MANO A MANO

Chapter Three

Lennox's mouth widened into a self-satisfied smile, his eyes gleaming with tickled triumph. All at once, he bolted from his chair with all the agility of a startled cat in a room full of rocking chairs. You see, Lennox, dull fellow that he was, one who had spent his life in the shadow of a more charismatic brother, revelled in being the focus of attention, and now, here he stood, the most influential figure in the room—precisely the affirmation he craved. Though he was of lesser stature, less imposing in presence, and far less fortunate in matters of the heart than the solitary other person present, this moment of superiority was certainly a relief to his ego.

'Here!' he said with an energy and enthusiasm that was quite startling in such an unexciting breed. 'You'll need these!' Snatching a stack of papers, Lennox tossed them towards Thornton, the spring in his arm possessing a suddenness that would make a jack-in-the-box jealous. As the paper fluttered down upon Thornton, Lennox looked on with an air of pretension, certain that his impending words were not merely worthy of attention, but of being immortalised for posterity. He gestured to the pen and ink pot beside Thornton's elbow, resting on a rather ornate, somewhat frivolous table as if to underscore the importance of the assignment he had just set.

As Thornton picked up the pen, Lennox prepared by clearing his throat with a dramatic force, the sound erupting like the mighty growl of a bear roused from hibernation, reverberating through the room and going so far as to unsettle the dust in the rafters. Not that Mrs Shaw's house would ever dare harbour something as common or unpleasant as dust—heaven forbid!

'In the morning,' Lennox commenced, his voice swelling into a grand, thespian tone, as though he were about to recite the opening lines of a Shakespearean play. He began to wandered about the room, his movements caught between a prowl and a prance, a rather odd fluidity to it, his fingers laced behind his back. He delighted in his new role, the effect he had on his audience. He felt like the last surviving oracle in a world starving for knowledge.

'As unfashionable as it may seem to you and me, she prefers tea over coffee.' He paused, as lawyers do in a court of law after delivering their opening statement, letting the words linger, weighty with consequence and ripe for contemplation. 'She tends not to be hungry so early in the day, so she eats only a little toast if anything at all, and a crumpet if she is particularly enthused about her day ahead.'

He noted Thornton's quizzical brow and muttered, 'Oh, I do not know. Something to do with a morning treat she and her brother used to share before going on adventures. You know about the brother, I assume?' Lennox stopped to ask, desperately hoping that Thornton did not.

However, Thornton nodded shortly. 'I do.' This was all he would admit, for he knew precious little of Margaret's brother, and intended to learn everything there was to know about his future brother-in-law.

Lennox frowned at his. He had rather hoped to have flummoxed Thornton on this account, but he pressed on.

'On that note, she is partial to bacon—if it is cooked just right, with a crispness to it.' He gestured with the gravitas of a seasoned conductor directing the most important symphony ever composed, as though the fate of breakfast itself rested on the perfect sizzle of the bacon.

Lennox cricked his head towards the paper in Thornton's hand, bobbing it with an impatient urgency, reminding his scribe—and his disciple—of his task. Thornton's hand moved instinctively to jot down the details, though his thoughts had already wandered to Margaret. He pictured her delicate features softening in the morning light, a serenity about her as she sipped her tea, no doubt considering the clever and caring things she would do that day. He had never before thought of her taking breakfast, and with a blush, he had to admit that his usual thoughts had involved her waking beside him, in a more intimate setting. Yet, contemplating her preferences for the simple comforts of breakfast felt intimate in its own way, for it added another element to the woman he had come to love, deepening his affection with every passing thought.

