"NO!"
Chapter Two
The afternoon air was thick with the choking haze of coal and the relentless thrum of machinery as Margaret Hale made her way through the streets of Milton. The atmosphere was loud and oppressive, but her only consolation was that she was swallowed up by the mass of moving people who cared nothing for her plight, their empty bellies and aching feet their foremost worry. She weaved her way between them, her brown hat and coat painting her into the landscape as an invisible figure in this sea of muted tones.
The midday sun had reached its peak as it sprinkled the sooty brickwork of the buildings with its rays of light, though its brilliance did little to lift her spirits. The once-animated shades of the late summer day seemed dulled by the pall of smoke that rose as one immense grey mist.
Margaret continued on her walk. Her steps, though insistent, were burdened with the furore of recent days. She replayed in her mind the unfortunate scene she had caused at Miss Thornton's—now Mrs Watson's—wedding, her heart still smarting from the memory of her impulsive outburst. What had driven her to speak so boldly, to challenge the very foundations of decorum in a setting as solemn as the church? Yes, Margaret had never cared a fig for convention, but she did care about respecting others and respecting the sanctity of God's house. Today, she had offended both. But why had she done it? These questions gnawed at her, each one twisting like a knife, leaving her in a state of confusion and regret.
Seeking solace, she had ventured to this secluded spot, hoping that the tranquil surroundings might offer some respite from the turmoil within her. The gentle rustling of the wind through the grass and the sight of rolling fields peeking up on the horizon as she marched up the hill were a stark contrast to the grime and stuffiness of Milton below. Yet, even here, amidst the peaceful embrace of nature, her thoughts offered her no peace.
Margaret's eyebrows knitted crossly as she replayed the scene in her mind. The words she had uttered, indicted with emotion and utterly devoid of forethought, still echoed in her ears. Why had she allowed herself to be swept away by such unbridled feelings? What latent force had compelled her to disrupt such a consecrated occasion with sentiments she scarcely comprehended herself?
As she pondered these questions, the serenity of her surroundings seemed to mock her inner chaos. She was so caught up in the tangle of her thoughts that she did not notice the figure approaching with determined strides, his presence only becoming apparent when he was nearly upon her.
It was only when she heard her name spoken—firmly, almost commanding in its tone—that Margaret turned, her breath catching in her throat. She found herself face to face with him! Mr John Thornton.
What was he doing here? He was the brother of the bride. The host. The toast and talk of the town.
Nevertheless, here he was, with her. His tall, broad frame seemed to fill the space between them, and his dark eyes, shadowed beneath a furrowed temple, bore into hers with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine, though she would not wish it away, not for anything. His expression was stern, the strong lines of his jaw set in a grim earnestness, yet there was something beneath the severity…
'What the hell, Margaret?' he called out. The words, though harsh, held a note of desperation that cut through her shock at both his presence and his language.
Startled, she turned sharply to face him, her heart pounding in her chest, her breath catching as she met his gaze. The afternoon sun framed him in a glowing halo of intense light, making him seem at once both formidable and vulnerable. His dark, tousled hair caught the full glare of the day, and his lips, usually set in a stern line, now quivered ever so slightly, betraying the storm of emotions that brewed beneath his composed exterior.
The remnants of her reverie shattered under the weight of his voice, which was deep and resonant, carrying with it an undercurrent of both anger and urgency. The air between them seemed to crackle with implicit tension, trembling with emotions neither could fully articulate.
It was the first time he had spoken her name, her Christian name, and the sound of it on his lips sent a thrill through. Emboldened by the passion of the moment, she responded in kind, with a daring she had not known she possessed.
'John,' she breathed, his name slipping from her lips as though it had always belonged there.
At the sound of this short yet deliciously significant syllable, he halted, halted in a stunned silence. The tension between them thickened. Margaret's pulse hurried through her veins when she realised the gravity of her audacity, the intimacy of such a familiar address, and with a sudden rush of propriety, she corrected herself.
'Mr Thornton!' she exclaimed, her voice tinged with the astonishment that swirled within her. His presence on the hilltop was as unexpected as it was disconcerting. She had sought solitude, a respite from the clamour of her thoughts, and yet here he was, bringing with him the very turmoil she had been so desperate to escape. He was the cause. The catalyst. But could he be the cure?
