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Chapter Text

A FARCE IN THE FAMILY

(Before We Were Us)

The thing that you need to know about Miss Thornton, was that she had tried her hand at a great number of things.

That is, she had attempted to become proficient in the art of many diversions, whether that be sewing, piano playing, dancing, poetry, and even reading, but only as a last resort. However, as ill-luck would have it, she had never become truly gifted in any of these accomplishments, in fact, there was a chance that she had left the endeavour in a more sorry state than when she had started. At any rate, this meant that while one could not fault her for her effort, since it was true that Miss Thornton had tried, (really tried), her hand at a great number of things, she had, much to her degradation, failed miserably to become great at even a single one of them.

Nevertheless, fate is never so cruel as to leave a girl entirely without advantage, and while Miss Thornton may have been excruciatingly dire at every art form known to womankind, there was one skill which fortune had favoured her with, and that, was a talent for gossiping.

Call it what you will, blathering, nattering, chinwagging, tattling, but at the end of the day, nobody had a flair for rumour-mongering like she.

Exactly how, why and when Miss Thornton had developed such a skill for spreading scandal, she could not say. Perhaps it had something to do with the rather unfair disadvantages she had been given in life as a member of the underprivileged sex. Yes, yes, her family were affluent and respected amongst their peers, she was well cared for, and she was pretty enough to win the approval of her friends, as well as catch the eye of a worthwhile suitor, but deep down, the young lady knew that somewhere, inside herself, she was lacking. What this furtive deficiency was had forever remained a mystery to Miss Thornton, since she knew it was not something tangible to the touch, making it unduly hard to chase after and secure.

Nevertheless, while she looked about her, Miss Thornton had been discouraged to discover that she was always surrounded by ladies who were more cheerful and contented than she was, or at least, they were on the surface, but as we know, surfaces are shallow. Consequently, because of this jealousy, a weed of resentment had taken seed in her heart from an early age, and now, at nearly eighteen years, Miss  Thornton found that she could hardly bear to see other’s jovial, and so, opening her mouth, she would let her tongue loose, blobs of acid dripping out and burning anybody who displeased her. Indeed, there was nothing that satisfied her more than to see their embarrassed blushes, their glum mopes, or the way they squirmed in their seats to hear her comments which stung at the very core of their insecurities. She knew it was unkind, and yes, at times Miss Thornton felt contrite, but really, what is a girl to do when she has no other forte to fall back on?

However, there was one person whom Miss Thornton liked to tease more than anybody else, and that, was her brother. He brought it upon himself, he really did, for Mr Thornton was so stern, so humourless, so reserved in every way with his boring books and philosophical principles, that she could hardly stand it, she could hardly stand him!

Miss Thornton and her elder sibling did not get on at the best of times, their relationship fraught with a divergence of character and a discrepancy of values. Still, today, the proverbial straw had broken the camel’s back, and matters had become catastrophically worse.

While getting ready to leave the house and admiring her engagement ring as it sparkled in the bright winter sunlight, Miss Thornton had gabbled on, (and on, and on), about how much she intended to spend at the haberdashers this morning as she accumulated all the essential, (not to mention expensive and extravagant), bits and bobs and odds and ends for her trousseau. She had heard her brother grumble and mutter in the background, a noise which did not ruffle her, given that it was commonplace in their home, what with Mr Thornton being perpetually in a foul mood.

However, everything changed a moment later when Miss Thornton casually mentioned Miss Hale. Why she had done so, nobody would ever know, but after seeing the lady the day before and having been obliged to put up with her superior observations about Mr Thornton’s distaste for speculation, as if she knew the man better than his own sister did, Miss Thornton had been peeved, to say the least. As a result, Miss Thornton felt compelled to speak out in rebellion against the haughty Miss Hale. This morning, her remark had really been nothing of note, terribly short and simple, since all she had said was:

‘I hope I do not run into Miss Hale today! She is always so grave and disapproving! I have never met anybody so dull yet so hoity-toity all at once. She is the strangest creature that ever lived. And what right does she have to look down her nose at me? She is older than I. She is not half as attractive, nor as accomplished, and she has not a shilling to her insignificant name. I doubt very much that she will ever marry, for what man would want her for his wife?!’

See, that was not so very bad at all, was it? A trifling reference with the most innocent of criticisms. But still, not a second after this slur had escaped her mouth, Miss Thornton had jumped out of her skin at the sound of her brother’s roar of displeasure, a booming outburst that rumbled throughout the room and even made the chandelier wobble, the tiny dew-drops of crystal trembling.

‘Enough!’ he had bellowed. ‘Don’t you dare talk about her like that!’ the master thundered, soaring to his feet and fixing his sister with the most sinister of scowls, so sour that it could curdle milk.

Miss Thornton had been muzzled in an instant, her eyes wide with fright and her body quaking as she gawked back at her brother from across the way. To be sure, he had always been an irritable grump, but never – never – had he raised his voice to her like this before. He was like a man possessed, an animal even, as he stalked from the room and slammed his study door shut to afford him some solitude, his own formidable figure shaking with a righteous wrath.

Gulping, Miss Thornton had lifted a hand to her chest and caressed her racing heart to quell its flustered palpitating, and then, holding her head high in a show of dignity, she had snatched up her purse, (not that she would be paying a penny), and marched out of the house, threatening to charge a king’s fortune to Marlborough Mills, just to spite her horrid brother.

And that is why, on this day, she had decided to poke the bear like never before.

It was just over three hours later that Miss Thornton returned home from her shopping excursion. Tucking her bills safely away in her coat pocket, she ensured that not one corner of paper peeked out, because even by her lavish standards, the total amount would be enough to make a prosperous banker faint.

Pausing a little way along the corridor, Miss Thornton leaned forwards and peered around the door frame into the parlour, her hat with its voluptuous feather tipping over, the plume nearly touching the floor. With her eyes narrowed, she surveyed the scene, and on seeing her mother sitting at the far end of the table employed with her embroidery, and her brother closer still, his head bent over a series of tedious looking papers, his eyebrows knitted in unease, she nodded to herself.

Excellent, the stage was set.

Standing tall and elongating her elegant figure, Miss Thornton then proceeded to waltz, (for waltz it was), into the room, her nose thrust so high into the air that she could not help but bump into this and that, the corner of a Chippendale dresser bruising her knee.

But flinch, she did not, she refused to, not when she had work to do.

Throwing down her vast collection of boxes and bundles upon the polished table-top, (and these were only the ones she had deemed worthy enough to carry herself, due to their sheer splendour), she let her eyes flit between her kin, eyeing them carefully, cunningly, craftily plotting her next move. Taking up one of her parcels, Miss Thornton put on a display of unwrapping it, the delicate tissue paper scattering down in tufts of shredded material as she tore impatiently at the packaging like an impetuous child. Taking one of her new items, a pair of gloves the colour of prunes and trimmed with grey rabbit fur, she hummed to herself stridently, her head slanting from side-to-side as she admired her new acquisition.

As she did this, Miss Thornton observed her brother squint to the side as his concentration was thieved, and on spying her mound of gaudy trinkets, he sighed wearily and massaged his brow as he felt his head begin to pang at the thought of his sister’s overindulgence, and worse, its cost to his already diminishing assets.

Miss Thornton grinned like a Cheshire cat, her pearly teeth glinting.

Good, she had his attention.

Clearing her throat, she let out a breathy, “haaaaah,” the decibel gratingly airy.

Sensing that her daughter wished to say something, Mrs Thornton glanced up briefly from her sewing, and after shaking her head to see the quantity of nonsense strewn out over her table, every colour known to man staining it in a billowing ocean of silk and satin, she ventured to ruin the quiet repose that she and her son had thus been enjoying and ask her daughter what was what.

‘Well then, what is it?’ she invited, guessing that the reply would be some sort of self-indulgent commentary about how many people had cooed over her ring and marvelled at the number of diamonds encrusted in the bed of shiny gold.

‘Oh, nothing,’ she answered, and all the air in the room was sucked up as both mother and son took in a liberal breath of relief to think that they would be spared a hedonistic annotation of the young lady’s day out, one which would be filled with more sickly compliments and wasteful expenditure than either of them had the patience to stomach, especially after such a meagre lunch, the gravy in a beef roast the ideal means to soak up her gibberish.

However, their celebration at her reticence was in haste, for it had been no more than a baiting ruse.

‘That is…,’ Miss Thornton continued, her tone suggesting that she had something delicious to herald, but whether that be due to its flavour for shame or sensation, they were yet to find out.

‘I heard a rumour,’ she revealed, barely glancing up from inspecting the case of jewellery that Watson had bought his fiancée to match her eyes.

Mr Thornton and his mother both shared an askew glance of frustration, but they kept their mouths firmly closed, refusing to encourage her. All they could hope for was that her hearsay did not involve or implicate either of them.

Again, they would be proved wrong.

‘You should not listen to tittle-tattle, my dear,’ her mother counselled with a sage warning.

‘Nor spread it,’ her brother muttered tetchily, annoyed by his sibling’s flibbertigibbet drivel.

Miss Thornton pouted, but she soon rallied, for she had another ace up her sleeve. ‘I know,’ she countered crossly. ‘But this is different, this is a very curious matter indeed.’

Looking about, the young lady was not at all impressed that the pair before her failed to act the least bit intrigued, the two of them returning to their dreary tasks as if she had said nothing of import at all.

Huffing, Miss Thornton picked up yet another item from her horde of tasteless purchases, this one being a new nightdress of thin lace and taffeta, but the thought of wearing it for Watson on their wedding night was enough to make her insides churn revoltingly, so she discarded it at once, tossing it far away.

Holding back a swell of bile, the woman sniffed theatrically. ‘Well, I can tell you are dying to know, so I shall tell you,’ she prattled. ‘I hear that somebody might be getting married,’ she declared, her pitch emphasising that one crucial word.

Much to her delight, her incitement worked a treat, because all at once, she spotted the way that both listeners cockled their temples, their minds trying to work out what this peculiar piece of news was supposed to mean. Finally, after she could no longer deny that her curiosity had been provoked, Mrs Thornton asked, ‘And what, pray tell, does that mean?’

Smiling to herself with smug satisfaction, Miss Thornton bobbed up and down on the balls of her feet, as giddy as a child with an audience of adult admirers. ‘I was confused myself,’ she admitted. ‘But as it turns out, a certain someone, somebody we know, has been asked for their hand in marriage, and so, they may or may not be saying yes.’

Tired of her riddle that was going nowhere, Mr Thornton groused, once again stooping over his stack of ominous documents, and with one hand covering the ear nearest her, the other seized up his pen so that he might scribble away and study the alarming state of the mill accounts, the absorption of fixating over this concerning task hopefully allowing him to drown out the sound of his sister’s mindless chattering.