'She likes to go for three walks a day, but she prefers her morning walk alone. While she will never refuse company, you can always tell she wishes to be alone,' Lennox muttered, a low grumble seeping through his teeth as his mind replayed many an inelegant scene where he had attempted to accompany Margaret. He could still picture her face—the brief flicker of disappointment that crossed her features when he had hurried to catch up with her. She had turned toward him, her smile faltering like a fragile flower wilting in the sun before she swiftly masked it with her customary grace. She accepted his arm, but there was no warmth in the gesture, only the cool formality of politeness. Margaret was independent and an adventurer, and alas, Lennox had hindered her pursuit of both. The thought nettled his self-esteem. While he had been unwanted, he could not shake the image of Thornton asking her, and Margaret, with a radiant smile, her eyes alight, as though the world had suddenly become brighter with his presence, as though he were the answer to all her desires. She would then eagerly lace her arm through his, and they would walk together, quite the pair, quite the picture, like a knight escorting his maiden.

'However,' Lennox said, pushing this wounding image from his mind, 'joining her later in the day is fine,' he finished quickly, keen to move on from this disagreeable subject.

Thornton inclined his head thoughtfully, his mind wandering to those rare, quiet evenings that followed the closing of the mill when he and Margaret might take a stroll together. He would take her to the verdant park, a place that had only just begun to flourish in the past year or wander along the serpentine paths that led through the woods on the fringes of the city. The cool evening breeze would carry the rich scent of lavender and moss, while the town, ever bustling by day, would grow tranquil as dusk fell. They would walk together beneath the arching branches of trees, their steps muffled on the gravel paths, everything and everyone around them busy, but the two of them contented in the leisureliness of their pace. His thoughts then turned to the Darkshire Moor, that vast, untamed expanse that framed Milton like some wild frontier, its heathered plains stretching endlessly beneath the sky until they reached the likes of Manchester or Liverpool. As a boy, he had often run across those moors, chasing the steam engines that galloped like great mechanical horses, the wind whipping through his hair as he sprinted. Henceforth, he envisioned these landscapes reborn, as if restored and refreshed after a storm, these scenes now shared with Margaret, their shared footsteps soft upon the earth as twilight descended and they could watch the stars wink and blink freely, unpolluted by industry. There, in the calm of the evening, they would walk side by side, their hearts at rest, before returning to the sanctuary of one another's arms.

Meanwhile, Lennox, absorbed with less delightful reflections, found his thoughts drifting in an entirely different direction. His judgment soured as he recalled the chaotic streets of a backwater like Milton, overwhelmed by the constant mess left by horses pulling endless carts laden with goods. The incessant piles of manure were simply left to fester, becoming an ordinary yet overpowering part of the scene. This was distinct from the streets of London, where the better thoroughfares were swept and cleaned constantly by urchins, ensuring a more pristine and sanitary environment for the gentlefolk. Of course, these were the streets Lennox frequented, not the filthy alleys where the poor, perpetually coughing and cursing, trudged towards their untimely end and their reluctant as well as abiding respite in a coffin.

At any rate, keen to impart his vast knowledge, Lennox continued. 'She is fond of a picnic outdoors. A common enough activity, I suppose, even if it is a favourite of common folk,' he said, crinkling his nose in disdain at once again imagining being surrounded by something as unruly as the ground, unadorned by the necessity of concrete or brick. Lennox loathed to walk in the country, even visiting the likes of London's royal parks was akin to venturing into an unruly jungle. Indeed, his one consolation in not marrying Margaret was that he would never be induced to partake in such an uncivilised outing. The thought of walking those untidy, dirt-laden roads vexed him—every step was a struggle to avoid ruining his polished shoes, every footfall a reminder of the inconvenience of rural life. To him, such walks were little more than tiresome burdens, a far cry from the peaceful pleasure that Thornton so eagerly envisioned. 'She enjoys sitting on the grass beneath the trees,' Lennox grimaced, 'sketching, talking, quite unperturbed by the dirt on her dress or the untamed nature of the world around her,' he said, shaking his head, at a loss to understand such irrationality. 'And she does not mind if her skin browns. Most unladylike, but she will not be told.'