He stood just a few paces from her now, his countenance a complex mixture of sternness and something else—something she still dared not name. For a moment, he merely looked at her, his eyes searching her face as if trying to decode every line, every twitch of brow and cheek. His gaze was unyielding, yet there was a softness to it, a defencelessness that belied the harshness of his words.
Finally, in a voice that was low but laced with an unmistakable intensity, he spoke again, his tone softening as he grappled with the depth of his feelings, and the knowledge that they were once again together, alone, ready to exchange and examine the sentiments of their hearts.
'I must have an explanation. You cannot leave me in such bewilderment. Why did you make a scene at my sister's wedding? In front of our families, in front of the whole town! What were you thinking?' His voice faltered slightly, the anger giving way to a note of pleading. 'What… what did you mean by it, Margaret?'
The inflamed emotion he possessed, the way he spoke her name as if it were a lifeline, sent a tremor through her. She could feel the weight of his question pressing down on her, demanding an answer, an answer she herself was not even sure she knew. The wind stirred around them, disturbing the autumn leaves and carrying with it the distant hum of the town below, but at that moment, all she could hear was the rapid beating of her own heart, magnified tenfold by the fervent appeal in his eyes.
His words, though direct and stubborn, were marked by something she had not anticipated—hope. In his eyes, she caught a glimpse of helplessness that belied his usual stoic composure, a flicker of something raw and unguarded. For a trice, she was utterly lost, unable to formulate a response. How could she possibly explain what even she scarcely understood herself?
A profound and almost tangible silence enveloped them as Margaret struggled to find her voice. It felt as if the entire world had narrowed to this single moment, to the man standing before her, whose presence dominated the unseen tether that was their abyss and their attachment alike. All that she had buried deep within her heart now threatened to rise, to spill over in an uncontainable torrent of truth.
She stood there, her mind hurtling along through the multitude of feelings she had never risked to voice. She thought of her arrival in Milton, filled with prejudice and misconceptions, only to discover in Mr Thornton a man of unexpected depth and integrity. He was a man who had, despite herself, earned her admiration. Not just as a master, but as a person who carried the burdens of his responsibilities with a quiet dignity she could not help but revere.
And then there was the undisputable attraction—an unspoken pull that had drawn her to him, even as she tried to resist it. She had seen him not merely as a figure of authority but as a son devoted to his mother, a brother fiercely protective of his sister, and a friend whose loyalty was unwavering. In each of these roles, she had found herself admiring him more, and that admiration had softened into something deeper, something she had been reluctant to acknowledge until now.
There was also affection—a fondness she had not fully recognised until this very instant. It was a tenderness born of respect, of shared hardships, of seeing each other in moments of vulnerability and strength and finding, in the end, that despite their differences in gender, age, and background, they were remarkably alike.
But how could she possibly articulate all of this to him? How could she express the complexity of her feelings when she herself had only just begun to understand them? How could she lay bare the emotions that had grown within her, unbidden and unstoppable?
Margaret opened her mouth to speak, but the words caught in her throat, trapped by the enormity of it all. She looked into Mr Thornton's eyes and saw reflected there the same struggle, the same yearning for understanding. The silence between them stretched on, laden with all the things left unsaid, with the emotions they had both kept hidden for so long.
But enough was enough.
She had never been one to shy away from speaking the truth.
Finally, Margaret drew a deep breath, her heart pounding violently in her chest, and prepared to speak the words that would irrevocably change the course of their lives.
'Mr Thornton, I can bear it no longer. This… this misunderstanding between us, this silent war of unspoken words—it has torn away at me for too long. You are wrong about me, and I… I was wrong about you,' she confessed.
Her words swept the stillness between them. She saw the flicker of confusion in his eyes, the uncertainty that imitated her own heart. Yet there was no turning back now; she had to make him understand.
'I thought I knew you,' she continued, her voice wavering as she met his unflinching regard, 'thought I understood the man you were. But now I see I was blinded—blinded by my own pride and naivety. And yet, despite everything… I have come to realise that my feelings for you have changed. What I once mistook for disdain was, perhaps, a fear of something greater, something I dared not admit, even to myself.'