Mrs Thornton frowned as she noticed a crooked stitch in the yellow rose she was adorning upon a backdrop of creamy cotton, the very idea of even the slightest mistake in her edging too disgraceful to countenance. ‘And I suppose you are going to tell us who this woman is?’ she pressed, assuming that it was doubtless one of her daughter’s ridiculous friends, the coy girl probably toying with her inane beau and turning him into a wretch of a man as she pretended to delay with her answer and make him sweat while she decided to say yes, something she had intended to do all along.

With a mischievous sneer amusing her lips, Miss Thornton readied to deliver the most thrilling titbit of all, the very thing to change the course of this conversation and give her the attention she so sorely craved. Clicking her teeth, she opened her mouth, allowing her voice to carry far and wide across the expanse of their large parlour.

‘Why, Miss Hale, of course.’

All at once, everything went still and everyone went silent. With her curiosity shrewdly skimming down the table towards her brother under the veil of her eyelashes, Miss Thornton saw his hand halt in mid-air, the pen quivering with inactivity as its holder froze. His expression was hard to read, it was inexpressive in its impassiveness, but behind the mask of unresponsive numbness, Miss Thornton could see the muscles of his strong jaw twitch, and as for his eyes, those fierce slits of transfixing blue, they were awake with horror.

Mrs Thornton dropped her sewing, and as her needle fell, she pricked her finger, a globule of blood oozing and then dripping onto the cold hues of her black dress, a vivid stain of red besmirching her mourning and giving life to her emotions. She had managed to rescue her needlework, the act had been distinctive as she moved it aside and prevented it from being tarnished by this startling drama.

Swallowing, Mrs Thornton tried to regain her composure. ‘Miss Hale?’ she repeated in incredulity, her voice perturbed.

Miss Thornton nodded confidently. ‘Yes! So it would seem. And who would have thought? Just after I had said that no man in his right mind would want her!’ she laughed sarcastically.

Her mother’s eyes swiftly darted to the left to check on her son, but there he remained, unmoving, his mind almost certainly hurtling at a hundred miles an hour as he tried to process the consequences of this most unwelcome news.

‘You had better explain,’ Mrs Thornton advised, determined that the facts of the matter should be verified as swiftly as possible, because, if she were honest, her daughter was not the most reliable of sources, so it could all very well turn out to be no more than utter poppycock.

Sitting down, Miss Thornton clasped her hands and lingered theatrically, as if she were about to begin a ceremonial speech. ‘Well, it goes like this,’ she started. ‘It turns out that in the past few weeks, her father has taken on a new pupil. And, much to everyone’s disbelief, the young gentleman has, quite inexplicably, fallen madly in love with his tutor’s only daughter. Smitten, he has apparently proposed, and in turn, Miss Hale has said that she will think on it. So there, she might be getting engaged, but then again, she might not,’ Miss Thornton concluded, surprising herself with her concise and impressively level-headed explanation.

Even so, the people in the room said nothing, not a peep, all eyes on the only man there, his head still huddled over his papers, his shoulders hunched, his eyes scrunched as the clever brain behind it whirled in chaos, spinning around and around in a devastating hurricane of despair.

Ah, so he had been right!

Damn!

Mr Thornton had been worried of late, very worried. One would be forgiven for presuming that his concerns were limited to the affairs of trade and the gradual decline of his mill’s profitability following the damaging effects of that despicable strike. But, no, one would be mistaken.

The issue that was troubling him more than anything, plaguing him by day and robbing him of his rest by night, was the knowledge that Mr Hale had taken on a new pupil not four weeks previous. This itself was no bad thing, given that the scholar was an excellent teacher, and what was more, he could do with both the company and the financial advantages.

Mr Thornton had scarcely bothered to wonder about Mr Hale receiving another student, it was not his business after all, and besides, he had plenty of cares of his own to occupy his harassed time and focus. Nonetheless, it was a week later, that the Oxford academic had disclosed that he would not be able to invite Mr Thornton for dinner the following Thursday, as per their established routine. The reason was that he was busy that night, his new guest now requesting five lessons a week, although, he did promise to produce a more fair schedule moving forward for the both of them.

Five!

Good Lord! How or why a man should require such excessive instruction was beyond reckoning!

Mr Thornton had been dumbstruck by this puzzling report, and after he had walked home, obsessing over it, his mind analysing every conceivable reason for such extreme attendance upon that obscure Crampton house, he had stopped dead in his tracks, right in the middle of the street, and he had groaned. As a horrifying realisation washed over him, Mr Thornton had quite literarily gagged in distress, the boisterous and most boorish noise affecting any onlookers to jolt and stare at him with both shock and disgust. He had done this because he had reached an unnerving awareness, an unsettling deduction, an upsetting assumption, and the understanding of it had felt like a punch to his gut and groin all at once.

The man was there to see Margaret.

Of course he was, it was obvious, he must be besotted with her, for what mortal man could not be?

Despite having a thousand and one matters to attend to, Mr Thornton had turned on his heel and made his way to his gentleman’s club, hoping that it would be filled with his fellow masters, and if he were in luck, they would not yet be so drunk that they could not be squeezed for some critical information.

With the magistrate in him taking over, Mr Thornton had cross-examined Hamper, Slickson and Watson, requesting to know – no,  ─ demanding to know who this snake in the grass was, this fiend who had wormed his way into the master’s world and was getting close, too close, to the person whom he loved more than life itself.

After an hour of questioning the men to the point of interrogation, Mr Thornton had left in a fit of wretchedness, and retreating into a quiet alley, he had slumped against the wall, closed his eyes, and cursed God for his heartache.

As it turned out, the situation had been far more serious than he had first imagined. For a start, he was definitely not the rogue from the station, so whoever he was, he was a new contender for Margaret’s heart, and if he had managed to win her over so quickly and easily, then by God, he must be exceptional.

The man was twenty-five, younger than he, healthy, good-looking, wealthy, and he was a politician of all things, with not a mention of trade in the family to smear his good name, the jammy beggar. Living in a smart part of town, and with a substantial property nearby in the country with plentiful grounds and gardens (just the sort of home she would adore), it appeared that the scoundrel was no scoundrel at all, but a thoroughly good and generous sort of fellow whom everybody spoke highly of. And what really irked Mr Thornton, what really got under his skin, was that the villain, in his role as a public figure, used his influence to champion the needs of the poor and disadvantaged, doing everything in his power to campaign for their interests, even going so far as to donate large quantities of his own fortune, vast as it was.

Hell!

The man was perfect. He was the perfect gentleman. He was perfectly decent. And what hurt the most, cutting him to pieces, was the knowledge that he was perfect for Margaret.

He was the husband she deserved.

Lost in a sea of misery, drowning in his own hopeless sorrows, Mr Thornton’s legs had given way, and sinking to the ground, he had buried his head in his hands and wailed like a babe. After picking himself up and dusting off the grime of the streets and the grief of his soul, he had made his way home and tried his best not to think about it any more, struggling with every broken beat of his heart to banish her from his mind, not that he could ever hope to do such a thing, because there she lived and always would, his conscience, his darling, his everything and more.

Taking a deep breath, Mr Thornton reared his head, his eyes gradually lifting to meet his sister’s, and the woman had to do everything she could not to shudder at the sight of those soulful orbs screaming out in anguish behind the mist of his splintering indifference.

‘You say…might,’ he checked, his tenor rasping. ‘That is…she might say no?’ he asked, the slither of frail hope in his voice too pitiful to depict.

Miss Thornton nodded firmly. ‘Yes, it would seem she was unsure.’

The courage of optimism flickered in his masculine breast, and even if the light burnt too dimly for the naked eye to see, it was still there, all the same, for hope is hope, no matter how feeble it may be.

Was there a chance for him yet? Was there a chance she could still be his?

Please, God! Do not say that all was lost, because while John could endure losing his mill, devastate him as it might, he knew he would die if he were ever to lose Margaret entirely, being deprived of the wonder of her sunshine for all the days of the rest of his miserable life.

Miss Thornton rearranged herself in her seat so that she might recount another aspect of her tale, her postponement agitating her brother to growl like an angry wolf who was starving, only this time, it was not for food, but for a morsel of possibility.

‘They say that Miss Hale told the gentleman that while she was fond of him…,’ Miss Thornton faltered when she heard her brother groan in protest. Glowering at him, she continued. ‘While she liked him very much, and enjoyed his company, and thought well of him as a friend, she was not sure that she could give herself to him as a wife.’

‘And why is that?’ Mr Thornton urged before he had a chance to think twice of his reckless demonstration of blatant interest.

Miss Thornton simpered and leaned in towards him as if she were just about to tell her brother a most tantalising secret. ‘Because,’ she whispered. ‘She loves another.’

Mr Thornton, who had also been inclined forwards in eager expectation, found himself reeling backwards in his chair in disbelief, nearly falling off it as he thudded against the wood.

‘More!’ he ordered, no longer caring how transparently engrossed he sounded.

Miss Thornton sniggered. ‘I have it on good authority that Miss Hale has already given her heart away,’ she confided, amazed to think that such a sullen creature could even feel a single romantic sentiment. ‘The story has it that she has already been asked by somebody else. He offered to wed her, out of nowhere, taking her by surprise, and declaring most ardently that he was in love with her. However, it appears she said no, but not because she did not care for him, and not because she could not see herself as his wife, but because Miss Hale had been unconvinced of the sincerity of his affections, all because it had been so unexpected.’

Mr Thornton’s mouth was agape as he gawped at his sister.

Swallowing, he insisted hoarsely: ‘More!’ the man hardly able to spit out the word, the appeal coming out as a guttural grunt.

‘Well, I hear that she did not believe in the earnestness of his proposal, all because he had never mentioned any regard for her before, he had never paid her so much as a compliment. However, something had happened, I do not know what, that had prompted him to call upon her, and I think she was indignant, wishing that he would ask her out of genuine love and not out of a sense of duty.’

Mr Thornton could hardly draw breath, his heart beating so fast it would surely exhaust itself and cease to pump, the man dropping dead on the spot from an over-stimulation of anxious excitement. ‘More!’ he whispered softly.

Miss Thornton pursed her lips, baffled by his disproportionate interest, but never mind that, not when she had him writhing in the palm of her hand, and besides, silly she may be, but stupid she was not, and the sister was well aware of how fascinated her brother was with Miss Hale.

‘The only other thing I was told, was that she had since changed her mind and regretted her refusal, her heart now well and truly his and his alone,’ Miss Thornton described, detecting the gleam of exhilaration in his alert eyes. ‘But there is just one problem, you see,’ she said, a curious sadness shrivelling her words.

‘And what is that?’ he asked, almost standing as he raised himself out of his seat in a state of nervous anticipation.

There was a period of unbearable silence while she thought on this, and everybody present held their breath.

‘He no longer loves her,’ came a woeful mutter.

Mr Thornton collapsed back down into his chair. ‘What?!’

