A/N: Herein lies a quote from J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers.

….oOo….

John's head ached as the Thornton carriage trundled its way toward Crampton. The discomfort came not only from the throbbing cut at his left temple but from the stress and confusion of his current situation. The rocking of the carriage only exacerbated the problem. He had to come to terms with the fact that he now occupied Miss Hale's body and he had to do it quickly since he would arrive in Crampton Crescent within a quarter of an hour.

Miss Hale's was a body he had long desired to touch in the most intimate of ways, but only after the proper sequence of events: courtship, proposal, engagement, and marriage. His steely will power will now be put to the test, since at some point, probably soon, he would be required to touch her body.

He resolved within himself to maintain his status as a gentleman, especially because she did not believe him to be one – he wished to prove her wrong.

"A pretty stroke of fortune!" he thought out loud, "A chance for John Thornton, Master of Marlborough Mills, to show his quality! Ha!"

When the time came, he was determined to tell her truthfully that he did not take advantage of their unique situation. He had vowed long ago that he would never be intimate with any other woman besides his future wife. No matter how much he wanted that woman to be Margaret Hale, as yet she was not. He would not molest her.

On the other hand, he would not be upset whatsoever if she explored his body. The thought alone gave him quite the thrill. In fact, if she did, it might mean that she had taken an interest in him. But alas, he would never know.

John noticed the proximity of the Hale's home and set his mind to figuring out how he should act upon arrival. For once he was thankful to have had a sister as an example of how young women typically behaved in their domestic habitat. However, Fanny and Miss Hale were as unlike as any two young female creatures could be.

Drawing his knees together and sitting up straight from his masculinely reclining position, he affected the posture and queenly bearing he had first seen Miss Hale carry off so well. The carriage came to a stop in Crampton Crescent. John was surprised at first to see Williams come and open the carriage door for him, then he remembered that this was the proper thing to do for a lady. Reluctantly and with a wince, he took William's proffered hand and allowed his overseer to help him, in Margaret's still lightheaded body, up the steps to the door. John stood there and watched as Williams went back to the carriage and retrieved the water mattress.

The man returned with an expectant look and John, assuming he knew what the man wanted said, "Here, I'll take that," and reached for the heavy package.

Williams' expression turned to horror, and he pulled the bundle back out of John's reach. "No, Miss," he said, "it's too 'eavy for a lady such as yerself, but could ye open th' door, if ye please?"

John, realizing his folly turned to open the door to the Crampton residence.

Stepping inside, he told Williams, "Just leave it here."

After placing the water mattress in the entryway, Williams turned and left.

John closed the front door. Turning toward the interior of the house, he took a deep breath and stepped forward. He startled when he caught a glimpse of Margaret out of the corner of his eye. Quickly looking in that direction, he let out the breath he was holding when he realized he was looking into a mirror.

Tentatively, he stepped nearer to examine Margaret's countenance. She looked rather pale, and the plaster was visible near her hairline. He remembered the doctor's admonition that her mother should not be made uneasy. Therefore, desiring to disguise the injury, he was pleasantly surprised to find that his fingers were actually nimble enough to pull some tendrils of hair down over her left temple to cover it up. However, he was dismayed to find a rather large blood stain on the front of her blouse. He must change the shirt before anyone saw him. But which room was Margaret's?

He remembered having inspected the place before the Hales' arrival in Milton. The most logical room for Margaret was the one on the third floor, for her parents, especially her mother, would not wish to climb all those stairs. John began his ascent. As he passed the second level on his way to the third, he heard Mrs. Hale's voice.

"Margaret is that you?" she called out.

Frozen for a moment and afraid to respond lest his voice give him away, it was a second before he remembered that he now sounded like Margaret. He would have to make an effort to overcome his Darkshire accent, though.

"Yes mother," he replied, "I ... I'll be in soon." He had to come up with an excuse quickly, "I must wash. The streets are very dusty today."

