Okay all, this was written in about an hour or so while my baby sleeps, so I haven't checked it, I haven't embellished it, so please take it as it is and excuse any mistakes and its lack of sophistication. Oh, and I think this may be the most realistic autobiographical North and South fanfic story that I, or anyone else, has ever written! You'll see why at the end, haha. It's completely autobiographical in my case.

ALONE! AT LAST!

Every writer has at least one thing they struggle to describe, I myself have a fair few, but at the top of the list may well be my struggle to depict Hannah Thornton's smile.

A smile in itself is not very difficult to portray on paper, but it is when the person doing it does so rarely, hardly ever, in fact, nearly never at all, then it becomes infinitely more tricky.

It consisted of a strange sort of curvature of the corner of her mouth, and when I say corner, I mean corner, for it could not have been more on the edge of the world of her lips. There was no additional tell to her features, no creasing of the eyes, no puckered wrinkles in the cheeks, and certainly no hint of teeth peeking through those pursed twins who lay in horizontal symmetry. But in that tiny tugging at the side of her usually buttoned and somewhat brusque mouth, so much was said, for the gesture was so simple, so singular, so solo, that it spoke volumes. She found herself smiling more these days. She did it without even knowing, and it was an adjustment for her previously stony face, but it was glad of the change, of the chance to feel tenderness flow through it rather than bitterness.

She was smiling because her knitting was coming on a treat. Hannah had never been much of a knitter, sewing being her preferred forte, the intricacy of it all, and the labour of love one had to dedicate to it, that was her true calling. However, ever since the baby had arrived, she had put her mind to making him a few bits and pieces to see him by. It was a harsh winter, the ice pressing itself up against the windows like an intruder trying to force his way in, and even her old bones had begun to rattle something awful, so it was imperative that the little lad was kept safe from the bite of Jack Frost.

Gazing up from her rather lovely pattern of blue and white, Hannah's eyes came to fall upon a scene that had become unexpectedly dear to her, one which she had never felt would come about, and even less so, a scene she had never imagined she would welcome, let alone cherish.

Before her was a baby boy, no more than nine weeks old, his eyes wide as he looked about him and got to know the familiar surroundings of his family home, those penetrating spheres of blue taking it all in. His hair was as black as night, his nose pointed, his limbs long and strong as they kicked in excitement. Oh yes, he was a Thornton alright.

It had not been difficult for her to fall in love with him, he was a symbol of hope and happiness combined, this little angel boy born at Christmas. Still, it was not that which had surprised her, but the rest of the picture. She smiled as a pair of pretty lips descended to place a doting kiss on the child's head, and he gurgled his thanks to feel the soft petals of his mother's mouth anoint him with her unconditional love. She looked so right sitting there with him. She was a good mother, more than good, even. She adored him, and he her, that unbreakable bond of sacred devotion between mother and son, one which Hannah understood oh-so-well herself. Yet Hannah did not wish to intrude upon the privacy of their embrace, so she looked away and returned her attention to her knitting.

For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.

Yes, it was a scene she treasured. And while she may once have wished for it to be different, for it to be anything other than this, for her to be anyone other than her, she thanked God that her prejudiced prayers had been thwarted and things had come about against her will to prove her wrong.

The boy had the most wonderful mother. And the boy's father had the most wonderful wife.

'Margaret,' Hannah said softly, since a soft tone was in her nature these days, ever since she had become a grandmother. 'Can I not take him from you? You must be tired,' she pressed gently, all too aware that the little mite had kept his mother up half the night, not to mention the whole Thornton household, with his relentless screaming as his first tooth began to bother him.

Margaret looked up and beamed serenely, unflappable and uncomplaining as ever. 'Thank you, Hannah, but I am quite well. I do not wish to disturb you. And besides, I like to look at him,' she cheered with a broad grim, her eyes gliding back down to look at her boy as they gleamed with pride, the baby basking in the warmth of her affection. 'He looks so like his papa, does he not?' she cooed.