‘It is true,’ she contended with uncharacteristic solemnity. ‘He took it all back. He said that his…his…what was it?’ she mused, trawling through her memory. ‘Ah, yes, his foolish passion for her was well and truly over, and that he wanted her no more −’

‘Where are you going?!’ she shrieked, astounded as her brother leapt out of his chair and flew out of the room, his retreating footsteps echoing down the hallway thud after restless thud.

Astonished, both women sprang from their seats and went to stand by the window, and there, they watched as the figure of a man bounded across the mill yard and into the street, his agitated form turning south, before he once again sped away.

There was a moment of understandable intermission while the two ladies recaptured their senses, and then, with a synchronised twisting of their heads, they looked at each other and smirked.

‘Well done!’ Mrs Thornton applauded, patting her daughter on the arm fondly. ‘You were magnificent!’

Miss Thornton chuckled and then reddened. ‘Really?’ she solicited, desperate for approval. ‘Did I really do well, Mamma?’ she had to know.

Linking arms with her daughter, Mrs Thornton led her back to the settee, and there, she picked up her sewing and resumed her stitching of the yellow rose, an intentional illustration, a gift for the young woman her son was no doubt sprinting across town to see.

And about time, too.

‘I could not have done it better myself,’ she praised.

Now then, you would be forgiven, dear reader, for finding yourself bewildered at this point, and I daresay that is my fault, for you see, I misled you in this little story of mine, because quite intentionally, I left out a scene.

Many pages ago, when Mr Thornton had first quitted the room in response to his sister’s condemnation of the woman he cherished, Miss Thornton had been about to depart herself, full of bitterness for his unreasonable eruption of bizarre emotion. However, she had not got very far before her mother had halted her, and bidding her daughter come sit awhile, Mrs Thornton had disclosed a secret.

Choosing her words carefully, she had delicately related to her child the story of her brother falling in love with Miss Hale, and the events which had led to her rejecting his proposal of marriage, causing the mother to think of her with venomous contempt. With her eyes wide and her jaw nearly on the floor, Miss Thornton had listened in raptured delight as her mother recounted the obliterated destruction of Mr Thornton’s dreams, his desperate longing for marital contentment being denied most cruelly. This had then been followed by a discussion regarding the unexplained incident at Outwood, and then, to add some additional spice to the narrative, Mrs Thornton told her daughter about her own visit to Crampton to confront the young madam who had been brazen enough to snub the most worthy man who had ever lived.

At this juncture, Mrs Thornton had hesitated, and then she explained with pensive unease that after the awkward interview, something had changed. She had seen something in Miss Hale, a deference, a remorse, a genuine disappointment that she was, in fact, herself not named Mrs Thornton, all because of her own senseless misunderstanding of the man who had laid his faithful heart at her feet. The mother had not understood it then, but on returning home, it had hit her! She loved him, truly loved him. And if she loved him, then perhaps, just possibly, there was hope for her son’s happiness yet.

Taking this all in, Miss Thornton could not help but feel guilty. Her poor brother! While she believed that she would never understand him, the woman could at least appreciate that he was a good man. He was honest, honourable, and hard-working, and after years of sacrifice for the sake of his loved ones, her brother had earned the right to be happy, and even more so, to be rewarded with somebody who would love him and share his life by his side.

Speaking in whispers so as not to alert the master in his study, the two women collaborated to bring some much-needed joy to the Thornton family. Colluding, they had both already known about the gentleman who had taken up his lessons with zeal at the Hale’s, and it had not taken either of them long to work out why.

Now, here they had decided to tell a white lie, a fabrication of the truth, for while it was very likely that the man did in fact wish Miss Hale to join him in matrimony, neither of them had any evidence of if and when this question would be proffered.

But one thing was for sure, and that was that Mr Thornton had to stop it from happening.

But how?

What could they conceivably do to help?

After a short discussion, the two ladies had put their scruples aside and their clever heads together, deciding that it was for the best that they would fib to their son and brother, not out of malice, of course, but out of necessity, and hopefully, one day, God would forgive them when he saw the master a merry man, surrounded by his devoted wife and darling children.

It was then that they had hatched a scheme, and that plan in action, you have already witnessed, for it included Miss Thornton going shopping after all, and when she reappeared, she would play the part of a gossip, coolly stirring the feelings of fiery passion in her brother’s heart, motivating him to go to his sweetheart, beg her to be his, and in the end, if it was as they had prayed, Mr Thornton would be engaged by the end of the day.

It was a miracle that he had not seen through their charade, for when and where was Miss Thornton meant to have found out all of this? And in such detail? And who was supposed to have told her? If Mr Thornton had taken the time to really mull it over, he would have realised, the only person who could have divulged his deepest and darkest secrets to his sister, was, in shocking reality, his own mother, and if he had uncovered this betrayal of his privacy, well, Heaven help them both.

Now that their part in this farce was over and done with, both mother and daughter had no choice other than to sit and linger, wondering what would become of their well-intentioned meddling. Nevertheless, thankfully, they did not have long to wait and stew in supposition. Startled by the sound of somebody approaching, they glanced up to see Mr Thornton renter the fold. All at once, they could tell he was different. He was taller, broader, stronger, the frailty that the last few months had inflicted upon him vanquished.

He did not say anything at first, but smiled, a small, confidential, untroubled smile. Then, at last, with his lips curling upwards, and his hands thrust in his pockets like a carefree schoolboy, he cast his eyes to the floor shyly.

Blinking, his eyes brimming with tears, Mr Thornton quietly proclaimed: ‘She is not to marry him after all.’

The two women peeked at each other. ‘Oh?’ they chirped in chorus. ‘And why is that?’

Looking up, he grinned, his face shining with pride and pleasure alike. ‘Because she is marrying me!’ the master announced, his heart full and fit to burst with unadulterated joy to know that he and his beloved Margaret would be man and wife, together, forever.

The End

Chapter Text

RIBBONS

(The Thornton Tales)

My Dearest Edith…

John lay back against the pillows on his bed and smiled with smug contentment. Lost in a daze of lazy-hazy serenity, his calloused thumb languidly browsed up and down a length of silken trimming, his wife having placed it in his hands shortly before, bidding her husband to inspect it carefully and give his honest opinion. But for the life of him, John could not bring himself to care about a boring old ribbon.

How can any man be expected to pay attention to something so trivial when he had a woman like Margaret Hale – no, Thornton, (he really could not believe that was her name), to capture and captivate his every keen sense?

Lounging back further on their bed, sinking into its soft folds, John burrowed his arm behind his head and fixed his gaze upon her with unreserved fascination. It was a Sunday afternoon in early December, and despite the festive snow which festooned the bracing world outside, inside Marlborough House, one would hardly know it was winter at all.

I do so wish that I could come and visit you and Sholto in London, Eadie, I truly do, but John will not hear of it, he refuses to even contemplate the notion. He really does get himself awfully fractious on my behalf, my gentle giant, fretting about me constantly, so much so that I rather worry about him too, sad to think that his glorious mane of black hair might turn grey before its time with all his fussing…

John’s right eyebrow contracted just a fraction to the upper left, much like a fish on a line, this twitch happening at the precise moment he caught his wife smirking to herself, a private joke no doubt, one which was most likely about him, so he dare not enquire, for the less he knew about the wisecracks the sharp-witted womenfolk in his life quipped about him, the better.

As he studied her, Margaret’s hand flying nimbly back and forth across the page as she wrote a letter to her cousin at the desk, John spotted the way her free hand unconsciously rose to itch the back of her neck, her fingers unsettling the idle wisps of russet tendrils which dangled there, insubordinate strands that were too short to pin, an enthralling spot on her person that he stared at often. As Margaret’s lithe fingers skimmed her nape, they disturbed a droplet of sweat, a tiny ball of moisture which she punctured with her nail, affecting the condensation to trickle down and disappear behind the collar of her dress and out of sight.

John shuffled restlessly in place, oddly aroused by this miniscule phenomenon which held no relevance, nor indeed would it boast any true attraction to anybody other than him, but when it came to Margaret, every unassuming move she made had the power to bewitch her husband. As he had been thinking, one would hardly know that they were entering into the depths of the year’s sleepy rest, one filled with darkened hours and icy winds, not when their home was as hot as a summer house, the heat so intense that it had forced John to remove his cravat, then his coat, then his waistcoat, finally inducing him to unbutton the top half of his shirt, his dampened skin crying out for the refreshment of cool air.

You know that he never tells me what to do, he has never once tried to influence me, not in all these nine months, even although he is used to getting his own way as a master, and despite him being a man of such inherent force, both in character and body. But bless him, I do not think John could control me, even if he wanted to. In fact, I should like to see him try. Still, he will insist on me staying home, no matter how often I try and reason with his madness. John says that the roads are too bad for a carriage and the trains may be delayed, or worse, so even if he came with me as a precaution, he will not hear of me risking my safety at such a time, nor put myself in a situation where I may get stuck and find myself unable to return home, not when the day we have been waiting for draws ever nearer…

The cause of this unseasonable heat was entirely man-made, that is, it had been brought about by one man in particular, John himself. In the past few weeks, as the frost fairies had cast their bitter spell over Milton, the husband had begun to grow increasingly troubled that his wife would catch a chill, something he dared not let happen, not now, not this year of all years. John was not prone to nervousness, he was too level-headed to give in to such pointless outlooks, but that had all changed one nippy evening in mid-November when his wife had sneezed, not once, nor twice, nor even thrice, but four times, and Lord knows how many other occasions had occurred behind his back. Alarmed by the thought that she might become ill, John had immediately set about his mission of turning the house into a furnace in an extravagant effort to keep Margaret warm. In doing so, John had intractably insisted that every fire in their home be lit, morning, noon and night, not a thought to be given to sparing the coals or wood for the hearths, the mill-house chimney a constant beacon of warmth for miles around as it puffed and coughed great billows of smoke into the grey December air. Everybody had complained, his mother included, fussing that it was ridiculous, the cost being astronomical, but he had not paid her any attention in the slightest.

However, the essential point to note is the actual reason behind this nonsensical reason, the cause, if you will, and that is thankfully very simple, and John was reminded of it yet again today, sweetly so, as his wife lowered her hand to rub soothing circles on her belly.

Oh, Edith! I am so happy! I do hope that you will come to Milton and see our baby as soon as may be, our treasured Thornton lamb. I shall show them off to everybody, every person I pass having the chance to see my cherished child. I cannot wait to meet them, to hold my son or daughter in my arms and tell them just how infinitely loved they are by their mother and father. I am bursting with impatience, as well as pride, just to think, I am carrying his baby. Out of all the women in the world, it is I who have been gifted with this privilege. It is too heavenly to contemplate, so much so that I often wake and wonder if it is truly true…

Tilting his neck so that he could regard her better, John could not help but purr with satisfaction at what he saw. Margaret was very nearly ready to give birth to their first child. She was around eight months pregnant, or so they were told, and with every new and novel week of their blissful marriage, the husband watched in awe as her nourishing roundness grew, showing him and all the world that there, within, lay his babe, their little one, the epitome of their love. It was still incredible to him to think that they had managed to conceive within the first month of their marriage, his wife not yet having bled once as Mrs Thornton, but then again, if he really took the time to think about it, something he often did with a gratified smirk, there had been several occasions when the deed could have been done.