Having made it safely to Margaret's room without being seen, John shut the door behind him and leaned against it for a moment. His breath caught as he took in his surroundings. Here he was in Margaret's maidenly bedroom - her bower - her inner sanctum. Where no man, save possibly her father, had ever been before. His conscience was screaming at him that he shouldn't be here, but there was nowhere else he could go. There was nothing for it, he was going to have to live in the space until this impossible mess got sorted out.

He went to the armoire to find a clean blouse. He began to remove the old one, careful not to touch anything more than what was necessary. As he removed the soiled clothes, he felt the cool air upon his - Margaret's breast. Margaret had been wearing a corset and a shift with a low decolletage. He did not want to look down as it might just be his undoing. He grabbed the clean shirt and slipped it on, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Proud that he managed to button it properly without looking, he dared to step in front of the mirror to finish the job. Tucking the blouse into the skirt he was fairly pleased with Margaret's appearance.

Now to tend to the soiled garment. It would not do to have the maid, what was her name… Dixon, see the stain. Luckily, from all of his experience with fabrics and having to do laundry himself as a boy, he knew exactly what to do to remove blood stains from cotton. Stepping to the washstand, he was pleased to find the water in the ewer was cold. Placing the blouse in the wash basin he poured the cold water over it and let it soak. The stain should come out easily by bedtime.

Bedtime - he wasn't ready to think about bedtime, in Margaret's body, just yet.

Having delayed long enough, John felt it was time to attend Margaret's, mother. Mentally listing the topics he could safely talk about such as, the water mattress, the current disposition of his own family, the sights along the streets of Milton, he headed toward the drawing room.

When he walked in the door, he was relieved to find that Mrs. Hale had dozed off and the maid was nowhere to be seen. Asking himself what Margaret would do, he settled on sitting next to the ailing woman and holding her hand.

As John observed Mrs. Hale, who could not be much older than his own mother he reminded himself, he noticed how frail she looked. On the few occasions he had seen her in the past, she was awake and animated. In her slumber, he could see the lines of worry and age on her face. Lifting her delicate small-boned hand, he became aware of her fragility. His own mother, strong and robust herself, had continually brushed Mrs. Hale's illness off as the ever contemptible "low spirits," chronic amongst high brow women of the South. John could now see the woman's ailment was not imaginary. Instead, it was something far worse. No wonder, Margaret was always so concerned and preoccupied about her mother. Even the reason she came to Marlborough Mills today was on an errand to procure comfort for her.

As John sat there quietly with Margaret's mother, the maid would come bustling in and out to check on her mistress. Glances were exchanged but that was all, as both parties wished the lady to rest undisturbed.

After some time, Mr. Hale returned from his day out tutoring. He came into the drawing room and took a seat on the other side of his wife, smiling lovingly at her sleeping form and taking her other hand in his. A piece of his heart broke when he saw on the old man's face the look of guilt and worry for his ailing wife.

Now here was an instance where John didn't have to pretend or draw on his own familial feelings. He loved Mr. Hale as Margaret did - like a father.

The older man looked toward his daughter and whispered, concern lacing his words, "I-I hear there's been some violence up at Marlborough Mills. I do hope there's not too much damage."

The first thing that ran through John's mind was what a relief it would be to unload upon his good friend and tutor all his weight and worry over happenings and concerns of the day. However, he abruptly concluded that that would not do. His best tack was to not alarm the doting father with any indication that his daughter had been in harm's way. Therefore, instead of making something up, all he allowed was, "I don't know anything about it," which was relatively true from Margaret's point of view.

Then John explained that the request for the water mattress had been successfully made. Expertly implying that the visit happened well before all the hullabaloo occurred. He then went on to praise Mrs. Thornton, as he was sure Margaret would sincerely do, for endeavoring to send the requested item amidst all the turmoil of the day.

The father and daughter were interrupted in their conversation by the entrance of the maid.