Thornton smiled privately to himself, his thoughts wandering to the laidback hours he would soon share with Margaret—maybe by the river in Milton, where the gentle sound of the water would offer a soothing backdrop, and her soft laughter would echo around them and lift their spirits The thought filled him with warmth, and for a brief moment, he imagined her leaning back against him, relaxed and happy, dreamily content to be with her lover.

'You know she is happy when she begins to hum and sing,' Lennox affixed, interrupting Thornton's musings. 'And while she denies it, she has a charming voice. A little unsophisticated, but pleasant, all the same.'

This admission surprised Thornton, for he had never thought of Margaret as musical. The very idea of her singing seemed foreign to him. Fanny, now, that was a different matter. Her voice, though not the most tuneful, could often be heard in the house, especially at moments when one least desired it, usually at a volume that could be heard three streets away. However, he felt sure Margaret would be different. He had a sudden vision of Margaret, her voice remarkably sweet, perhaps even capable of producing a harmony that would soothe the soul, rather than torment it. He smiled at the thought, imagining her performing with a grace and elegance that made Fanny's warbling seem all the more absurd.

Lennox, oblivious to the depth of Thornton's reflections, elaborated. 'She says she cannot play the piano—this, of course, is nonsense. She plays rather splendidly when she tries her hand, but it is just that she was never as accomplished as Edith. If she practiced more, she would be a virtuoso, but alas, she has not the patience for it,' Lennox griped, for a woman, after all, was required to be skilled in all the pastimes suited to the feminine sex, such was her calling in life. 'However, she is retiring in this regard and does not like to play in front of others,' he said with evident disapproval, because one of the chief purposes of a woman was to become a wife, and one of the chief purposes of a wife was to show off her accomplishments in public so that she may compliment her husband. 'But if she plays for you, Thornton, know that you have earned her trust.'

Thornton frowned, and this pleased Lennox.

'Has she played for you?' Lennox asked quickly, a slight smirk crooking his mouth.

Thornton's face clouded. 'No.'

Thornton felt the stirrings of jealousy at the smug sneer Lennox gave, for it was clear that this man, whom he barely tolerated, had once been granted such an intimate privilege with Margaret. But those feelings quickly faded, overtaken by his vivid imaginings. He could almost hear the delicate strains of her playing now, the soft melody drifting from the open window of their home, mingling with the sounds of his hectic mill yard and inspiring man and master alike. The thought of his dear Margaret gracing the piano, her fingers caressing the keys with all the grace that was innate to her nature, made his heart swell. Yes, Lennox may have heard her play once or twice, but her husband would hear it for a lifetime.

'She likes flowers, as most women do,' Lennox said with a sniff, since he had no fondness for them himself. 'But she cannot abide grandiose displays,' he went on, ignorant of the irony of finding himself standing amidst an array of large arrangements dotted about the room. 'No, she says they are too much for her. She finds the flood of colours gives her a headache, and the overwhelming smell makes her nose itch. Indeed, like with all things, Margaret much prefers simplicity when it comes to flowers.'

Thornton scribbled the details down in a hurried hand, a flush of delight colouring his cheeks. The mere thought of waking Margaret in the morning, by their marital bed, her eyes fluttering open to spy a fresh posy of flowers to greet her, filled his chest with a longing so deep it was almost painful. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, though he quickly banished the more impassioned thoughts that followed. Later, man, later. Plenty of time for that.

As for Lennox, his mind was once again pulled back to an unfortunate memory—a time when he had presented Margaret with an elaborate bouquet from the hothouses of Kew. She had accepted it graciously, but he could not forget how her gaze had lingered far longer on a small bunch of wildflowers a servant had brought her after their return from visiting family in Kent. At the time, he had failed to understand it, and even now, he was still unsure, but he recognised that it had something to do with Margaret's affinity for wildness, for the natural and unrefined. There was something about the unadorned beauty of the wildflowers that resonated with her—a humble gift given without expectation of anything in return. It was a gesture that, in its simplicity, aligned far more with her values than any grand, carefully arranged display ever could.