John was overcome with excitement, desperate for the happy day to arrive soon, but then again, not too soon, his apprehension on his wife’s behalf being the origin of his overprotective pestering that now took place. And as for his darling Meg, well, she had wondered at his niggling, but when he had explained about the numerous fires, the daily clean sheets, the specially prepared food, the weekly visits from the doctor, and the expertly tailored clothes, she had said not a word, but merely smiled and pecked him on the cheek in silent gratitude. She had let John go about his business, since Margaret knew that nothing she said or did would deter him from caring for his two loves with his bull-dog like doggedness, one of his kin already here, one yet to come, eagerly awaited by its doting parents.

I shall rely on your guidance as to what to do every step of the way, your last letter telling me how to recognise the beginning of my labour and how best to manage it being most gratefully received, albeit somewhat frightening in certain passages. Poor John, he read part of it too and turned terribly pale. I believe I even saw his legs wobble at one point. Hannah has been a marvel, and so has Dickson, the two of them all kindness and patience, but I still have so many questions that I blush to ask, and so, I will depend upon you to keep me right, dear one. For instance, how do I feed them? I know Aunt Shaw disapproves, but I so wish to nurse my own baby from my own breast, but what if the little mite does not take to me? I want also to bathe them, but how do I know if the water is too humid or too cold, for I should hate to scald or chill them? And what if they cry so, and I cannot understand what is wrong? I think my heart will surely break to hear them bleat until their tiny lungs are sore, yet try as I might, I fear that I will find that I cannot comfort them as I ought, all because I am incompetent…

As he heard Margaret huff at herself, John deftly tilted over the side of the bed so that he could get a better view of her face, her pursed lips that were being nibbled by her pearly teeth a clue that gave her mood away at once. Hmm, he could read her like a book, and this page was not at all one he wanted her to stew over, both for her sake and his. It had not taken long for John to realise that Margaret was anxious about becoming a mother, not when he knew her well enough to recognise her every mood, and he could see that beneath her characteristic semblance of dignified confidence, his darling girl was afraid. Well, he could not blame her for that. Childbirth was no easy feat, and if he could, he would take the perilous burden away from her and upon himself, but alas, such things were not possible. Instead, all John could do was offer Margaret his steadfast support, quietly and unobtrusively reassuring her whenever and wherever he could.

However, when it came to John, he was not the least bit concerned. That is, deep down, in a pessimistic chamber of his conscience that he wilfully refused to visit, instead choosing to hide it away in a shallow grave of denial, he was terrified of what might happen to her come the time, of what tragic fate may befall both his wife and child. But he could not let himself think such a hellish thing. No, John trusted that Margaret was a tower of strength, that she was stubborn in her fortitude, and God help anyone who tried to take her away from him or their baby, because not only would John not allow it, but she too would staunchly refuse to go. Still, once all of that was said and done, John had never been more sure of anything in his life, (apart from his immeasurable love for her), that Margaret would be the most gifted mother who had ever lived.

He knew that his wife longed to go to London, to see Edith and learn all she might from her more experienced cousin, and while he would gladly take her, just so that she might feel calm again, John knew that it would be negligent of him to do so, not when she was so close to her confinement. Margaret had pouted in that way she did when she was denied her own way, not that it happened often, but he could tell that she understood his reasoning, that she agreed, and so, with very little fuss, she had yielded, allowing him to be her comfort in these uncharted times.

John says that I do not need any advice on how to be a good mother, for he knows that I shall take to it like a duck to water, a caring maternal nature being the matter which makes my very bones, or so it is according to him. He believes that I will be the most competent and compassionate mamma that ever did breathe, and while I am touched by his unfailing faith in me, I am still uneasy. I should so hate to do anything wrong. Goodness! Imagine if I dropped the baby!....

Perhaps this would be a good time to tell Margaret that he had written to Edith himself not a fortnight before, to suggest to her that she could come visit them, Marlborough House always being open to her. John had heard back from Edith six days ago, her enthusiasm evident in her untidy scribbles as she gladly accepted his invitation and promised she would come as soon as it could be arranged, possibly within the week. John was aware that the captain was away on service, and so too was the aunt abroad, somewhere she always seemed to be, her Harley Street residence less her home than her luggage trunk was. Therefore, with Mrs Lennox being alone and most likely lonely, she would presumably appreciate the company, sociable soul that she was, so John was in no doubt that she would be with them as soon as she could. But no, he would not breathe a word of his plan, since he wanted it to be a pleasant surprise for his wife to discover her cousin in her parlour, a giddy grin on Edith’s face to have pulled such a hoax, their laughs ringing throughout the house. Besides, for all he knew, the lady was already on the northbound train at this very minute.

‘I hope you are taking your task seriously, Mr Thornton,’ came a disapproving reproach from across the room, the hint of playfulness in her voice impossible to miss.

John chuckled as he obediently returned his eyes to the ribbons in his hands, his fingers twisting around the spiralled strips of pink, green, yellow and red, each band of colour a burst of festive cheer.

‘Of course, Mrs Thornton, I would not dare disoblige you, not when I have seen what trouble that brings,’ he retorted with a good-humoured murmur, amused to think that the discord of their past was now so resolutely laid to rest that they could begin to laugh about it, or at the very least, make light of it. Nevertheless, John finished by stating a fact that had been as incontestably true then as it was now. ‘I am, as always, your willing servant, my love, you know I am.’

Even although her back was turned to him, John could see the edges of her jaw crease and her cheeks dimple as she smiled affectionately in return. ‘Good,’ Margaret replied succinctly, teasingly. ‘That is what I like to hear.’ Collecting up a decoration and lifting it towards the light of a nearby lamp, she considered the hue, the dusky pink of its quality making her wheeze a pant of nostalgia, because it was the exact colour of the dress she had worn at Edith’s wedding, only weeks before she had first met her own beloved husband, a misunderstood man for whom Margaret had denied her feelings for, for far, far too long.

I thank you for the ribbons you sent me with your last letter, and yes, I most assuredly do recall when you wrote to me all those years ago when I had first moved to Milton to ask which would best suit Sholto. My-my, it feels like only yesterday, and how much has happened since then to both you and I. Oh, I almost shudder to recall my narrow-mindedness then towards this innovative town, its noble people, and a man, who, in spite of myself, I could not help but feel irresistibly drawn to. I can only hope that I have become a more patient and considerate woman since then, growing steadily in both wisdom and tolerance. Now then, if I remember correctly, I said that I did not know which option would do for your son, given that it was difficult to say without seeing the boy and matching the choices with his colouring. Sweet Sholto, how big he is now, and I hope he shall delight in having a cousin to play with and shelter under his wing…

John was distracted from his all-important charge by the sight of Margaret squirming in her seat, her hips swivelling agitatedly from side to side as she writhed in a bid to get more comfortable. John frowned. She was too hot. That was what the sweat had been all about, and as he looked, John could see more beads forming on the exposed area of skin peeking out at that juncture where her back met with her magnificent neck. He had suggested that she undress, that she wear her nightdress or chemise instead, either that, or she could put on the lightsome gowns he had ordered for her from the dressmakers with the express purpose of giving Margaret the dual benefit of respectability and relief during the day while her body stretched under the heft of its increasing load and groaned in anticipation for the undertaking it instinctively knew was to come. This was not an unusual recommendation of his, given that Margaret often took to lying down for an hour or so each afternoon these days to give her aching bones and muscles some respite, the state of impending motherhood being both a pleasure and an affliction for any woman to bear, no matter how resilient she may be. John would usually help Margaret to remove her layers of heavy and restrictive clothing, mutely listening to her mutters of discomfort, impatient in his hurried desire to help her be free of such a senseless imprisonment, permitting his wife to finally find refuge wrapped up in nothing more than his tender embrace.

However, Margaret had mulishly refused to lie down this day. She had too much to do, or so she said, his wife forever a busy little bee who buzzed about the place with relentless energy and industriousness, so much so that she frequently made John feel shiftless, a ludicrous thought, what with him being the most unremittingly diligent man in Milton. Still, she was having none of it, since today, Margaret was engaged with neatly writing out notes filled with warm Christmas wishes from the Master and Mistress of Marlborough Mills to all their esteemed workers. She had also taken it upon herself to arrange a small basket for each family with a few modest preserves and decorations that they could enjoy, such as jam, coal, holly, and cake. John and Hannah had counselled Margaret, saying that it would be futile for her to assume such a chore, that the hands would not thank them for it, seeing it instead as charity, an offending act in a town where people valued their independence.

Nonetheless, Margaret had shaken her head adamantly before pursuing her intentions with more obstinate tenacity than before, vowing that her humble townsfolk would welcome it, and what was more, it would help them to see the generosity of their master, a man whom they had all now grown to respect, and over time, this would lead to assured loyalty, and so, she argued that it would promote greater productivity and probability in the long-term.

John could not help but beam merrily at this. Meg, his benevolent, ingenious girl, how bright she was in both mind and spirit. For a start, it was a treat to hear her call Milton her town and its folk her people. What a transformation since she had first arrived here almost four years before, a rosy cheeked lass with no notion of what a harsh northern city entailed. Now look at her! She was a master’s wife by choice, and not only that, she was the most adored mistress of the city, the citizens accepting her as one of their own, her integrity of decency too compelling to disregard.

Furthermore, his Margaret was so full of gentleness and grace that it was a wonder she did not float above the ground like an angel. She was too good for him, he knew that, but she was his, and so John would let her be, so long as she was happy. He had promised to go with her tomorrow and hand out the gifts to his workers, and if truth be told, the appreciative slants of their mouths, tipping of their caps, and nods of their heads, would all be merit enough, but none of it would match the sparkle in her eyes, that look of sheer and selfless joy at being able to give to others in celebration of Christ’s birth. This, her delight, this would be John’s recompense for any money Margaret had spent on this bountiful endeavour. Good Lord, how he loved her! And how fine it would be if they were blessed with a baby girl who was just like her mother in every way.

