have another lover. And that is what brought me here, to ask your forgiveness for giving in to my baser instincts at first."

"And I already gave you that forgiveness, so you need not ask for it again." She squeezed his hands gently. She thought she had loved him before, but to hear the account of his personal crucible and the conclusion he had come to humbled her and increased her love a hundred-fold. He was truly a remarkable man and she could not believe she deserved him. Now it was her turn to confess, to hope she could prove her own worthiness.

"You are right that I never lied about my feelings for you, and that there is not another man that I care for. There is only you." He gave her a half-smile. "But I did still lie to you, and you know I lied to the police inspector. No matter my reasons for doing so, they do not make me innocent of wrong-doing, as you say. I am not sinless; I did lie. But you are also right that I did it to protect someone. I did it to protect Frederick. My brother."

She stopped here to let her words sink in. Sure enough, their impact on him was immediate and powerful. Such an idea had never occurred to him, that the man at the station could be her brother. His eyes brightened and the corners of his mouth began to turn up as he took her words in, as he saw her eyes fill with assuring hope and her own smile grew. Haltingly she told him of her brother, the mutiny, and her mother's final request. Her story astounded him. Immediately he understood the danger she had been in, and what had prompted her dishonesty. It would be some time, he knew, until he became a little more accustomed to the knowledge she had imparted, but there was no doubting her word. He looked to her, his smile ready to break through. He had to be sure he had not misheard what was, to him, the most important fact in the case. "He was your brother?"

His happiness and relief were so infectious that it made her eyes well up as she nodded. In an instant, he pulled her close and kissed her with abandon. Her overjoyed tears escaped as his lips melted into hers, a reverent and yet fevered passion expressed in every touch. This was what she had missed the day of his proposal, this happiness that purified their ardor and elevated their passion beyond mere desire; she felt delirious with rapture. She never wanted him to stop, and he seemed similarly inclined, but soon enough they needed a moment to draw breath. And this moment was nearly as delicious to her, as he gifted her with that full smile that expressed such free and honest delight. He seemed on the verge of laughter; his smile was so wide. It made her smile and be bold in a different way entirely.

"For having said you trust me, you seem excessively relieved to learn of my brother's existence," she teased.

He was at first startled that she would joke with him so quickly, but he grinned in response. "Yes, I did decide to trust you. That does not mean I am not grateful to finally know exactly what your relationship to him is. It was hardly easy to be ignorant of his identity."

He spoke lightly enough, but his words reminded her of the suffering she had put him through, and she sobered. "Well, now you know the full story. I was not able to tell you at first; I was constrained by my father. But I have wanted to tell you for days about Fred, and did not know where to find the opportunity."

"I meant what I said, Margaret. I trust you. You did not need to tell me."

"No, I don't want to have secrets like this between us any more. It nearly drove us apart, and I do not want that to happen again. Besides, Fred will be your brother one day, and you should know about him."

Her off-handed comment hit him before it did her, and he dropped her hands in shock. "My brother?" he repeated. Only then did she realize the import of her careless statement and she immediately flushed and began stammering.

"That is . . . I know we are not . . . how could we be after . . . ? I just meant . . . oh, dear." She held her head in her hands, but he detached them quickly, his smile tender and his eyes hopeful.

"Margaret." His whisper of her name recalled to her that moment he had said it during his proposal, and she tingled with pleasure to hear that tone again. "Margaret, do you love me?"

She lifted her adoring eyes to him. "Yes. I do. I love you." His smile broadened with such awe and delight that she wanted to say it again and again just to see that response repeated. "I love you, John Thornton."

Again his lips descended on hers, the joy at her words more powerful than he had ever imagined. Her profession of love only made her kiss sweeter, more fervent and sincere. Would he ever be able to stop kissing her? He had been waiting so long for those words that they could hardly be real. He had come here with no other intention than to ask forgiveness; the course of their conversation was entirely exceeding his expectations. But he was not about to complain, not now he was so close. He broke away from her at last, determined to have the answer he longed for. "If I asked you, you would . . ." he left the question hanging in the air, happy and fearful all at once.

"Yes, I would." Her smile was sweet and tempting. He leaned closer to claim her lips again, but she stopped him with a laugh. "No, I have already allowed you that liberty too much without the words spoken. You must ask me properly before I let you do so again."

He smiled, her playful manner banishing any lingering fear of the answer he would receive. He stroked her hands worshipfully before speaking. "Will you marry me, Margaret?"

She did not answer with words, but smiled impishly before leaning in herself to grant the kiss they both wanted. He read her answer in her touch and wrapped his arms around her. Now she was his in word and deed, and he would hold her close as long as he liked. The only fear now was that they would never part, for she was just as content to remain in his embrace for as long as he would have her.

He reluctantly broke the silence, saying, "I should go to your father."

"We can both go."

"Do you think he has any idea?"

"If he does not now after how long we have been alone here, then I would say there is no hope that he will be expecting this. But he will be happy for us. I'm sure of it. At least one of our parents will be."

He looked down at her, startled. "What do you mean?"

"Come now, John. You must not know your mother, but I can guess her indignant tones as she says, 'That woman!'"