'She would much prefer a single flower, plucked with care, than a dozen bought with a coin,' Lennox said regretfully, his voice lined with sourness at his own mistake. 'She would rather have a lone, emblematic bloom proffered than all the flowers of Buckingham Palace.'

Thornton's reply, when it came, was low and tender. 'Because, for her, it is never the grandeur that matters, but the sincerity behind it. A single wildflower, gifted with fondness, is symbolic. It whispers to her heart in a way that a thousand gilded gestures never could,' he finished, his gaze sweeping towards the yellow roses on the table, a soft smile curving his lips as if the simple beauty of them spoke a truth he alone could understand.

'Hmm,' Lennox conceded. 'Modest, delicate bouquets suit her best—roses, in particular, hold her affections most dearly.'

'Yellow roses,' Thornton chimed in, a wide grin spreading across his face. His heart fluttered at the thought of these little details, so uniquely hers, and he could not help the giddiness that filled him at the prospect of calling her his own flower, forever.

Lennox nodded, though his expression twisted into one of irritation at being interrupted. 'Quite so, quite so,' he muttered, though in truth, he had no notion of what Thornton was talking about, sentimentality being as foreign to him as the Amazon jungle. Still, he would not be perturbed.

'She does not care for anything tawdry, you know—no jewels or extravagant gowns to impress. Even with all her newfound wealth, Margaret would rather wear simple, well-worn clothes—dresses she has had for years, each one carrying the memory of a day lived, rather than those newly purchased fashions meant to flaunt her fortune. It maddens her aunt and cousin, who cannot for the life of them comprehend her reasoning. Still, I somewhat understand,' Lennox allowed. 'In Margaret's modesty, there's a beauty that no diamonds could ever rival.'

'I like her clothes,' Thornton said at length. 'They suit her. They denote her,' he said wistfully. He admired how her simple dresses, with their clean lines and lack of unnecessary frills, not only reflected her practical nature but also highlighted her natural figure. The absence of adornment allowed her true beauty to shine through, making her all the more appealing in his eyes.

'Hmm… as I was saying,' Lennox continued, oblivious to Thornton's distracted thoughts, 'Margaret's a curious creature. Bold in some ways, yet strikingly reserved in others. She does not think herself pretty or appealing in the slightest, so she tends to shy away at parties, preferring the company of a select few rather than mingling with a crowd of strangers. She may have the natural bearing of a great lady, but she often behaves like a shadow, never quite stepping fully into the light.' He frowned, a hint of dissatisfaction creeping into his features as the implications settled. 'It would hardly have been ideal, introducing her to my society. While she is undeniably beautiful and does possess a certain alluring presence, she is also painfully self-conscious, and yet, she is not self-conscious in the least.'

'What do you mean?' Thornton questioned.

'Well, you must have noticed the way she is always ready to speak her mind without reserve. It is a bit... jarring, frankly.'

Thornton chuckled. 'I had noticed, as a matter of fact.' To him, Margaret was a blossom that required neither the sun of attention nor the soil of approval to thrive, her strength lying in her self-assured sovereignty. He recalled how, at his dinner party, she had stood apart from the crowd, alone but not lonely. While others had been swept up in idle chatter and the clinking of glasses, Margaret had remained an observer, her gaze steady, absorbing every note and nuance of the evening with a wise, almost serene detachment. Her sharp eyes had taken in every movement, every word, while her mind, quick, incisive, and unfailingly accurate, had silently catalogued the true nature of his guests. She had assessed them with startling precision, peeling away the layers of pretence. It was as if, in her presence, the masks they wore were rendered transparent, and Thornton, caught in the vulnerability of it, had felt a faint but unmistakable fear. Not of Margaret herself, but of her intelligence—the way she saw through the facade they all put on. She could see the greed, the ambition, the money-grubbing brutes they truly were beneath the refined fronts, and that realisation left him both awestruck and a little afraid of her insightfulness and her unrepentant, unswerving integrity.