I am quite convinced that the baby shall be a girl. Every time the little love moves, I discover more and more of who they are, this person in their own right whom I have never met. With every kick, with every wriggle, I get to know my child better, and I can just feel it, I can sense it, I am carrying a girl. I am so thrilled, Edith, the thought of meeting her is too wonderful to describe. I confess that I have worried at times that John will be disappointed if I am proven right and our firstborn is a girl after all. I know men prefer boys as a rule. Males are seen as better, as stronger, as more worthy, and besides, a father can have confidence that his name will live on a while longer, that they will be custodians of his legacy, a sentiment I can faintly understand. But I have faith that such fears are unjustified, as John is a man of such genuine fairness and fondness that he will not even notice what sex his babe is when it sees the light of day and greets him, so long that it is both happy and healthy. And what is more, he cares for me so very much, that the thought of a person woven of both our beings will be enough to win him over, and so I am certain that he will love our girl unconditionally, the abundance of adoration in his faithful heart a precious essence that is unshakable…

As he observed her raise the assortment of tickertapes into the air and compare each one in turn, her head cocking and her nose wrinkling as she scrutinised them most seriously, John let his eyes train to the spray of seasonal flowers that rested by her elbow in a Spanish vase. Margaret had struggled with being out at church today, her back and legs pinching and prickling, but she had not complained, not once, but sat in serene silence, listening attentively to the sermon, wondering what her father would have made of it. She had taken the carriage home with his mother, John opting to walk after lingering to talk with some fellow masters, the frigid air blowing away his cobwebs. On the way home, he had purchased her a posy of heather, winter berry, honeysuckle and rosemary, spurts of purple, white, green and red that spoke of Yuletide, the cluster complimenting the tyrian gown Margaret wore with its stitched ribbon of jade green encircling the circumference below her breasts, a present from Mary Higgins who had found work as a seamstress, all thanks to her friend, even if Margaret refused to take any credit due.

‘Will you not come to bed, love?’ he asked, yearning seeping from his loving lips. For a man who never sat about idly, John had grown accustomed to their occasional afternoons in bed, his arms now pining for her, bewildered as to why she did not lie snugly between them here and now. Sometimes she slept while he worked by her side, sometimes they both indulged in sleep, sometimes they talked, and sometimes, they made love, but only when she wished it.

Margaret sighed regretfully, her arms extending out to her east and west as she stretched. ‘I would like nothing better, dearest, but I must get on. There is so much to do, and so little time left, especially when I do not know when I shall be obliged to lie down for days or weeks at a time. I must move about, while I can, and keep busy, or else I shall go mad and feel unforgivably useless,’ she explained, and John understood her completely, lethargy being a trait he too could not abide, not that anybody could accuse his wife of such a fault.

Giving in to her wishes, John lay back against the pillows and allowed his eyes to flicker shut. He had been working hard himself lately, more so than ever, fastidiously trying to put preparations in place for when the baby came, all in the hopes of being able to take some well-earned time away from the mill to spend it with his family, his undisputed priority. John was particular and precise, he always had been, so it would not do to leave a single task unaccounted for if he wanted to dedicate his full attention to his home life and not worry about the mill for a period. Not only that, but he had been getting up earlier than usual, sometimes at three in the morning, the oppressive bleakness of winter enough to suffocate his soul and drain him of his energies and willingness. But he would not give in, not when he had loved ones to provide for and demonstrate his devotion to.

Just like with Sholto, I am unsure of which shade would suit the baby best, as it depends so entirely on their own complexion. Oh! How I hope my darling dove will take after her father. Can you just imagine it, Edith? To think of his hair as black as night and his eyes as blue as the deepest oceans also belonging to our baby, it is such a delightful picture that I hardly dare think of it in case it does not come true. Hannah jests that northern folk are made of stern stuff, Milton mettle, as she calls it, so their blood runs thick and true, giving me hope that our daughter will resemble her papa in appearance and nature alike. If only I could compare −

Stopping abruptly, Margaret twisted round and peered at her husband, who slept soundly on their bed, a rare spectacle indeed. She giggled at the sight of him, his long legs stretching out for miles, his shirt undone, his arm propping up his handsome head. She was glad he was resting, he deserved it, dear boy, he worked so hard, too hard, but oh how she admired him. Returning her gaze to the collection of tapers before her, Margaret chewed her lip thoughtfully as she reviewed each one last time. In the end, she bobbed her head in approval, and picked up just one, before slowly rising from her seat and creeping across the room.

When she reached the bed, Margaret leaned over her husband and held a ribbon of cobalt blue up to his features. With tender carefulness, she rested the material on his face, the silk streaming across him like a great river upon a country of tanned brown and pale white, lands that were shaded by the seasons of his life, one imprinted by the triumphs and trials of manhood. His cheeks were like extensive rugged planes, his nose a high mountain, his eyes a pair of lakes of unexplored vastness, his bristles forming a forest of black stems. He had tiny cuts on his neck, jaw and ears that had been inflicted by machines from over the years, accompanied by black patches of tiredness, and red blotches of dryness, all evidence of his times of toil and trouble, but even more so, of his bravery. Reaching out a single finger, Margaret traced a feathery line down his face, marvelling at all the intimate landmarks she saw, her heart fit to burst with veneration for every inch that made up John Thornton, her husband, her friend, the other half of herself.

As she did this, John’s eyes flashed open and closed as fast as can be, her husband drifting between wakefulness and slumber, unsure of where to settle. As his eyes opened for that briefest of moments, she caught sight of them, those mesmerising spheres of blue, and so Margaret grinned in private acknowledgement.

Yes, that would do, that would do splendidly.

Tip-toeing back to her chair, Margaret sat down and picked up her pen once more, pleased that she had settled on her choice and made up her mind on what ribbons Edith would use for the christening frock at long last. Humming quietly to herself, she was ready to finish her letter, and with any luck, it would be on the last train south tonight, meaning her cousin would likely be reading it with her breakfast the following morn. With confidence, Margaret nodded as her pen kissed the paper beneath her fingertips.

Yes, I have decided. The blue ribbon would be perf –

But she was unable to conclude her missive, a splodge of spilled ink the only mark that was left to punctuate the end of the incomplete sentence, for a split second later, Margaret had been whisked off her feet, stolen away to bed by a mischievous man who had only been pretending to sleep, a ribbon of blue still clutched in her hand.

The End

Chapter Text

PERFECTLY UNCONSCIOUS

(Before We Were Us)

Edith was growing increasingly concerned about her cousin.

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 sure that he 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.’

The End

Chapter Text

GOD REST YE MERRY GENTLEMEN

(The Thornton Tales)

Margaret stood by the window, watching, waiting.

She had been standing there for some time, her eyes flitting anxiously between the mill gate and the mantel clock.

Surely they should have been back by now.

She did not even realise that her foot was tapping, nor that she was biting her nails, a nervous habit that her mother had always reprimanded her for, promptly batting Margaret’s hand away and telling her to sit on her fingers if she could not refrain from nibbling. Still, the doting parent was never cross for long, soon smirking at her dear daughter and tutting tenderly at her stubborn ways.

God rest her soul.

It was bitterly cold outside, and Margaret took a deep breath before exhaling on the glass so that it fogged, the steam spreading like an opaque apparition. Then, taking her forearm, she rubbed at it, creating a clearer picture for Margaret to look out at and contemplate the wintry world that lay on the other side of the frame, trying desperately to occupy her restless mind as best she could while she lingered.

The snow was not falling so heavily now, which was a stroke of luck, she supposed. There had been a blizzard during the night, coating the earth in a thick, white sheet, much like a generous layer of icing atop a Christmas cake. The cobbles of the yard could no longer be seen, instead, they were buried beneath a blanket which sparkled with speckles of snowflakes, each one winking in the bright sunlight.

It reminded Margaret of what her mother had told her when she was a child. She said that when the snow glittered like that, they were not diamonds, as Margaret had hitherto suspected, no, they were the tears of the angels. Her mother would sit the infant on her knee and explain in her lyrical inflection that archangels had been flying high above, and the dews from their eyes had fallen from the heavens, scattering across the land as twinkling tears. Margaret had not liked this, for it made her sad to think of the cherubs weeping, but her mother had reassured her, promising that they were not tears of sadness, but tears of joy at the birth of the baby Jesus.

Margaret smiled fondly at the memory, one she had stored away securely in her heart for safekeeping. How she missed her parents at Christmas, but still, her heart did not grieve, because she had a new home now, a new family, one that she loved more than words could say, and one who loved her faithfully in return. Margaret trusted that her mother and father would be happy for her and that they would be looking down and blessing their child’s cherished life as a wife and mother in her own right.

As the sun peeked out at her shyly from behind a row of chimneys, each one billowing smoke as the households cooked their festive geese and roasted their chestnuts, Margaret’s attention was distracted by a blinking light behind her. She turned and gazed dreamily as a prism pranced around the room and fell on the Thornton’s Christmas tree. Margaret let her eyes scour it, for it really was such an enchanting sight. It was a huge thing, ridiculous really, because the man from whom they had bought it had grossly misunderstood the master’s dimensions, and that was putting it politely. It was outlandishly tall and broad, its pine needle fingers scratching the walls and ceiling with its outstretched branches of arms.

John had been livid, bless him, grumbling about how on earth they were supposed to get it inside, not to mention what a God-awful mess it would make when it wilted, its tattered remains shrivelling and shedding all over the floor. He had griped that they would need to break down the front door just to drag the monstrosity in from the cold, lest it turn to a solid block of green ice, obstructing the mill yard and causing chaos. Nevertheless, his irritation had soon appeased when he saw the gleeful look on his children’s excited faces at the sight of such a wonder. Their mouths had fallen open, their eyes had gone wide, and they had gasped in awe, and John, well, he had given in to them, as always, amused and shaking his head as he muttered something about them having him wrapped around their little fingers. Taking off his coat and rolling up his sleeves, it had taken the master along with six stout men to haul the titan of a tree into the house and erect it, each of them sweating and panting from the exertion.

But never mind, never mind, it had been worth it in the end, for it really was utterly magical. It was lusciously green, its branches elongated in a show of magnificent majesty. It had the lulling smell of a forest, reminding Margaret of her days as a girl, running through the woods in Helstone with Fred. Margaret often found herself standing beside it and slowly breathing in and out, allowing her lungs to fill with the calming scent of childhood. Hannah had done a marvellous job coordinating the festooning, the final result transforming the naked tree into something spectacular in both its loveliness and grandeur. The candles which rested cautiously on each bough were quite glorious, glowing beautifully like a beacon of hope and faith amidst the darkness of the midwinter nights.

Walking around it, Margaret gently flicked the baubles which bejewelled the jade robe of foliage swathing the brown twigs. All the colours were captivating, each ornament dangling splendidly on its assigned stem, the collective vibrancy a testimony to the triumph of the season. Fanny had advised that they should order only the finest garlands from the very best establishments, preferably from London, of course, but this was not to be the case, since the Thorntons had acquired their trimmings from here, there and everywhere over the years.

Margaret had privately disliked her sister-in-law’s ostentatious decorations, instead opting to make most of them herself with the children. Again, they had been gifted many crafted items by their employees over these first five years of their marriage, including sticks of holly, tiny carved angels, yards of ribbon, and even a painted wooden star of gold. Dear Fanny may have found such modest trinkets tawdry, but to Margaret, they were not just embellishments made for elegance, but a reminder of all the happiness the Thorntons shared, and all the blessings they had to thank God for. Yes, each ornament was not just an object, but a witness to their lives together as a family filled with contentment.