"There's a young lady wants Miss Margaret," she announced, "I told her to go but she's very distressed. Said her name's Mary."

John had no clue what this was about. One thing he knew for certain though: if someone was in need Margaret Hale would be there. He rose and followed the maid out.

Stepping out onto the front porch, John pulled the door shut behind him. There was a poor young girl there, obviously of the working class.

"Sorry, Miss!" she addressed him, "I didn't know what to do! Bessy's took so very ill!"

'Bessy,' thought John. 'Yes, Bessy Higgins! Margaret mentioned her friendship with the girl at his dinner party!' He knew that when Margaret bestowed her friendship upon someone, she would do anything for them.

"C'mon," he said to the girl and followed her down the street toward Princeton.

John had always thought corsets and petticoats were a nuisance whenever Fanny purchased them, due to their expense, but now he was discovering what a nuisance they were for walking. The corset was way too tight for the greater intake of breath he needed for this activity. The petticoats were more cumbersome as they kept binding up between his legs and causing him to stumble as he and Mary hastened toward Princeton. Noticing the smoother progress of his companion, he observed that she was holding her skirts up with one hand. John tried this technique and found it kept the garments looser and elevated them so he would no longer trip. He would have to remember this for future excursions.

Bessy was the only friend Margaret had made since coming to Milton – a factory girl. He had nothing against Margaret befriending factory workers. He had even seen her fraternizing with some of his own piecers and spinners. He was only upset that his mother and sister could not find it in their hearts to befriend the lonely newcomer from the South.

John had looked up the Higginses after Margaret mentioned them during the dinner party. Nicholas was a union leader and one of Hamper's best workers, but Bessy had been a spinner, a talented and efficient one at that, at Marlborough Mills. His records showed that she had quit, due to illness, a few weeks back.

'Most likely brown lung,' thought he.

That disease was prominent among cotton mill workers, and it was a killer, which was why he had wheels installed in all of his sheds.

'My workers are healthier,' thought he, 'Their lungs don't clog so easily. They work for me longer - and their children.'

But alas, Bessy had only worked for Marlborough Mills for ten months. She must have contracted her illness at her previous employer.

Now, it seemed, she was dying. Margaret's only friend in all of Milton and she didn't have much longer to live. No wonder she had such a negative impression of Milton and factory life.

When they arrived at the ram shackle, one room home on Frances Street, John was struck by the familiar scene. It reminded him of the place his family had lived in after the death of his father. He knew all too well what it was like to struggle in conditions like these.

John went straight to Bessy and did everything he could think of that Margaret might do. He held the poor sick girl and rocked her in his arms whispering words of comfort as she coughed and coughed. He fed her sips of water, patted her on the back when she coughed, and wiped her brow with a cool damp cloth. There was no conversation, just the comforting presence of friendship. A friendship established by Margaret Hale. He didn't have any friendships like that.

Finally, Bessy drifted off to sleep. Before John could leave, however, Nicholas arrived home. John was surprised to see that the union leader was fuming mad, not running scared like the other rioters.

Mary quickly explained Bessy's plight to her father. He went over to his sleeping daughter and lovingly caressed her cheek. A look of sadness crossed his face and John saw unshed tears well in his eyes. He nodded a greeting toward Margaret.

Turning back to Mary, he kept his tirade to a dull roar while his eldest daughter slept.

"We 'ad told 'em over and over again, 'bout the need for restraint. No goin' against the law. That was the iron rule!" the man let fly his anger with the rioting strikers. "But that weak, sniveling Boucher and his cronies just 'ad to go an' act like the senseless crazed animals that they think we are. Proving that they really are the beasts the masters think of 'em. The strike is over," he concluded, "and we'll no get our raise."

Nicholas slumped down into the nearest chair and dropped his head in his hands.

