PERFECTLY UNCONSCIOUS

Before We Were Us

Margaret had been returned to them now for a whole year, precisely so, right down to the day. It had been on this exact date in the previous calendar that Margaret had come back to London following the death of her poor mamma and papa. From the moment Margaret had walked through the door, Edith had seen that her childhood companion was in the depths of despair, a miserable sentiment that the perpetually blissful captain's wife had thankfully never known.

Everyone had commented on how Margaret appeared to be a mere ghost of her former self, as if her shadow had followed her here to London, but her true self had become lost on the way, detached and misplaced, apparently absent, left behind somewhere, but where, nobody knew. It had desperately worried Edith, again, an emotion she was not accustomed to grappling with, but alas, she had told herself that a little time and patience would soon bring her cousin around, not to mention that a reacquaintance with civilisation would do her the world of good and set her on course with some sturdy bearings, as Fred would say in his letters.

The young Mrs Lennox could only begin to imagine the horrors Margaret had seen in the north, forced to live in that far-flung place with its foreign people and feral ways. She had written of it often, detailing the hardships she encountered daily, especially during the early months when she had first been removed there by her dear father who had surely gone mad displacing his family and relocating them to a heathen wilderness where smog suffocated the life out of the people and smothered all things that were pretty. By all accounts, it was a backwater hovel that reeked of garish money, a boondock where the streets were not lined with sumptuousness like they were here in London, but with the stain of poverty, and worse, revolution, even if it were thankfully not French. Edith's mother had always said that while respectable God-fearing people could live with the existence of the former, they could most certainly not excuse the latter.

However, when Margaret had come back to Harley Street, Edith could not help but feel that something had changed with her, or perhaps, in her. Edith could not claim to be the most intelligent or insightful of people, but if there was anybody she did know, then it was Margaret. If truth be told, as soon as her bereaved relative had entered the drawing room in her shroud of sorrow, Edith had noticed the paleness to her face, the puffiness to her eyes, and the stain of tears upon her cheeks, and as the days and weeks had passed, she bore witness to the quiet depression, nay despair, that Margaret was enduring with the saintly silence that was customary to her character. Margaret had barely eaten, nor slept, nor talked, and worst of all, she hardly ever smiled anymore. The young Miss Hale from Helstone had always been less giddy than her cousin, less easily amused, so she was not prone to fits of giggles and her grins were harder to coax, but this was different, this was a most definite hopelessness, a vanishing of any happiness from her heart, and all Edith could pray, was that it was not an eternal blight.

When she had asked her mother about it, Mrs Shaw had told her daughter to be patient, reminding her that she was privileged in her circumstances. She had a home, a husband, a babe, a place in society, everything a woman could possibly want, whereas Margaret, she could not truly lay claim to any of these comforts, the necessities that give women a position and sense of purpose in life. Indeed, Aunt Shaw said that the past two years had not merely robbed their beloved Margaret of her parents, but of her everything, save her youth and beauty, and so they must be unwearied in their fortitude and wait for her to return to them in spirit.

Edith had understood, and so, she had done just that. Day by day, she had good-naturedly waited, uncomplainingly anticipating the foretold day when Margaret would come walking down the stairs to breakfast with a rosy hue on her cheeks to boast a bud of hope and a bloom of serenity, and only then, would her cousin trust that all would be well again. How she longed to have her friend back, for them to laugh together, chatter together, walk together, and share in each other's joys and woes. But until Margaret was ready, Edith would let her be, respecting her right to grieve.

Even so, a year had marched on, the seasons had come and gone, and still Margaret was as sombre as ever. She still insisted on wearing black, and she would faithfully stand by the large bay window that looked out onto the street morning, noon and night, this being the only occupation that would please her, no other diversion would do to distract her.

Sometimes her cousin would go to her and softly touch her arm, asking how she faired and what was on her heart, because while Edith was in no way clever, she was undeniably both genuine and gentle. In turn, Margaret would smile weakly and merely say: 'Oh! How I miss…,' but then she would trail off, never finishing her sentence, and her eyes, that were both strangely alert and bleak all at once, would return to the glass, offering the world outside her undivided care and attention, and no more would be said.