'She is perceptive,' agreed Thornton, 'and passionate. I have never met such a passionate person in all my life,' he acknowledged, his heart quickening. He had come to realise over their acquaintance that he too was like Margaret. Reserved, serious, and uneasy around others, but tremendously passionate.

'Yes,' Lennox granted, not sure if this was a good or bad appraisal, 'and she will not stand for futile or frivolous talk. No, she listens keenly, and when she speaks, it is always with purpose, as though she has weighed each word. You will find that once she has made up her mind on something, it is nigh impossible to change it,' he explained, knowing that her aunt and cousin had been dismayed at Margaret's mulishness since her return to London, a trait that had enhanced rather than diminished over time. 'She will not be swayed by those who flatter her for the sake of it, or by those who insist they know what is best for her. Her mind, you see, is her own.'

Thornton smiled to himself, the memory of his mother's words rising unbidden in his mind. She had often spoken of Margaret's headstrong ways with a critical tone, as though such traits were to be curtailed. Yet, Thornton had always found them not only endearing but empowering—qualities that, instead of being faults, lent her a strength and character that drew him to her in a way he could scarcely explain.

'And she is nothing if not strong-willed,' Lennox sighed, growing increasingly aware of the fact that the woman whom he had desired was, as it transpired, fundamentally flawed. 'She does not believe in keeping quiet for the sake of peace, especially if something weighs on her conscience. You may find yourself in heated debates with her, but,' he added with an air of smugness, 'you will find she has the better arguments.'

Thornton chuckled, albeit softly. He was no stranger to this side of Margaret. But while he hoped the worst of their arguments had come and gone, he would argue with her again, no doubt, but he could already see it in his mind's eye. Their debates would be like a dance, a thrilling exchange of ideas, and he would never tire of it. How could he? In every exchange, there would be a kind of intimacy, a bond forged in the fires of shared beliefs and tempers.

'Yes,' Thornton said quietly, 'No scholar could outfox her. She has an innate sense and sensibility that outstrips us all.'

Again, Thornton remembered the dinner party. They had sat at the table, eyes locked in a fierce exchange, his burning fire, hers with ice, in Margaret's gaze, she had held the singular power to explore him, to expose him, in a way no one else ever could, and ultimately, to learn him, and to lead him down a nobler path. It was then that he had come to understand that there never would be anyone like Margaret and no one would affect him, speak to him, provoke him, and inspire him like she did. She was his accuser and his deliverance—the judge who condemned him and the saviour who set him free. She had destroyed his foundations and was seeking to rebuild him, brick by reformed brick, stone by repaired stone, until he was the man not only she deserved, but the man he deserved to see staring back at him in the mirror. And he would spend every moment of his life making sure she knew her faith in him had not been in vain, for he would move heaven and earth to repay her, to prove that she had salvaged not just him from his life of pounds and profit, but had rescued and restored the very man he was meant to be.

Thornton felt his eyes well with tears, so scrunching them into submission, he mumbled, 'What else?' requesting Lennox to go on.

'What else?' Lennox muttered, running out of points to mention and suddenly reminded that he had a pressing appointment to get his hair cut in an hour, followed by his monthly visit to a discreet establishment frequented by single men. 'Oh, hmm, well, she has a great fondness for children,' he remarked, 'so you had best ensure you do, too. Otherwise, I am afraid there is no place for you in her affections. As his words left his lips, his mind wandered, not without a touch of discomfort, to an occasion when he had inadvertently made a complete buffoon of himself in Margaret's eyes.