"Oh, Da," said Mary, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"All I wanted to do was 'elp people get a little more bread on the table. Give 'em some 'ope," Higgins' tough exterior cracked, and he started to sob. "My poor Bess, she said the strike would be the end of her. And now wi' 'er dying," he indicated his sleeping daughter, "an' me outta work…"

John was beginning to see what the union had been trying to do – help its people. All they wanted was a little relief, to improve their lives just one degree. Unfortunately, they were ignorant and didn't understand that this was a bad time for the cotton industry. Marlborough had the highest wages of any mill in Milton, but he was feeling the pinch. He was not able to grant the raise even if he was inclined to.

Deciding it was an acceptable time for Margaret to speak, John said, "I thought all the strikers were going back to work? Why can't you?"

Nicholas snorted, "Th' masters are making 'em all sign a pledge promisin' not to give t' union. I willna do that. Union's our only power. People of the same trade must stick together."

"Marlborough Mills isn't – ," John began indignantly before catching himself. He would never do such a thing: forcing men to lie for all intents and purposes, and leading them to perdition. But he didn't know what would happen at the mill while he was – like this. So instead, he changed his statement into a question, "Is Marlborough Mills requiring the pledge?"

"No one knows yet what Thornton'll do," replied Nicholas, "No one's seen 'im since 'e got 'urt durin' the riot this morn'."

Concern for Margaret crossed John's mind, but he pushed it aside for now. It was probably just that his mother wouldn't let her son go back to work so soon after such an injury.

He turned his focus back to the present tried to think of what he could do for this family under the auspices of Margaret.

"Go to Marlborough Mills and talk to Mr. Thornton," he suggested to the union leader. "He's not like the other masters," John winced inwardly, not sure if that's what Margaret would say. "He'll give you work," with Margaret in his shoes, John felt the certainty of this assertion.

Higgins snorted again, "Thornton?! He's the one that brought in the Irish that led to the riot that broke the strike! Even Hamper would've waited, but Thornton, he's got no deceit about him. Now we need him to be hard, to hunt down men like Boucher and men who betrayed us."

"Mr. Thornton is not vengeful," John said, with adamance that Margaret may or may not feel. "Those men are well known and will have a hard time finding work again in this town. That should be enough. Try Marlborough Mills, Nicholas," he implored once more, "Mr. Thornton would judge you fairly, I am sure, if given the chance."

John fixed his expression with one of Margaret's determined stares. It worked! "Alright, Miss," Nicholas said, giving in, "I'll give Thornton's a try, but I won't expect much."

….oOo….

It was late when John finally returned to Crampton. The streets of Milton were no place for a lady on any normal evening and after the day's events even more so. However, everyone he encountered seemed to have a certain reverence for Miss Hale.

"It's probably her darned baskets," he grumbled to himself with a chuckle.

Entering Margaret's home, John was relieved to find that her parents had gone to bed. No more pretending to be Margaret under their scrutinizing eyes this evening. Dixon, however, was still up and insisted on helping her young mistress prepare for sleep.

"The last time I let you put yourself to bed," complained the maid, "I was ironing your clothes and combing knots out of your hair for days."

At first John recoiled at the thought of the woman helping him undress, but remembering his situation as well as his resolve, he was glad that she would do the work and he would not have to touch Margaret. He would still have to manage the privy himself but at least that was all he would have to do.

John kept his eyes closed the entire time Dixon was undressing and dressing Margaret for bed. He couldn't help himself however, when she sat Margaret down in front of the vanity to comb out her hair and plait it.

John had never seen Margaret with her hair down. It was deemed improper for a lady to publicly wear her hair in such a manner. However, he had long been fascinated by her hair. When he saw his reflection in the mirror, with her silken auburn tresses down and framing her lovely face, flushed now on account of his embarrassment, his breath caught. She was even more stunningly beautiful than he had imagined. He closed his eyes quickly fearing he had violated her in some way. However, it was too late, the image was burned into his mind. As he climbed into Margaret's bed a moment later, he was certain he would not get a wink of sleep that night.