She would stand there demurely, her hands folded in front of her, and simply stare. She was like a solemn statue, constant in her vigil. Her presence there was now so predictable, so expected, that one would think Margaret had become part of the furniture, unmoving in her unyielding stance. Edith had tried to draw her away, she had tried every entertainment she could think of, but no, Margaret was loyal to her window, and so she had remained, every day, from that day until this…

That is, until today…

Edith had been sitting attending to her embroidery in the drawing room when Margaret had walked in, an act that was in itself not worth mentioning. However, it was the sight of Margaret in a pale yellow gown that had startled her, and as she took in this unexpected vision, Edith jumped, and she stabbed herself in the finger with her needle.

'Ouch!' she had cried, bringing her injured digit to her lips and kissing it, much like a child kisses their hurts away.

Observing her cousin from beneath the guise of her long eyelashes, Edith watched the way that Margaret not only entered the room in a splash of springtime colour, but she did not partake in her usual ritual and continue to the window, instead choosing to take a seat opposite herself. This caused Edith to raise her eyebrows, and she seriously wondered whether Margaret was sickening for something. Nonetheless, there was nothing evidently wrong with her as far as Edith's untrained eye could tell. In effect, she looked surprisingly contented, a healthy glow upon her cheeks as she picked up a book and began to read, something Edith had not seen her do in a long time. In fact, one could almost say that Margaret had developed an aversion to reading, odd, when it had always been her favourite pastime when they sat before the fire on an evening growing up. It seemed as if anything related to Plato vexed her the most these days, and a tremble would come over her at the mere mention of the philosopher's name, but not today, it would seem.

Clearing her throat with a girlish squeak, Edith dared to enquire as to this unexpected change. 'You look different today, darling one,' she began charily. 'Indeed, you look positively lovely.'

Margaret, who had been quietly humming a pretty tune, beamed. 'Thank you, dearest,' she replied, her nose still stuck in the book.

Still eyeing her warily, Edith was not satisfied with how little she knew of her cousin's sudden alteration, so she decided that she must persist with her subtle inquisition. 'Is there a reason for it?' she asked, trying her best to sound nonchalant, but the strident pitch rather gave her away.

Again, Margaret smiled. 'I just…,' it was then that Margaret glanced up, her face puzzled as she tried to decide how best to put it. 'I just felt like it was time for a change,' she explained vaguely. 'It was time…time to move on,' she added, although Edith could not help but note that her cousin's final remark was tinged with the tone of gloom, opposed to the cheerful optimism of her previous comments thus far.

However, Edith would not let this perturb her. 'I am glad to hear it,' she nodded, feeling as if they may have turned a corner, at long, long last. 'I was worried about you, little one. I was beginning to fear you had left part of yourself behind in Milton,' she casually affixed, unaware of the sting her words would have on her cousin as she inspected her sewing to see if she had ruined it during her fright.

Margaret shuddered to hear this and instinctively rubbed at her arms to warm herself before reaching over to grab a shawl to drape over her shoulders, despite it being an excessively hot day. She tried to return her interest to the book in her hands, but oh dear, the letters were now all in a jumble as her mind and heart commenced a familiar battle. While one insisted that she think logically and forget all about what she longed for, the other refused to let go, begging her to embrace the ache that devastated her within.

Heeding her cousin's silence, Edith felt comfortable to continue. 'Are you pleased to be back in London, then? Back where you belong.'

Wrinkling her nose, Margaret thought on this, unsettled by her cousin's pointed phrasing. After an interval of reflection, she then shook her head decidedly, a few of her brown curls wriggling loose from their pins and cascading down the side of her face and neck like russet spirals.

'I cannot say that I am, no,' she answered self-assuredly, her typical self-possession returned and proving to be in fine fettle. 'That is, I am happy to be here, with you, Edith. I missed you terribly. I am glad to be able to see you and Aunt Shaw, and of course, your little one,' she beamed, reaching over to pat her cousin on the arm, to reassure her of her sincere love for her family, what remained of it, that is. 'However, I find that London society does not suit me, and I do not suit it, I fear. I am not sure I ever did, and I know for certain now that I never will, and do you know what? I do not care!' she decreed without reservation, her eyes sparkling in defiance.

'Good gracious!' Edith gasped, aghast to hear her speak so. 'The north has turned you quite wild, Margaret!'

Margaret laughed heartily. 'No, not wild, just….independent. You know me, I have my own mind. I like my own ways. I am fond of my own opinion,' Margaret clarified, thinking on how she must remember to tell Aunt Shaw that she had no intention of going to the Pipers for dinner this week, nor would she be pestered into purchasing a wardrobe of new clothes, no matter how out of fashion her current garbs were, given that they had plenty of wear left in them to see her through many a London season.