She paused, struggling against the sting of tears that pricked at her eyes. The weight of her confession pressed down upon her, yet she felt an overwhelming need to continue, lest she suffocate under the strain of it.
'I am irresistibly drawn to you in ways I never imagined. I have no choice in this matter,' she said, reminding him that to truly care for another is not a choice, it is a calling. 'You are a man of worth—a master who cares for his workers, a son who honours his mother, a brother who would do anything for his sister, and a friend who remains steadfast. But beyond all this, I find that I… I love you.'
There, she had said it.
She had exposed her soul before him.
'I love you, John Thornton,' she repeated, her voice firmer now, though still fragmented with shyness. 'I have tried to deny it, to push it away, but I can no longer pretend. Standing here,' she said, gesturing to the graves that rested close by, 'in this place where so many have had their lives cruelly snatched from them—like my dear friend Bessy—I am reminded of how fleeting life can be. I do not want to live in fear or regret. I want to embrace the life I have, and I will not shy away from it any longer.'
Mr Thornton stood motionless, his expression unreadable, his dark eyes searching hers with a perception that left her breathless. The silence stretched on, dense and crushing, and with each passing second, Margaret's heart began to sink, fearing she had overstepped, and revealed too much of herself.
Still, she was not sorry for it. She had been honest with him, and, more importantly, with herself. He could take it or leave it. Like it or lump it. That was his choice. But whether he welcomed it or rebuffed it, she was quite definitely and quite devotedly in love with Mr Thornton.
She raised her chin in defiance to him, but then, slowly, the rigid lines of his face softened, and a light kindled in his eyes—a light she had never seen before. It was as if her words had unlocked something deep within him, something he had kept tightly protected, even from himself.
Before she could fully comprehend the magnitude of what had just passed between them, Mr Thornton stepped forward, closing the distance between them in a single, determined stride. His hand reached out to grasp hers, and for a moment, she was utterly consumed by the fiery fervour of his touch.
Encouraged by her lack of protest, he took another step closer, his gaze never leaving hers, and in that instant, everything fell into place. He understood now—he understood why she had spoken as she did. It had not been a rejection, but a revelation—an admission of what had been growing between them, often unspoken and unacknowledged, but no less undeniable.
'Margaret,' he murmured, his voice husky, 'may I say one thing?'
'Yes, Mr Thornton,' she replied, her every effort and energy assigned to keep her voice steady.
'Don't you dare call me that!' he insisted, tugging her nearer so that their chests skimmed, his breath warm and tantalising against her skin.
She could only nod as she waited for his words, her breath hitching in anticipation. But instead of waiting any longer, instead of letting him speak, she closed the infinitesimal space left between them in a heartbeat and did what she had longed to do. Without a second thought, she pressed her lips to his, tasting the surprise and yearning she had glimpsed in his eyes.
The world around them seemed to dissolve, leaving only the two of them in their mutual love, bound by a force greater than either had imagined. Her kiss was filled with all the longing, all the friction, and all the misspoken and mistook desires that had simmered between them from the very first moment they had met. It was a kiss that spoke of promises, of forgiveness, of a future they had scarcely dared to believe was now within their reach.
When they finally broke apart, both were breathless, their spirits soaring in unison as they stood in stunned silence. His eyes bore into hers, searching, questioning, as if seeking confirmation of what they had just shared.
'I'll ask you again,' he murmured, his voice hoarse with excitement, yet a tender smile played on his lips, 'what the hell do you think you are doing?'
Margaret looked up at him, a faint smile curving her lips despite the tears that threatened to spill. 'Being in love with you,' she affirmed. 'And what, dear heart, are you doing?'
He smiled then, a rare, genuine smile that softened his stern features and made her soul swell with joy as he kissed her once more. 'Telling you I love you too.'
The words were simple, yet they carried a precious implication—a sense of completion that left Margaret feeling as though she had finally found her place in this fast-changing world. Here, in the arms of the man she had once misunderstood, she had discovered something she had not even known she was searching for. She had found her home.
As she buried her head against his chest and let him hold her tight, Margaret smiled. Sometimes it did a woman good to stand up and say no.
The End