Bending her knees, Margaret crouched to examine the bottom of the tree and giggled, her maternal delight swelling in her breast. She chuckled as she studied the specific corner that had evidently been allocated for the children alone to spruce. Oh, dear! All the knick-knacks were clumped together, so much so that they weighed the poor tree down, causing it to sag under the bulk of their enthusiastic endeavours. They had fashioned their own baubles and bells, which they were clearly as proud as punch of, hanging them with such endearing care.

When John had first strolled in and spied their efforts, Margaret had seen the glimmer of a grimace behind his eyes. She knew that the meticulous master in him liked everything to be well-ordered, his nature being finely tuned towards scrupulousness and symmetry. Nevertheless, he soon beamed with fatherly pride and knelt to inspect their works of art, his soul overflowing with love for his little ones. He had sat them on his lap, and they had shown him their hard work, and John, ever the affectionate parent, had inspected each of their handcrafts in turn and marvelled at their skill. He had oohed and aahed at all of it, his children overjoyed by their papa’s applause and unconditional adoration.

There had even been a drawing the twins had done of Mary on a donkey, and it was their father’s favourite, for the saintly couple did not stop at an inn or stable as the Bible may have documented, but instead, came to rest at Marlborough Mills of all places, taking shelter in the shed where they kept the cotton bales. Even though John could not tell what end was supposed to be the animal’s ears and what end the tail, he had placed it in a desk drawer in his office to preserve, and, to this day, it remained there, being taken out every now and again and admired. Although, even now, he was still not convinced it was a donkey.

As the clock struck midday, Margaret was startled. Blinking, she swiftly glided towards the window once more, and standing on her tiptoes, she searched the yard for any sign of movement, her temple crinkled with worry.

‘Where are you?’ she whispered, sending forth a silent prayer.

Then, finally, her senses twitched as she saw somebody striding towards the mill gate. Ducking her head between the frosted panes to get a better look, Margaret spotted a man approaching. He was large, both in height and breadth, his shoulders squared against the wind that whipped up around him in the northern air. His back was cloaked in a thick woollen coat, his neck wrapped in a navy-blue scarf, one she would recognise anywhere because she herself had knitted it last year.

It was them. They were home. At last!

Margaret pulled her shawl tighter around her and swiftly scurried away along the passageway. She did not even stop to put on suitable shoes, but hastened in her slipper feet, her toes curling in complaint against the chill. Once she had flung open the front door, she stood on the balcony and watched as the man drew near, his pace fast, closing the gap between them in no time. He was tall, handsome, his dark hair flecked by the sleet that floated down idly from a salt-and-pepper sky. He trudged through the courtyard, his head low against the breeze, causing him to tug his coat more firmly around himself, instinctively cradling his chest.

As he ascended the steps towards the house, his gaze lifted, and his eyes narrowed as soon as he saw Margaret standing there. The man paused to let his scrutiny comb over her, and then he promptly frowned, displeased to catch her outdoors and insufficiently dressed for the harsh climate, the tips of her slippers peeping out, the edges of the delicate material soaked by the slush.

‘Oye!’ he chastised softly; his jaw tensing in that way it did whenever he was cross. However, if Margaret looked carefully, she could see the hint of a smile behind his façade of frustration. ‘What in God’s name are you doing out here, woman?’ he grumbled, his brow furrowed in faux exasperation. ‘You will freeze!’

Reaching the top of the steps, the man towered over her, his head reaching far higher than her own, causing Margaret to tilt her neck so that she could peer up at him. At first, he feigned a scolding scowl, a look of rebuke for her reckless behaviour. Nevertheless, it soon melted, and he smiled at her warmly, his eyes shining with tenderness. Leaning down, he kissed her on the forehead, and then he brushed his nose affectionately against her own, the tip of hers having turned red in the biting breeze, making it resemble a cherry.

‘What if your darling little nose had turned to ice?’ he asked, his hot breath tickling her neck. ‘I would be heartbroken.’

Margaret blushed, a healthy tint colouring her cheeks, his heart thumping against his ribs with a love he could hardly contain. He used his thumb to sweep away the droplets of frozen rain that had begun to thaw on her eyelashes, wondering what he had done to deserve such a divine being.

‘Then I should take your nose, Sir,’ Margaret joked. ‘For it is a rather fine one,’ she tallied, wrinkling her own as he kissed it lightly, his moist lips tingling her skin.

They stayed there for a moment, just a moment, and gazed at each other lovingly amidst the frosty afternoon, the pair framed like a picture by the dark doorway behind, their scenery a fairyland of fluttering snow.

At last, Margaret stepped aside and welcomed her husband home. ‘Come now, John, I need my Mr Thornton inside and out of the cold,’ she ordered, shepherding him into the mill house, her glance swooping to his coat.

Once they were indoors, Margaret raced back to the parlour, her head constantly turning to ensure that her husband was close behind. She could see that his hands were pale, and even though he tried to hide it, John shivered slightly as he held his coat securely around himself. Margaret wanted him to get warm by the roaring fire, the one she had been stoking relentlessly for the last half hour in anticipation of his return.

‘I was getting worried,’ she said at last, as she ushered John towards the hearth, the coal crackling away cheerfully in welcome. Margaret reached out distractedly to fondle the stockings which hung over the marble ledge, one for each of their four children. They were made of vivid velvet cloth, the names hand-stitched by their loving grandmother.

‘I was not that long,’ John insisted, chuckling at her bothering.

‘Yes, you were!’ Margaret countered. ‘I was convinced that something had happened to you, John. It is so very cold outside, and the pavements are icy. I thought you may have slipped or become stuck in a ditch,’ she fretted.

‘Hush,’ he soothed, reaching out to caress her cheek. In doing so, he fingered a slender tendril of hair and tucked it behind her ear. ‘All is well, my love,’ John promised. ‘Although, it is rewarding to know that I have a wife waiting for me at home who worries so sweetly for my welfare,’ he added. Then chortling, he affixed: ‘All the same, my dearest one, I doubt it was me you were so concerned about.’

Margaret smiled, her fingers gently plucking at the fringes of his coat and peering within, her eyes checking the cocoon of its cosy confines.

‘Were they pleased to see you?’ she inquired. ‘I know how much the children enjoy having you there. They think you are a great bear, one they take pleasure in poking and seeing if it will growl,’ she laughed.

John had been to see the Higgins family; a tradition Mr and Mrs Thornton gladly undertook every Christmas Eve. Each year, they would go to their humble home to break bread and revel in the spirit of the season. It was a tradition born of goodwill, and one they cherished sharing with their brethren, those they considered their kin. However, today, Margaret had lingered at home. She had not been well of late, and after the counsel of Doctor Donaldson and the concern of her attentive husband, they had persuaded her to remain in bed. She had not been keen to stay behind, but John had assured Margaret that their friends would understand and that they too would only wish for her to be safe and preserve her strength.

‘Aye, they were,’ he replied jovially. ‘Although, I do not think anybody was that interested in seeing me,’ he remarked, the dimples in his cheeks creasing as he smirked.

Margaret simpered. ‘No, I suppose not. You will have been second best, I am afraid. Poor you, Mr Thornton, at least I still love you, even if you are old, dull and grouchy,’ she teased, leaning in to envelop her arms around his waist, wary not to press too tightly.

‘Excuse me!’ John scoffed. ‘That is some fine way for a wife to welcome her man home! I demand a kiss as a way of apology!’ he stipulated, bending down to graze his lips across her own.

Margaret giggled as she felt his stubbled jaw scratch against her, a feeling she never tired of. She liked that John was never entirely clean-shaven, as it gave him a slight roguish appearance, and she felt a prickling pleasure every time he scuffed her with his sideburns, reminding her of a nuzzling tomcat.

‘Did they like the gifts?’ she queried, once again inspecting the inside of his coat.

‘They most certainly did,’ he beamed. ‘The children were incredibly grateful, the little mites. They were thrilled by all the food you sent; it was enough to feed an entire army. Higgins nearly refused it on account of his pride ─ you know how he always does, ─ but he also knew you would be inconsolable if he denied the children the chance to taste your baking. Now, that figgy pudding you prepared; I have to say that I was terribly jealous! I wouldn’t have minded staying to gorge on that myself. And they liked the mittens you crocheted, along with the hats and scarves,’ John described.

‘Well done, Meg, you are as thoughtful and generous as ever,’ he praised, stroking her hair which fell in a loose plait over her shoulder, the tapestry of shades illuminated by the thin shaft of light that shone on her.

‘Did Tom like his books?’

‘Aye! He is such a bright lad, Margaret, truly. He’s got a sharp a mind as any. He’s still liking school and absorbing everything he can learn. I thought he would like Plato. He’s perhaps a bit young yet, but it’s never too early to start. Besides, I thought your father would have approved,’ he said warmly.

‘Yes,’ she nodded wistfully, thinking how much it would touch her father to see his favourite pupil-turned-teacher. ‘He really would.’

She knew how fond John was of little Tom, although, he was not so little now, as he was near enough as tall as Margaret. John had become like an uncle to the lad and assisted in every way he could with his education. He even took the boy to his office on Sunday afternoons, and the two of them would sit side-by-side, methodically balancing the books and seeing to any other business the budding scholar could help with. Margaret knew that John appreciated Tom’s unobtrusive company, as he did not have many friends, for he was not the naturally sociable type. That is, John was less temperamental than before, but he did not instinctively take to people. John did not have the tolerant disposition or the affable aptitude that some possessed, allowing them to get along easily with others. He found people to be irksome, their droll small talk driving him to distraction. No, John had always insisted that Margaret was the only person other than his mother whom he liked, and so, he thanked God that she had eventually decided to like him in return.

Yes, John and Margaret were fond of Nicholas and his wonderfully unconventional family. They were an odd bunch, and that suited John and Margaret perfectly because they were odd too. John and Nicholas would sit for hours and talk, never once agreeing on anything from politics to philosophy, always bickering amiably, but she knew that when and where it mattered most, they understood each other, for both their hearts beat with honour, and such men always find affinity in a kindred spirit. It was a harmony, one that transcended their different lots in life and transformed man and master into something more meaningful even than friends, for it reformed them into equals.

Sighing, Margaret gazed up at her husband. ‘Now then, John Thornton, it is Christmas Eve, and you have still not told me what you would like. I have no idea what to purchase or make for you. You do not seem to want anything. No books, no attire, no food, no writing materials, no ornaments, nothing! It is quite maddening, my love. So, do tell me, what do you desire? What do you wish your wife to gift you this Christmas?’

At this, John smiled at her, a gentle, tender smile that strummed the strings of her very soul. ‘Margaret, my darling girl,’ he breathed raspingly. ‘You do not need to get me a present, not when you have already given me the most precious gift of all this Christmas.’

‘And what is that?’ she asked, her eyes sparkling in the firelight.

John grinned at her, and then, with affectionate care, he unfolded his coat. There, cuddled close to his heart, was a slumbering babe, no more than two weeks old. The little lamb was fast asleep, his lungs rising and falling, his small fingers curled around the cotton of his father’s shirt. Every now and again, he would yawn and stretch, but he would soon settle down, nestling nearer to the warm body that sheltered him, and there he returned to the land of nod, where, no doubt, he was having the most pleasant of dreams.