'Yes, I do know,' Edith replied, sighing to wearily recall the number of times Margaret had asserted her will when they were children and made it abundantly clear what she wanted, what she liked, and what she expected, and woe betide anything or anyone who dared try and deter her.

She had given up ballet, and piano, and deportment, wishing instead to either read, or heaven help them, to attend charitable talks and partake in charitable endeavours in the most disgusting and disgraceful quarters of this magnificent city that had so much more to offer her than dirty hospitals and squalid workhouses. Nevertheless, once Margaret had made up her mind on a matter, no amount of reasoning could dissuade her. Mrs Shaw had always said that Margaret was a headstrong, mulish sort of creature, and it was down to all that time being spoilt by country air when she was a babe. No, she would much better have been sent to London from day one, and only then would there have been any hope of reforming her into a tame young lady who did as she was told.

Still, Margaret was not finished in defining her newfound self. 'And Milton, for all its faults, was right for me, in the end. I may not have seen it at first, errantly prejudiced and prideful as I was, but I now know that I was made to be a Milton woman. As someone once said: Here in the north, we value our independence,' she said tenderly, her thumb skimming the pages of her book absently as she stared off into the distance, a faint and fond smile curling her lips.

Noticing her coy blush, Edith was intrigued. 'Who said that?'

However, Margaret just blushed a deeper shade of red and coughed. 'Just…somebody….someone I once knew, but will never see again,' she explained, the first half of her sentence quick and offhand, the latter slow and distinctly poignant.

'What other things did you like about it? I still shrink to think of you telling me that men take women by the hand there. I have never heard anything so scandalous!' Edith exclaimed, a hand flying to her mouth in mortification as she squealed like a senseless schoolgirl.

'It is really not so bad,' Margaret chippered. 'Here, let me show you,' she offered, suddenly rising and gesturing for her cousin to do the same.

Edith did not need much persuading and gladly bounded to her feet too, eager and excited to experience something so shocking from within the safe confines of her carefree home. Making a silly face, Margaret bowed her head like a gentleman and extended out her hand, and giggling, Edith curtsied and proffered her own. Taking it firmly, Margaret laced their fingers, and with a steady jerk up and down, she shook the two, and then withdrew after an acceptable interval, as one does.

'Oh my! I cannot think what I would do if a man tried to take my hand like that,' Edith declared breathlessly, her nerves all in a tizzy at the thought of such unseemly intimacy.

She reminisced about the days when she had been introduced into society and had met many handsome young men before the captain. But while some had been flirtatious rascals who had tried to sneak a kiss or place their hands a little further north or south than was decent, she could scarcely imagine them asking for her hand. It was silly, really, a man holding a woman's hand was hardly that outlandish, nor was it indelicate, given that dancing required a greater degree of physical contact. Indeed, couples danced for longer, they touched more of each other, and they were compelled to stand significantly closer, yet somehow, all of that seemed ordinary and innocuous compared to this.

Nevertheless, Margaret nodded in agreement. 'I felt the same the first time it happened to me,' she admitted honestly. 'I was offended, and I took no pains in showing it, and I think I offended him in turn, poor man, he was just trying to be civil and reach out to me. But I could not believe he would be so bold, so brazen as to ask for my hand….,' she went on, her breath catching in her throat to recall it, a ticklish heat radiating from her core and spreading across her skin like a rash.

Taking up a glass of water, Margaret gulped it down in the hopes of cooling herself, but it did not work, her skin still scorched from the intense memory of it. 'But then I grew rather fond of it,' she confessed quietly.

Despite speaking softly, her cousin had heard her, Edith's years of snooping behind closed doors to hear what her parents were discussing her future having allowed her to develop an acute sense of hearing.

'How so?' she pestered.

Ducking her head, Margaret was unsure of how to describe it, of how to do the impassioned sentiments that burnt ferociously in her soul justice without sounding foolish or improper. 'I did not shake many a man's hand. I did not know many gentlemen, and even less wanted to know me or take notice of me, they did not like my enquiring nature. But for the most part, it came to feel perfectly normal. It was simple, our hands would join for a brief moment, jiggle, then move away. It was harmless. It was inconsequential. But then…'

Edith, who had just fanned out her skirts so that they did not crease when she sat, picked up her needlework, and then peered up to follow Margaret's distracted train of thought. 'Then?' she nudged, feeling both keen to encourage her cousin to talk more after a year of ominous silence, as well as being the sort of woman who adored any sort of tittle-tattle, so long as it did not involve her.