It was at that moment that their quiet repose was interrupted by the sound of footsteps heading their way, heavy treads they knew well, the type that only people who go about a day of resolve can boast.

The tall shadow of a man approached, and entering the room, its owner looked about him, surveying what he found, and he too smiled at what he saw, his lips turning up every so slightly at the side in the same way Hannah's did with private yet profound joy. Like mother, like son, so it would seem.

'There you are, John,' his mother uttered in welcome. 'We did not expect you back until tonight.'

Striding towards the settee on which Margaret sat, John took his rightful place beside his wife, a position by her person and in her life that he had coveted for a long time. Draping an arm around her, his fingertips rose to gently play with her earlobe, her shoulder reaching up in turn to coyly skim her neck as she blushed.

'Aye, I was to be away all day,' John confirmed, unable to tear his adoring eyes away from his son who started to wriggle happily at the sound of this familiar deep voice. 'But our discussion proved to be shorter than we had envisaged, all arrangements being agreed upon more quickly than we had expected, so I came home early to be with those who need me most.'

'Or you need them, more like,' his mother chuckled under her breath, aware of how much John's family, both old and new, meant to him, of how they had been a tonic to his once reserved and almost withdrawn nature, the very thing that got him out of bed every morning and gave him a sense of pride and purpose.

John had been in Manchester since late the night before, preparing for meeting with a prospective new customer, who, if all went well, was expected to secure the mill's fortunes for years to come, the business steady and vast, the profits satisfactorily lucrative. He had been nervous, there had been other potential mill masters there from across the country, some of them older and having more years in the trade than he, but the customer had been impressed by John's experience and sense of enterprise. But it was more than that. The man had been struck by John's natural confidence, his no-nonsense attitude, and his reliance upon facts and figures opposed to pretty promises that could fall flat at any moment. After asking about after the notable Mr Thornton, the customer from the Americas had learnt all about his hard luck story involving first the death of his father, then the failure of his mill, but he had found this to be endearing rather than disconcerting. He himself had known misfortune, and after learning that Thornton had been made a new man by marriage, that had convinced him that he was the man for the job, because, after all, a man with a good woman behind him cannot go wrong, so they had shook on it, and so the deal was sealed.

'Oh, well done, dearest,' Margaret had praised, kissing John on his jaw, the hairs on her arms quivering at the touch of his bristles, a feeling she had missed, even if it had only been since yesterday. 'We knew you could do it!' she championed, lifting their son into the air in celebration, and Hannah's heart was warmed to hear Margaret's genuine faith in her husband's abilities, a character the girl had once doubted most unfairly.

Returning her focus to her knitting, lest she drop a loop, Hannah tried not to pry on John and Margaret's conversation, but all the same, despite their hushed whispers as they tittered into each other's ears like giddy newlyweds, she could not help but overhear.

'Will you sit with me tonight in the study?' he asked hopefully, his voice dripping with an insatiable want to be near her. 'You know I cannot concentrate if you are not there,' he confessed, thinking back to all those years when he had worked into the late hours, toiling away in his loneliness, a bachelor without the thought of ever taking a bride. But now his darling girl was here, he craved her presence every moment of every day, and it had not taken the mill master long to discover that Margaret was his muse, and without her, he could not think, he could not sleep, he could not eat, he could not so much as function without her love.

'You can tell me all about your day and how our son has fared,' he added, bowing his head low to kiss the lad's toes, his heart made light to hear the laughter that came forth from his bonny boy.

Nevertheless, much to her husband's dissatisfaction, she frowned. 'I wish I could, John, but I am promised to your sister's. She has some new Indian wallpaper that she must show me, and it is apparently best seen in the dim candlelight of night, or so she insists,' Margaret clarified with considerable regret, wishing that she had never mentioned to her sister-in-law that she had seen a new paper displayed in the exhibition during her latest visit to London, one particular pattern apparently perfect for Fanny's dining room.