‘Oh, John,’ Margaret breathed. ‘He is perfect!’

‘That he is,’ John agreed. ‘He’s breath-taking. Ten tiny fingers. Ten tiny toes. Hair as black as mine. Eyes as mesmerising as yours. When he looks at me with his curious gaze, I feel overwhelmed by my love for him, and I cannot quite believe that he is mine, that he is ours. I cannot believe that our blood runs through his veins, John Thornton and Margaret Hale. He is half of me and half of you. Yes, my love, perfect is the perfect word, since I cannot think of anything more perfect than that.’

Stroking her baby’s rosy cheeks, Margaret rested her head against her husband’s shoulder, her eyes starting to droop with the weight of weariness. ‘I really was worried about you both,’ she confessed. ‘It is so terribly cold outside.’

‘Oh, come now, love,’ John appeased. ‘It may be cold, but he is made of sturdy northern stock, he doesn’t mind it, do you, my boy?’ he cooed, the babe’s head lolling in unwitting agreement while he slept.

‘Besides, the fresh air will have done him some good. Higgins and the Bouchers wanted to see him so much that I could hardly refuse,’ he maintained, his thumb outlining the baby’s petite fingers which wrapped around his father’s giant ones, making John’s heart soar.

‘He is as snug as a bug in a rug, Meg,’ John vowed. ‘I guarantee you that he is cosier than Christ was himself in that manger of his. There is no need to fret, sweetheart, our son is safe. Do you really think I would have it any other way?’

Margaret stared at the tiny infant who was clasped close to his father’s chest, and she smiled. There was something humbling about seeing such a big, solid man holding such a fragile bundle in his burly arms. Yes, there was something so tender about John, and she knew that he would never let anything happen to their little ones, no matter what.

‘No,’ Margaret assented at last. ‘No, darling, I know he was in the best place possible, his father’s arms,’ she said kindly. ‘For I know from experience that there is nowhere I would rather be.’

Both John and Margaret stood in silence as they studied him, their hearts overflowing with love for the latest addition to the family. His name was Nicholas, Nicholas Thornton, named after the very man the young master had visited this day. He had been born eleven days ago, and his birth had not been an easy one. He had come early, not to mention inconveniently, because as it turned out, Margaret had been at the Higgins’ home at the time, helping Mary prepare for her wedding, which was to be on St Stephen’s Day. Margaret had been measuring Mary for her dress, and then, suddenly, she had stopped. She had felt a jolt in her stomach, and what was even more unsettling, she had sensed a warm liquid trickling down her legs, and so, being no novice to the routine of childbirth, Margaret had realised that her waters had come away. The labour had been too fast and too excruciating for Margaret to travel home, so, she had been obliged to give birth there. They had managed to get her to a bed, and just a short while later, a baby boy, her fourth child, had been welcomed into the world.

Nicholas Higgins had been astoundingly calm and efficient, listening to his daughter’s instructions and aiding them in whatever way he could with hot water and clean linen. By the time the doctor had arrived, he was too late, because it was all over. Then, when John had come bursting through the door like a man possessed, he had been greeted with the sight and sound of his son, whose shrill cries could be heard all the way down the street. John had been stunned and fallen to his knees beside the bed, mumbling apologies for not being there sooner, peppering both his wife and newborn with gentle kisses.

When he found out that Nicholas had been both competent and comforting throughout the whole ordeal, John had taken his hand and firmly shook it, not letting go for some time. When the couple finally left the Princeton house and walked down the narrow alleyways towards their carriage, the lanes had been lined with people waving and cheering, all sneaking a peek at the new arrival. It was like a procession, a guard of honour, each of them flapping their caps and swishing their aprons, a real spirit of community and celebration in the air. They patted Margaret’s arm and slapped John on the back, each offering their hearty congratulations to Milton’s most highly respected master and his lovely wife for the birth of their wean. Needless to say, the baby’s head was wet many times that night, the townsfolk making merry, raising  a glass to:

‘Mr, Mrs, and Mr Thornton. May God Bless ‘em!’

Nevertheless, as joyful as the birth of Nicholas was for his parents, it had been far from straightforward. It had been painful and arduous, for the babe had been in an awkward position, and it had been a struggle for his mother to push. Consequently, even though Margaret had survived reasonably unscathed, in the days that followed, even she had to admit that she did not feel at all well. The mother had aches and pains in her tummy and below. It hurt to move, and Margaret found herself wincing every time she rose or sat, causing her to feel terribly tired and dizzy. This had alarmed John, for he was anxious on her behalf at the best of times, but to hear Margaret actually acknowledge that she was ill was a sure sign that something was very wrong indeed. Therefore, he had immediately summoned the doctor, who advised a strict period of bed rest for the poorly mother.

Margaret had conceded for a day or two, unable to abide John’s fussing, but she had soon become bored, so had ventured out of bed to roam about the house like some sort of stray cat, constantly popping her head around corners to see that the coast was clear. However, she had been hasty in her confidence and felt lightheaded, but before she had made it back to her chamber, Margaret had fainted, collapsing on the floor in a heap.

Hannah had found her lying at the top of the stairs, prompting her to call John back from the mill in haste. The moment he heard the news, John had abandoned his business meeting and rushed home at once. On seeing his Margaret lying there, much like she had on that vile day when she had been struck by a stone, John felt sick. But there was no time to delay, so he lifted his unconscious wife into his arms, carried her to bed, and stayed by her side morning, noon and night.

Thankfully, Margaret had recovered promptly from her swoon, but still, John was accepting no excuses, his authoritarian disposition coming into play. He insisted that she was to stay there until he gave her permission to get up, and no whiff of disobedience would be tolerated. He refused to let her lift a finger, so much so that Margaret was not even allowed to sit up by herself. He had also delegated as much work as possible to his employees, all so that he himself could be at home with his wife to watch over her. When Margaret had tried to argue, John had raised his eyebrows and asserted that he never dictated to her, never, but just this once, she was to listen, and he would lock the two of them in the room and throw away the key if necessary.

Dear John! Margaret had loved him for his protectiveness, so she had given in to the master’s mandates, despite thinking his mollycoddling was beyond ludicrous. And so, she had submissively spent the past nine days in bed, her husband nursing her, her mother-in-law keeping her sane, and her children cheering her. Through the efforts of this trinity, her health was soon restored, and now, the discomfort was beginning to pass, and for the first time in what seemed like forever, Margaret had risen from the confines of her bed, dressed, and braved going downstairs.

‘That reminds me,’ John suddenly mumbled, rousing Margaret from her drowsy daze. ‘Where are the rest of our brood?’ he asked, his head turning as his eyes scanned the room. ‘It is suspiciously quiet,’ he noted warily. ‘Don’t tell me, the boys have done something and are hiding from me?’ he sighed wearily. ‘God! – I love them, but they are a handful and make no mistake. What is it this time? Have they broken something valuable? Have they drawn on something important? Oh, I know, they’ve fed the goose to the vagrant dog that wanders Marlborough Street, is that it?’ he predicted.

Margaret laughed. ‘Oh, John! You are quite wrong, my love, and since you will never guess, I shall have to tell you. They are all…,’ she began, leaning in to whisper a secret, ‘asleep,’ she finished with a reticent hiss.

John’s eyes broadened, and then he sharpened them in disbelief. ‘Asleep? All at once? Our lot? Never!’

‘It is true,’ she assented, more than a little proud of herself.

‘How? A hex? A sedative? A bribe?’ he joked.

‘Wrong again, Mr Thornton! I assure you that no enchantment, nor medicine, nor inducement was required. No, it is simply that all our imps have tired themselves out with the excitement of Christmas, and so have taken to their beds for a nap, even the twins.’

‘Lordie!’ John snorted. ‘It’s a Christmas miracle!’ Then, noticing his wife slouch against his arm for support, John added: ‘Well, darling, do you not think we should follow their lead, hmm? You are exhausted, Margaret, you should not be up, it is against the rules, you know,’ he reminded her. ‘Do not think I have not noticed. Come now, let us go lie down. You, me, and our baby.’

Margaret was ready to protest, disputing that she had far too much to attend to, but as she yawned widely, she found herself nodding her head, and before she knew it, John had managed to cautiously lift both her and the baby into his arms, allowing him to carry them upstairs.

When they reached the bedroom, John placed Nicholas on his side of the bed before delicately laying Margaret down, arranging her head on the pillows, and covering her in blankets, being sure to tuck her in. He then proceeded to kick off his shoes, shrug off his jacket, and slip in beside her. Lastly, John picked up his son and held the sleeping child against his chest. There they reposed together, father, mother, son.

As Margaret shuffled about blearily, she instinctively shambled closer to John and relaxed her head on his shoulder, stretching out her fingers to touch her two boys, making certain that they were still there, by her side. Nicholas would need a feed soon, but she supposed that she could allow herself just a moment of…of…sleep.

John smiled as he watched her doze off. There was nowhere he would rather be, nothing he would rather be doing.

‘God rest ye merry gentlemen,’ he whispered contentedly, reciting the opening line of his favourite carol.

‘Hmm?’ Margaret muttered groggily.

‘Nothing, love,’ he replied, kissing her hair. ‘Nothing, sleep, my angel.’

A few minutes later, as John reclined on his bed, he was roused by a faint scuffling coming from along the corridor. At first, he thought it sounded like mice scurrying because the noise was oddly muffled. He had not fully closed the door, and as he turned to look, he could see three pairs of eyes watching him. They did not move, but their owners were all hunched and huddled together, their snooping gazes surveying the scene.

John grinned.

Aye, they were never far away.

‘You know, I can see you,’ he said quietly, as he tipped his head back against the cushions.

The eyes blinked, and he heard the twittering of chatter.

‘And I can hear you.’

They giggled.

‘You can come in,’ he invited, beckoning them with a crooked finger, knowing full well that this was what they were waiting in hope for him to say.

With that, the door opened, and all at once, three small children ambled on in, dashing towards him, the pitter-patter of their bare feet drumming on the floor. Their faces were lit up like the Christmas tree, and they started to leap and bounce on the bed in delight.

‘Hey-hey-hey!’ John scolded softly, lifting a finger to his lips. ‘Mama and the baby are sleeping! You need to be quiet!’

‘Yes, Pa,’ Richard granted.

‘Sorry, Da,’ Daniel added.

‘We’ll be good, Father,’ Maria swore.

John smiled as his three other children began to trundle around in the big bed and arrange themselves snugly. Maria curled up beside her mother, placing herself at Margaret’s back and draping an arm over her, their same-coloured chestnut hair flowing on the pillows and blending as one. The twins, Richard and Daniel, wriggled to settle themselves around their father. One seemed to cling to his belly and legs, while the other seemed to clamber over his head and wrap his hands around John’s face. They all gave their parents a gentle kiss, and the baby an even more tender one.