Facing away so that she need not look Edith in the eye, lest she break down into a flood of tears and tell all that she harboured with lonesome longing in her heart, Margaret took one hand and rested it on her belly, hoping to still the butterflies that fluttered there. And while she did this, she took her other hand and laid it on top, gently enfolding it, her eyes closed as she remembered the night when he had…when he had…

'Sometimes it could be…strange,' she whispered.

Her cousin cocked her head and puckered her lips. 'Strange?' she echoed, thinking about how peculiar a choice of phrase that was.

'Yes, strange,' Margaret confirmed, her throat growing tight as her heart raced erratically, and she feared the whole of London would hear the clamour. 'It was not perfectly normal when he did it. It was perfectly magical. It was as if his skin and mine were cut from the same cloth, taken from the same hide of an ancient mythical being. It was as if our hands had been forged of the same blood and bone, two twins of dissimilar sizes but similar feelings that recognised one another and had been waiting for each other with pining patience, unable to be incited by anyone else other than its mate. As soon as we touched, it was as if sparks were flying through me, and my hand was warm and awake. It felt tragically quick, their meeting, yet it seemed to linger forever, as if no man could part them asunder. It felt safe. It felt sensual. He felt like myself.'

She remembered how they had each lingered for a moment, both silently reluctant to let the other person's hand go. But, eventually, inevitably, they flexed their fingers and unwillingly released one another. Nonetheless, their disentangling had been delectably unhurried, and as their hands separated, each digit leisurely took its time, sweeping across its partner's, savouring every single second of heavenly contact that set both their skin and souls on fire. She knew it was the first time their hands had met, even if Margaret was surethathe had been perfectly unconscious of the fact.

'Oh! This wretched stitch!' came a sudden cry of frustration, and Margaret whipped her head around to see Edith frowning resentfully at her sewing, clearly not having listened to a word she had said. 'I must be away and fetch my scissors, and when I get back, you can tell me more about the strange people in Milton and their strange practices,' she said with a disgruntled strop at having to go, and with that, she stood and walked out of the room.

Left all alone, Margaret both wallowed and basked in the hush that followed. If truth be told, she rather liked being alone. Breathing heavily, she reached into the pocket of her dress with a quiver, as if she were doing something terribly wrong, and there, her fingers tenderly stroked something concealed thereabouts. After a while, she grew bolder, and slowly drawing it out, daylight uncovered a single black glove, one which was evidently not hers, being far too large for her small hands. Clutching it close, Margaret sniffed, and then carefully, she slipped it onto her hand, letting her fingers spread and stretch out within the cosy confines of the sheepskin material inside. It was like melted butter, warm and soft, and lifting the glove to her cheek, she closed her eyes as tears spilt down and splashed upon the leather fabric, one heartbroken drop at a time.

She felt sure she heard the gate outside creak and groan, and her heart stirred, sending all her senses into a frenzy, but as desperate as she was to run to the window and peek outside, she was determined not to, not this time, not today. Margaret had lost count of how many times she had been disappointed by this rouse, only to find that it was the postman or a cat disquieting the gate, and she could take it no longer, that dreadful pang of disillusion. How she yearned to return to the window, to the watching and waiting post her heart tugged her to, but she knew she should not. She had postponed her life for a whole year, lingering beside it devotedly day in and day out, hoping that he…

But he never did. He never had. He never would.

He had never written. He had never visited. And so, just as Margaret had promised herself, a year on from leaving Milton, she would resign herself to the fact that he was not coming for her, that he did not think of her as she did him, that he did not love her, that he never had. So, there. Margaret would love him forever, keeping his memory stowed away safely in her heart, but for her sake, she had to move on, or at least, try. She would never marry. She would never have children. But at least she could give herself a fighting chance of being happy if she laid all hopes of him to rest, left behind in Milton, buried there in a grave of regret and repentance, never to be disturbed again.

It was a few moments later that Margaret was startled to hear the door open, and snatching her hand away and hiding it behind her back, she spun to face Edith. However, it was not her, but Dickson, the butler.

'If you will pardon me, Miss, there is a man here to see you,' he announced haughtily, as was his general manner.

Margaret regarded him with a blank expression. 'A man?' she repeated, unsure of what this meant. That is, she knew what it meant, a person of the male sex wished to be admitted to call upon her, but who this person was or why they wanted to see her, she did not know. Margaret knew so few people in London, or rather, she had not taken the trouble to get to know many people, so out with their little circle which consisted of the two Lennox brothers and Mr Bell, she could not imagine who it might be. Besides, Dickson would surely say his name if he were aware of it, so the fact that he did not imply that he had considered the man not worth knowing.