He recollected, with a scowl, a visit to an orphanage—a visit that still clung to his clothes with its soiled stench, and he could not rid himself of it, no matter how often he had his coat laundered. The place had been a dismal, crumbling edifice, its bricks chipped and discoloured by years of neglect, with the stench of hopelessness seeping through the very walls. The children—poor, ragged waifs—were but shadows of their proper selves, their faces gaunt and ashen with the pallor of hunger. Their eyes, those dull and empty orbs, leaked the absence of any lingering dreams; they had long since learned that hope was a luxury reserved for the fortunate few. Their clothing, thin and threadbare, hugged their emaciated bodies as though they were draped in shredded snakeskin instead of garments, and they shivered against the biting cold that seemed to have taken residence in their bones. Some of the smallest children huddled together in the corners, their trembling hands clutching one another for warmth, their limbs so fragile that they looked as though they might break under the strain of their own pitiful weight. Others, lost in their silent despair, rocked to and fro in a sequence that offered no comfort—no reprieve—only a hollow resonance of their struggle, their eternal journey through a tunnel with no light at the end.

On that day, Lennox had been the picture of detachment, his mind focused on little more than the inconvenience of the visit. 'Children are insufferable and insignificant,' he had stated in his customary aloof manner. 'Irrelevant until they are adults. Why, when I have children, they shall be sent away until they are ready to take their place in society. As for these little wretches, they lack any consequence. Here I do agree with Darwin, that those without the resources or wits to survive are better to clear off and clear out of this life, leaving it to the rest of us.' His words, though somewhat meant in jest, had been insensitive and dismissive, and they had fallen from his lips with all the carelessness of a man who had never been taught to look beyond his narrow world. It was as though he saw these children as nothing more than pests, unwanted and irritating.

But Margaret had not forgotten his words, nor had she allowed Lennox's harshness to go unchallenged. A deep blush had coloured her cheeks, her face flushed with righteous indignation, and her eyes sparkled with a furious, unyielding anger. Her very posture had changed; she was no longer the lady bound by the constraints of social formalities, but a woman whose compassion could not be so easily shaken. Though of slight stature, she seemed to tower in her virtue. In an instant, she had turned towards him, her voice rising with the force of one who had sworn to defend the vulnerable.

'Your opinion is not only cruel,' she had refuted, her voice trembling, 'but utterly ignorant. Children are God's most cherished creations. The ones who are without the protection and provision of parents are the ones who need our love the most. They are not inconsequential; they are the very future. And their suffering demands our attention, our sympathy. And I would be ashamed to know you, Henry Lennox, if you truly meant such ugly words,' and with that, she had picked up her skirts, jutted her haughty chin into the air, and swept away in her white dress, much like a white cloud, intent on visiting the outhouse with the sick and dying children.

Her words had struck Lennox like an arrow, piercing straight through the armour of his pride and apathy. For the first time, he had seen, not just the obnoxious selfishness of his own beliefs, but the deep humanity of those children—children who had been cast aside, forgotten by society, yet who still bore the spark of life. Margaret had shown him that, in his cold pragmatism, he had not merely been dismissive of children, but blind to their worth as human beings. They were not to be discarded, as he had once thought, but precious, deserving of the same kindness and consideration that any human life demanded.

The divide between his own limited view and her boundless compassion had never seemed so stark. He could still hear her voice, inspiring him to see beyond himself, and it shook him to his core. Margaret had not merely corrected him; she had made him see the world in a new light, one where kindness and the suffering of the innocent were paramount. And in that moment, Lennox had learnt, as all men must, that to live without compassion is to walk through life blindfolded, never seeing the faces of those whose need is most pressing. The heart that turns away from the suffering of the vulnerable does not merely miss a moral duty—it loses its very soul. Margaret had taught him this valuable lesson, and that is why, on some level, he had agreed to help Thornton. He had no real wish to. He had no real obligation to. But he knew it was the right thing to do.

Thornton, meanwhile, found his thoughts inexorably drawn back to his own dark, disquieting recollections.

'I know how fond Margaret is of children,' he confessed. 'And how staunchly she defends the defenceless.'

Margaret had once condemned him—him, a man who had fought tooth and nail to rise from nothing—for his cruel indifference to his workers. The way he had beaten Stephens, the way he had shouted at children, and the way he had apparently been unmoved by the fate of a starving child. Her eyes had not merely rebuked him; they had pierced him to his very soul. Oh, Thornton, you bloody fool! The bitterness of that reproach still stung, and yet, it was no longer a sting of shame alone, but of transformation.