John scowled at this. How dare anyone claim the company of his wife other than him!

'Could we not go for a walk tomorrow?' she suggested optimistically, thinking this would be the ideal solution. 'If it is mild again, the park can be quite pleasant in the mist. We would be unseen,' she smirked, once again kissing his jaw with chaste shyness. 'You could tell me all about Manchester, and I shall tell you all about Jonathan,' she said by way of a fair trade, her finger tickling the child's chin, his parents laughing to see his broad grin, his gums showing as he spread them wide in adoration of them both.

But John soon sighed wearily. 'If only,' he lamented. 'I would like nothing better, you know I would,' he went on, thinking how he would surely never tire of strutting around Milton with his chest puffed out like a peacock, as proud as punch to have his beautiful wife on his arm. 'But I have the new machines arriving tomorrow. It will be a Herculean labour to get the old ones removed from the sheds and the new ones installed. I doubt I will have the time for anything else.'

As the conversation continued, the couple found themselves working their way through the week, trying desperately to find a moment, even if it were terribly brief, to partake in some precious time together, but it seemed impossible, their days filled by everything and everyone other than each other. In the end it seemed hopeless, and their previously merry countenances soon turned glum at the thought that they would essentially be living side by side, sailing along together but separate, like two passing ships in the night.

'How…how about now?' John ventured hesitantly, afraid that there would be yet another excuse to keep him apart from his beloved.

However, Margaret merely gazed down at the babe in her arms, his eyes alert as he lay there wide awake, gazing back at her in expectation of being entertained.

'You may certainly have my company, my love, but you cannot claim it all for your own. He will not sleep,' she explained, guesting towards their firstborn, 'he wants to be up and about, he is just like you, I think, a man who likes to be kept busy, so you shall have to contend with the two of us,' she told him.

John nodded, a slight sigh escaping his nostrils. He should not complain. He loved his son beyond reason. He was his pride and his joy. The embodiment of his love for Margaret and hers for him. John knew he could spend hours standing beside the baby's cradle watching him sleep, marvelling at how clever his wife was for giving this tiny angel life and wondering how he, such a brute of a man, could help create something so perfect in every way. Still, all the same, while he treasured their precious moments together as a little family, just the three of them, he sorely yearned for some time to be alone with his wife, his arms aching to envelop her whole and swallow her up in the depth of his overpowering love for her. But it was not to be, not anytime soon, anyway.

In the end, Hannah put down her knitting and folded her hands on her lap. 'Well then,' she announced, starling her son and daughter-in-law, the two of them prone to forgetting that anyone else existed, their infatuation with each other all-consuming. 'There seems only one thing to be done,' she asserted. 'I shall take Jonathan now, for a stroll, and the two of you can spend some time together undisturbed.'

Standing up, Hannah closed the short distance between them and bending over, she gently prized the baby from his mother's hold and scooped him up into her arms like the cosy little bundle he was.

'Oh, I do not know,' Margaret protested, looking at her husband. 'What if he ─'

However, Hannah did not wait to listen, since she knew that Margaret was about to list her natural concerns as a mother about leaving her baby, a list that all mothers know well, and one which is unfounded if the little lambs are left in safe hands.

'I shan't hear a word of argument,' Hannah retorted with faux officiousness. 'He is fed. He is clean. He is happy. I want to spend time with my grandson, I claim that right. Trust me, he and I shall be fine, shall we not, Johnny?' she encouraged, her thumb wiping away some dribble from his chin as he flapped his hands about excitedly.

Hannah too was eager. She would not admit it to anyone, but she relished the opportunity to go about the town with her handsome grandson as her companion. The matriarch liked nothing better than taking him in his perambulator, pushing him here and there, showing him Milton, the place that ran through his northern veins, the budding and bustling city that was his home. She wanted him to admire it as she did, as his father did, and, as his mother now did after becoming a Milton woman in her own right. Fanny had been appalled to learn that her mother went about thus. It was a nanny's role, surely, to take a child to sample the air, but Hannah would not be deterred from enjoying him, this darling dove who reminded her of his father when he was a babe.