'Yes, Miss, a man,' he confirmed dryly, his tone as dull as an overcast sky.

'A gentleman?' Margaret checked, no further forward in discovering the identity of her mystery caller.

'I do not think so, Miss,' the butler disputed confidently, shaking his head and jutting up his chin condescendingly. Margaret often thought Dickson was rather like Dixon, and that they were kindred spirits who shared the same aversion to just about everybody they met. She had naturally assumed for many years that they were related, perhaps brother and sister, but it was not until she had learnt of the different spellings of their names that she realised that this could not be the case. Still, the resemblance in their superiority was uncanny.

'He is not from hereabouts, judging from his voice, terribly gritty and thick it is. But he is well-dressed and seems respectable enough in his mannerisms, despite having a wolfish look about him,' appraised the servant, 'so I showed him up. Should you like to see him, Miss?' he asked, rather hoping that she would decline, all so that he could tell the man that his sort was not welcome here.

Nonetheless, much to Dickson's annoyance, Margaret nodded most assuredly indeed, her lips too dry to annunciate her consent. Rolling his eyes and huffing irritably, the butler moved away and opened the door to do her bidding. Through the thin crack, Margaret could see the outline of a man pacing about on the other side. Even though she could not make out much, she could see that his head was hung low as he stalked back and forth like a wild animal in a cage. More than that, she could tell that he was tall, broad and muscular. And if she squinted, she was sure she could make out tufts of black hair, and at one point, Margaret was certain that she could spy the flash of blue eyes boring through the wood as they searched for her.

Returning to the room, the butler opened his arms so far and wide in a regal bearing that Margaret could not get a better look at who was behind him. However, as he began his oration to introduce the visitor, his voice loud and booming, she eventually saw who it was as he walked round the frame.

'Mr ─ '

'Mr Thornton,' Margaret gasped, cutting the servant off and causing him to grumble petulantly.

Peeved, to say the least, Dickson retreated and closed the door behind him, a tad gruffly, leaving Margaret and Mr Thornton alone together. Quite some time passed without them saying anything, and she was ashamed to see that he still wore his coat and held his hat, the servants clearly not being polite enough to take them from him. As he stood there, Mr Thornton twisted the hat round and round in his hands nervously, his eyes constantly fixed upon her with a fervent focus that was almost unnerving.

Finally, he laid his hand down and stepped forth, his long arms swinging about at his sides with aimless tension, and he was acutely aware of how large and cumbersome he was, a most ungainly sight in front of such a lovely creature as she. Mr Thornton cast his eyes to the floor for a moment in habitual unease, but then he soon looked back at her, because it is impossible to describe how his eyes hungered for her, especially after being denied the chance to gaze upon her, the right to admire her, for so very long. God help him, she was more beautiful than he remembered. He was pleased to observe that she was not still in mourning. He was pleased to see her in her fine yellow dress, all colour and cheer, just what she deserved after so much grief. He hoped with all his heart that she was happy, even if that meant she could be happy without him.

In turn, Margaret looked back at Mr Thornton. He was wearing his usual black suit, but out of his breast pocket, she could see something peeking out shyly. She was not sure what it was, but she could discern that it was small, delicate and yellow, and for a moment, she could swear that it was…no, surely not. She stared at him with dazed fascination, tempted to reach out and pinch him to verify whether or not he was real. She blinked constantly, her eyes tearful with gladness that Mr Thornton should be here at all, whatever his business might be, but also because she could not believe it, even if she believed in him, so she tested her eyes to see if they were tricking her. Margaret had feared she would never see him again, and so she resolved to study him carefully, to ensure that she should never forget even the smallest inch of his face, the slightest contour of his body, all so that she could imprint his image on her mind, for surely, after he left here today, she really would never see him again.

But then again…

With a ragged breath, he moved nearer, and he stretched out a hand towards her, his fingers sliding through the air and coming to a halt tantalisingly close to her wrist. His eyes briefly fell upon a certain bracelet which hung loosely thereabouts, the trinket innocently unaware of the incalculable effect it had over him, and he watched with enthralment as it disobediently skated up and down her arm as she trembled slightly. Perhaps that is why he liked it so much, it reminded him of her, this inanimate bauble personifying her headstrong spirit, the very quality which had made him sit up and pay attention to a woman for the first time in his life. But he soon ignored it, allowing his focus to return to her adorably flushed face, and Mr Thornton could hardly believe that he was in her presence once again, after all these months of punishing separation.