And she had been right in almost every way. To Margaret, the question had always been whether everything had been done to lessen the sufferings of those exceptions as much as possible. Or, in the triumph of the crowded procession, had the helpless been trampled upon, rather than being gently moved aside from the conqueror's path, whom they had no power to follow in his march?

The memory, though sharp, no longer held the power to bring him low. He winced, yes, but the resolve that had taken root in him since that fateful moment was immovable. He had been a fool once, blinded by pride, ambition, and a singular devotion to his own success. But no more. Not now. Not with Margaret by his side. With her, he would never again fall into the pit of moral weakness. Her unwavering goodness had already begun to soften the harsher edges of his character. She was the steady light in the storm of his heart—unfaltering, certain, guiding him away from the rocks of self-interest toward the safe shore of righteousness. She had taught him the true meaning of empathy, not as a sentiment to be trotted out on Sundays, but as a moral imperative to live by and act upon. Through her, it was as if he had been granted a second chance to become the man he had always meant to be.

His workers, the very men and women whose sweat had once seemed little more than the price of his success, would find in him a master who was both just and kind. No longer would he view them as mere instruments in the machine of his fortune. They were human beings—worthy of respect, worthy of dignity. And their children, those innocent little ones whose future had so often been shaped by the whims of fate, would be assured of his protection, his care. Under his roof, they would not suffer the same cruel fate he had once so carelessly allowed to unfold. He would see to it that they were treated as they ought to be: with the same respect and honour that he would afford his own.

And as for the children he and Margaret would one day have—those bairns who would carry his name and her spirit—they would never endure the torment of choosing between wealth and principle. He would be the father they deserved: a father who would shield them from want and suffering, yet teach them to value integrity above all else. He would impart lessons that placed honour above profit and virtue above material gain. The riches he would offer them would not be counted in gold, but in love, in the teachings of right and wrong, and in the deep knowledge that they were cherished above all. No child of his would ever be left to wonder which path to take when faced with a moral choice. He would ensure they had both sufficiency of means and a surplus in common decency.

With Margaret at his side, he would be more than just a man of industry—he would be a man of principle, a protector of all those entrusted to him, and a father worthy of the trust his children would place in him. Nothing, not even the hardest trials of life, would turn him from this sacred vow. He would not fail them—not now, not ever. The thought filled him with such fervour that he felt an overwhelming urge to rise at once and seek out Margaret, to tell her of this new resolve, to share in the vision he now held so firmly in his heart. He was about to rise and thank Lennox for the part he had played in this revelation, when the man spoke again. This time, his words were less flattering, less kind, and they struck a chord of discomfort deep in Thornton's chest.

'But,' Lennox warned, his voice growing sterner, 'be cautious, Thornton. For all her maidenly virtues, Margaret can be opinionated and obstinate. Such things are excusable when tempered by the immaturity of girlhood, but as she grows up, she should forget such follies. And yet, our Margaret seems to be as stubborn and single-minded as ever, and you do not want to be on the receiving end of that,' he said pointedly, as though he had borne the brunt of far too many of Margaret's fiery moments to dismiss them lightly. 'Yes,' Lennox concluded with finality, 'Margaret is as steadfast as they come. However, while you will find that she has a heart of gold, she can also be a thorn in your side if you are not careful.'

'What did you say?' Thornton's response was stiff, taut with a warning all its own.

'Oh, Margaret is a fine lady, no doubt, as I have outlined so far in my account of her,' Lennox continued, oblivious to Thornton's mounting outrage, 'but she is fiercely independent. I attribute it to her youth and sheltered upbringing. In time, you will mould her to your ways, no doubt, reminding her of her proper place as a woman and wife. She is dutiful; so I trust that she will learn her duty, if you rule her with a will of iron, and a man like you, I am sure, will soon bend her to your will.'