Jonathan really was the spitting image of John. There was certainly no denying who had fathered him, not that there was any doubt on that score, of course, she was just making the observation. All the same, there were traits of his mother in him too. While his profile may have been that of a Thornton, his expressions were irrefutably that of a Hale, the way he looked at you, it was as if Margaret were staring back at you. Then again, Hannah had been at first unsettled, and then gradually moved to see that there was another resemblance there, and that was a similarity to George, her late husband. She could not quite put her finger on it, but he was there, in the child, and it warmed her heart to think that he was not forgotten, but that he lived on, and having a second chance at life, in a way.

Sniffing sentimentally, something which she was not accustomed to, Hannah shook herself out of her stupor and made ready to leave. 'I insist,' she proclaimed. 'I will not be prevented,' and with that, she swept out of the room with her grandson, the lad delighted to be going on an adventure with his grandmother.

Left to their own devices, John and Margaret looked each other, a strange sense of shyness overcoming them to find themselves undisturbed by the harassments of their busy lives and left alone to be nothing more than man and wife.

'Well, wife,' John started, his hand skimming the length of her arm, her creamy skin swathed in a comely orange and red spattered shawl. 'What say you? Now that we are finally alone, what shall we do?'

Ducking her head, Margaret blushed furiously, a prickly flush descending from her face to her chest and driving her husband wild. 'Well,' she paused, 'there is one thing,' she braved to say, daring to let her eyes flit upwards towards the upper floor. 'I know we should not, it is the middle of the day, but…,' she requested with ladylike bashfulness, biting her lip suggestively in a way that John could not resist, his heart galloping so fast he could hear it beating in his ears.

Grinning like a Cheshire cat, John growled friskily. Leaning forward, his lips brushed against her ear as he darkly whispered, 'I thought you'd never ask.'

The next thing Margaret knew, John had leapt to his feet and whisked her off the settee and into his burly arms, her husband laughing heartily to hear her spirited squeal of surprise. Taking brisk steps towards the door, John then bounded up the stairs as he carried his wife, her arms around his neck and her legs swinging, the two of them giggling like naughty schoolchildren as they made their way to their bedchamber.

Once inside, John set his wife down on the bed, and after lifting up her foot, he delicately took off each of her silken shoes before letting her be to settle herself upon the mattress. Margaret would have gladly taken off her dress to allow herself the chance to feel the freedom of being in nothing more than her shift, unrestricted by stays and able to revel in her nakedness, but perhaps not, there was no need, and she did not want to have to explain to Dixon later. No, her shoes were enough.

In John's case, he removed his shoes too, followed by his jacket, which he carefully laid on a chair to prevent it from becoming crumpled and creased, and then finally, he tore off his cravat, that thin strip of material enough to choke him. He liked nothing more than the feeling of his wife's fingertips tenderly stroking his neck, her lips pressed ardently against his Adam's apple as she sucked on his pulse.

Finally, when they were stripped of these constricting and unnecessary garments, the pair clambered into bed, and there they shuffled down beneath the covers as closely as possible. Smiling at each other with a love that knew no bounds, John and Margaret wrapped their arms around each other, closed their eyes, and after letting out a shared sigh of contentment, they promptly fell asleep.

In doing so, they experienced the most blissful two hours of peaceful rest that any two parents have ever known in the history of the world, and regardless of the many other things John and Margaret Thornton would perhaps naturally rather have been doing when left to enjoy each other's company, they were just content to be alone! At last!

I would like to note for anyone wondering, yes, Jonathan is not one of my usual eight Thornton children, but I just felt like having him in this story as I liked the idea of a firstborn son that looked like his father for Hannah to admire.