Margaret remained motionless for some time, her eyes watching Mr Thornton's hand as she continued to hide her gloved one behind her back. She surveyed it with meticulous intrigue. It was large, and thick, the upper side surprisingly hairy, with long, lithe fingers which were crooked in her direction, the tips twitching, as if they itched to touch her, but still held back with restrained deference and self-denial. The whole hand was coarse, marred by the tell-tale signs of incisive scratches and bleached bruises, each the result of years of dutiful and gruelling toil. It bore witness to the dedicated decency, and the dependable sincerity of this exceptional tradesman's industrious character.

It was mesmerising in its paralleled masculinity and vulnerability. Margaret felt an impulsive aspiration to dip her head and kiss every single one of those wounds, once, twice, thrice, each gash or graze a testament to the honourable person before her whom she loved, symbols that had shaped him into the fine man and master he was today. Oh! How could it be that she had ever recoiled from his touch, from his humble request to hold her hand? For shame! With her mouth, Margaret now impatiently wished to anoint Mr Thornton, John, with her loyal affection, her steadfast love seeping into his skin, the mystical medicine that leaked from her virgin lips healing both his body and heart until they were repaired and restored, leaving him stronger than ever, all those scars fading away into an irrelevant past.

With servile supplication, his hand halted before her, waiting patiently for Margaret to take it, and he would wait there forever if need be, always her stalwart servant. Mr Thornton was watching Margaret in a strange state of suspended silence. She was captivating, her innate charm too damned conquering for him to resist. But what was more intriguing still, was that while the pair stood scandalously close, their secluded encounter concealed from everyone else in the world, save us, dear reader, Mr Thornton had the strangest feeling that Margaret was equally fascinated with him as he was with her. His eyes gawked as they saw her fluttering gaze fall upon his hands with such tenderness, those darling spheres twinkling like stars. Her sweetness utterly vanquished him, and he let out a husky, croaky groan, something that resembled a rather peculiar mating call, one which was designed to attract just one person, one lifelong mate: Margaret.

Given that he was so much taller than her, Margaret was forced to allow her coy gaze to train upwards, her wandering search stumbling upon his stubbled face. Margaret near enough fell forwards as all the air escaped her lungs. His eyes! They were smouldering as they stared at her, unflinching, unapologetic, otherworldly in their obsessive study of her. It was indecently intimate. Margaret could not breathe. Alas, the passionate yearning she saw there was too hauntingly visceral to frustrate, and she felt her heart impulsively tugging her towards him as if she were a puppet being pulled about by a string.

Finally, at long last, she took a deep breath, and lifting her petite hand into the air, the one without the glove, Margaret lightly and trustingly placed it in his, committing herself to Mr Thornton's strong grasp, and all at once, she felt perfectly safe. Smiling a very small smile, so slight that one could hardly detect it, he let his hand encase hers, and tightening his grip, he gently squeezed it in reassurance. Oh! The thrill of her soft skin fusing with his own calloused dermis nearly caused him to moan with the pleasure of this innocent yet overwhelmingly profound act. Her hand was so elegant, so small, and he felt passionately protective over it, wishing to ensure that it was never disfigured by hardship.

He knew it was only the second time their hands had met, even if they had known each other for three years, three long, drawn out, yet deliciously painful years, though she was perfectly unconscious of the fact, he was sure of it.

'What are you doing here?' she asked at last, hardly able to form the words.

Mr Thornton found that he too was panting, his whole body heaving from the mere excitement of being so close to her again. He knew it would overpower him, being in her presence after so long in exile from the sunshine of her existence, but never had he hoped he would be allowed to touch her, nor that she would welcome him so warmly.

Taking a steadying breath, he willed himself to speak, to tell her what he had determined to say ever since he had boarded the southbound train this morning. 'What I should have done already, what I should have done a year ago today when I watched your carriage drive away.'

Margaret's chest rose and fell fitfully as she heeded the deep burr of desire and devotion in his voice. 'And what was that?'

Gripping her hand tighter in an eternal grasp, he closed the gap that had separated them for too long, and he came to stand so close that they nearly melded into one. With his head bent and hers raised, their eyes locked together in a steadfast gaze, and with a breath that quaked with uncontrollable love, Mr Thornton let his heart speak, and so it did, as his fingers caressed hers.

'Never let you go.'