'No!' Thornton's voice reverberated through the room like a crack of thunder, causing Lennox to recoil in surprise. 'No!' he repeated, the word burning with an anger that surged through him like wildfire. His fists clenched, the tremor of fury palpable in every twitch, and he shoved the redundant writing implements aside with a force that made the papers scatter. He would no longer take notes from this rogue, this rascal who knew nothing of Margaret!

Lennox, caught off guard, stammered, 'I—I beg your pardon?' He had not expected such a violent response to his offhand remarks.

Thornton felt the heat in his chest swiftly turn to cold, hard steel. His posture stiffened, the easy relaxation in his features evaporating, replaced by a sudden storm that roiled beneath his skin. His brow furrowed, his eyes narrowed, and a dark intensity filled his gaze.

'Firstly, she is not our Margaret. She is not your Margaret. Nor is she mine. She is not some property to own or prize to be won!' Thornton insisted. 'And as for the rest of the drivel you spouted, I say: Never!' he growled, his tone a gravelly growl, each syllable imbued with a severity that left no room for argument. 'Never,' he repeated, his eyes flashing with a fire that would not be extinguished—one that made it abundantly clear: nobody, least of all Lennox, would ever dare speak of Margaret in such a way again.

'But why, man?' Lennox faltered. 'Do you not want an obedient, well-behaved wife?'

'Are we talking about the same woman?' Thornton asked in amazement, his eyes darting to a small likeness of Margaret that hung on the wall, reminding him that he would need to commission such a portrait for his study. 'How could you ever have claimed to love her? It appears you do not know her.'

Lennox bristled. 'Well,' he said through a nervous cough. 'Perhaps you had better enlighten me.'

'Gladly!' Thornton retorted. 'The Margaret I have come to know is the most intelligent and inspiring woman—nay, the most remarkable person I have had the good fortune to meet. She has more sense in her head than every man I know put together. She is majestic in her loveliness, and I, for one, will not be the one to restrain her noble spirit!' His zeal increased with each word. 'As my wife, she will not only have my permission to speak her mind, but I will be damned proud of her for doing so.'

Lennox blinked and staggered backwards. 'Then by Jove, you are a most singular man!' he decreed.

Standing, Thornton walked up to Lennox, and leaning over him, he whispered fiercely, 'Perhaps that is why she fell in love with me and not you,' he considered, everything making sense now. 'I would never want her to be anything but exactly who she is. And, if I have any hope of being worthy of such a goddess, that angel of a woman, I will listen to her wisdom and take heed.'

'Wisdom?' Lennox scoffed. 'A woman!'

'Yes!' Thornton assured him. 'I am sorry if you have never known a strong woman, but I have, and I can tell you, they are an asset to any man if they are not intimidated by her brilliance. When it comes to Margaret, she is not perfect, nobody is, but I will learn to meet her where she is, to understand her every strength and every fault. That is what love is, is it not? It is not about moulding her to fit some preconceived idea. It is about seeing her—whole and complete—and loving all that she is.'

Lennox, momentarily caught off guard by Thornton's earnestness, looked at him with raised brows, as if struggling to understand what had just been said. 'Then you will be the only husband of your kind,' he countered in disbelief. 'Men do not want to marry their equal. They want to be the King of every sphere of their life.'

'Then how I pity them,' Thornton replied angrily, 'for they will never know the joy of having their Queen by their side in every trial and triumph. As for Margaret, she will never be in doubt of my admiration and adoration for her. She is the light of my soul, the one who makes every moment worth living, and I will go right now and kneel at her feet and thank Margaret for being exactly who she is and for accepting me for who I am.'

But before either man could take up arms or hurl another verbal assault, the door to the room creaked open, and a soft voice, like a balm to the heated air, drifted in from across the room

'Do I hear my name taken in vain?'

Both men turned abruptly, startled by the interruption. Lennox gulped, and as for Thornton, his heart skipped a beat, his breath catching in his throat as he saw her standing there, by the door in all her glory—Margaret.