Yawning, the tangle of Thorntons drifted off to sleep one by one. As John thought about his past, he remembered all the cheerless Christmases he had experienced before Margaret. The day used to be lonely, empty, pointless, just another day. But now, it was warm, it was hopeful, it was magical. But it was not because of the presents, or the tree, or the dinner, or even the birth of the Lord Jesus Christ. No, it was because of something much more precious: family.

It was all down to the jumble of Thorntons that lay strewn around him, each one a treasure worth more than any gold, frankincense or myrrh. Jesus may have come to Earth in the flesh of man in order to bring salvation, but for John, Margaret was his salvation, and his family with her was his Heaven.

Yes, as John smiled contentedly this Christmas Eve, he knew that he had found his miracle, for that is what they were to him: Margaret, Maria, Richard, Daniel, Nicholas, and any other children they may have, they were each his everything.  

They were his comfort and his joy.

‘Yes,’ he murmured, closing his eyes. ‘God rest this merry gentleman.’

The End

Chapter Text

ASSUMPTIONS

(A Marriage of Inconvenience)

One crisp autumn evening, John Thornton, ill at ease in the lavish surroundings of Mrs Shaw's grand London residence, wandered through its unfamiliar passageways. Edith Lennox had graciously offered to guide him, but he declined, preferring solitude; though she seemed pleasant enough, her incessant chatter reminded him too much of his sister. Now, however, he found himself regretting that decision—perhaps he should have accepted her offer or, at the very least, requested a map.

The house seemed to breathe wealth and privilege with every heavy velvet curtain, every gilded portrait, and the spotless polished floor that he encountered. His own home, though thought vast and imposing in Milton, now seemed like a quaint cottage in comparison—utterly unremarkable in its simplicity. Here, amid this needless luxury, he felt like an outsider, an uninvited guest trespassing in a world of sophisticated frivolity that was not meant for the likes of him.

As John wandered through the house, a faint echo of conversation filtered through from distant drawing rooms, where the likes of the Shaws floated effortlessly in and out of one another’s lives. It was a world governed by stiff rules, where appearances were everything, and where his blunt honesty had always seemed crude in contrast to their cultivated grace. He could not help but feel the weight of his own awkwardness here, his northern sensibilities clashing with the southern ease of luxury. And though he was no stranger to success, to managing his factory and its hundreds of workers, here he was as out of place as a hawk among peacocks.

His broad hands, so used to the work of a mill-owner, felt clumsy if they so much as skimmed the delicate, embroidered wallpaper, and his straightforward, pragmatic nature jarred with the languid airs of this ornamental society. Though impeccably dressed, with not a trace of factory grit or machine oil on him, he moved with deliberate caution, wary that his rough presence might somehow sully the pristine elegance of this refined home.

At any rate, he had other things on his mind.

He was looking for someone.

He was looking for his wife.

He would introduce you, but you’ve met her before.

Margaret Hale.

Or that is, she was Margaret Thornton now, technically speaking, according to their marriage certificate, a strangely unassuming-looking sheet of paper that held so much weight.

Nine months had passed since his marriage to Margaret—months that felt more like an uneasy truce than the partnership he had once hoped for. Their union, while outwardly civil, was a faint sketch of the bond he had dreamt of when he had first loved her. But that love, which had once burned so brightly, had since dimmed under the weight of reality. It was not a marriage of passion, nor even companionship, but a contract sealed by necessity. Mrs Hale’s failing health had been what had brought them together. But not in the way one might think and not in the way he would have wished. Margaret had not run into his arms for comfort as he had hoped but had ignored his silent, stoic presence in the house during those final days, and while he felt desperate to hold her, to console her, she barely noticed him.

No, he had said, it was Mrs Hale’s doing. In her fevered final days, her thoughts had been consumed with Margaret’s future, her happiness, and her welfare. What would become of her daughter? Her father was not wealthy, and there was little in the way of a dowry to attract a suitor or a legacy to secure her comfort. As time wore on, Mrs Hale grew increasingly distressed, and despite all Margaret’s efforts, she could not soothe her mother’s anxiety. In the end, Margaret had lied. Out of mercy, she fabricated an engagement—a promise of security to ease her mother’s dying heart.

And the man she chose?

John Thornton.

Why him? Thornton had wondered.

Who could say?

He did not linger on it. It was what it was. Perhaps it was simply because he had been there, a steady presence. And maybe, despite Margaret’s best efforts to remain detached, she had noticed him. Maybe, despite Margaret’s best efforts, she had needed him.

However, beneath his serious façade, he had needed little persuading.

John had been drawn into this fiction with all the force of inevitability. There had been no dramatic declarations of love, no tender moments exchanged beneath the stars. Instead, there had been a quiet, dignified ceremony, followed by the swift, silent departure of Margaret’s mother from this world. And with that, they were bound. Bound not by desire, but by duty. It was a bitter pill to swallow, for John had longed for more than this. He had dreamt of a love that would soften the edges of his roughened soul, that would bring light into the darker corners of his life. But Margaret, in her quiet, reserved way, had remained distant, like a ship just beyond the horizon—visible but always out of reach.

And so, though he loved her more deeply than ever, he convinced himself—foolishly, perhaps—that his feelings had faded. It was a self-deception born of pride, a desperate attempt to avoid the humiliation of being a husband hopelessly in love with a wife who did not, and perhaps never would, return his affection. After all, he had previously resigned himself to a life without Margaret, so he supposed he ought to consider this a happy halfway house. They were married. They were just not in love.

So now, as he guided himself through the corridors of the house, his footsteps barely making a sound on the thick carpets, John found himself seeking her out once again. He had grown used to searching for her, as though she were something elusive, something that could be glimpsed but never truly grasped. At last, he came upon a small, secluded room, tucked away from the lively hubbub of the main house. He quietly moved closer and peered inside.

Ah, the nursery, he soon realised, as his eyes adjusted to the firefly glow of firelight.

Yes, and there she was.

Margaret sat there, cradling Edith’s newborn daughter in her arms. The child was impossibly small, her face serene and peaceful as she nestled into Margaret’s gentle embrace. For a moment, John stood in the doorway, reluctant to disturb the quiet intimacy of the scene. There was a stillness here, a kind of fragile peace that felt rare in their lives, and it stirred something deep within him. He had never seen Margaret so relaxed. The rigid lines of her posture, always so carefully maintained when he was around, had softened in the presence of the infant. She was no longer the reserved woman he had married out of obligation, but something else, something warmer.

He lingered, watching the way the firelight flickered across her face as if fairies danced and shimmered on her flawless features. It was as though the flame had breathed life into her, colouring her cheeks with a softness he had not seen in months. He wondered, not for the first time, what thoughts lay concealed behind those eyes, which often regarded him with a curious intensity as if he were some strange creature in a zoo. What emotions did she hide behind the composed, distant smokescreen she used to disguise her inherent sweetness?

However, he soon broke free from his revere. It was not right to stand here and watch her like this. He was intruding. She would not like it. Just as he began to step back, willing to leave her in this moment of tranquillity, Margaret’s voice ended the silence.

‘You needn’t stand there, John,’ she said softly, her eyes never leaving the child in her arms. ‘I know you are there. I always know when you are there.’

There was no reproach in her tone, but neither was there warmth. It was simply a statement of fact, an acknowledgement of his presence, as though she had reasonably presumed that he would come looking for her.

He stepped into the room, feeling once again like an outsider intruding upon something he could not fully understand. He had grown accustomed to this feeling—this sense that there was a gulf between them, a chasm that no amount of time or effort could bridge.

With a soft kiss upon the baby’s brow that made him feel hideously jealous, Margaret whispered, her words heavy with sorrow, ‘We are never going to have a baby... are we?’ The question, so quiet and yet so full of despair, stole all the air from the room, as final and irrevocable as a death sentence.

John did not answer straight away. Instead, he stood motionless, watching her with a growing sense of unease. This was not the Margaret he had come to know—the one who had so often met him with fire in her eyes, her proud defiance a stubborn barrier between them. Nor was she the secluded, aloof figure she had become in recent months, withholding her fondness as though guarding it from someone unworthy. Tonight, she was unrecognisable—a shadow of the woman she had once been, stripped of all her armour, left vulnerable and raw before him. The grandeur of her spirit, which had always seemed to tower over him, was nowhere to be found. Instead, she sat there, quiet and diminished, like a figure in mourning, her sorrow as physical as the heat from the fire. Tonight she was just a woman, who wanted so much more than life had seen fit to give her.

‘And that makes you sad,’ he said finally, his voice deliberate and measured, as if testing the weight of each word. He hovered between a question and a statement, though deep down, he already knew the answer. Her pain was etched in every line of her face, in the slight tremor of her hands as she held the baby close, a longing that nearly broke her. Still, he needed to hear it from her own lips. He needed her to give voice to the discontent he had long sensed but never fully understood.

Margaret’s head jerked up at his words, though she did not turn to face him. Instead, her gaze caught his in the reflection of the mirror opposite. There, in the dim light that flickered fiercely, their eyes met—his filled with uncertainty, hers brimming with unshed tears. The sight of her reflection, so fragile and yet so ferociously honest, tore at him in a way he had not expected. It was as if she could not bear to confront him directly, to lay bare her soul to the man who had become more an inhabitant of her home than a tenant of her heart. The mirror served as a shield, a place where truths could be half-revealed, where one might confess without fully exposing the heart. Much like their marriage itself, he thought bitterly—an arrangement that had always been more shadow than substance.

‘It breaks my heart!’ she uttered, the words escaping her in a rush of emotion, her voice thick with unspeakable grief. Tears, no longer held at bay, spilt over and traced silent paths down her cheeks. ‘I never knew how much I wanted to be a mother... until I realised I never would be.’ Her voice cracked, and she lowered her gaze, as though the admission had cost her something irreparable.

The force of her words punched him in the gut with an impact he had not anticipated. He had married her, tied her to a life that offered her no joy, no passion, no promise of the future she had once imagined for herself. And why? Out of duty, or so he had told himself. A sense of honour, of commitment to her mother’s dying wish. But had that been the whole truth? Even now, he could not fully deny that part of him had wanted her—wanted her in ways that were both selfish and possessive. He had loved her once, or at least he had thought he had. But in claiming her as his wife, had he not robbed from her the chance for something better? Something more real?

Before he could gather the words to apologise or offer her the consolation she so desperately needed, clumsy as it would have no doubt been, Margaret spoke again, her voice scarcely audible, as though she feared to voice the thought aloud. ‘Would it really be so terrible... if we... if we had one?’

Her question knocked him for six, and if John had not been standing with the aid of such a steadying stance, he may well have fallen over altogether. His mind raced to comprehend the rudimentary and underlying meanings of her question.

She was not merely asking for a child. She was asking for something greater—a chance at hope, at a future that might yet be redeemed from the bleakness of their current existence. It was not a simple plea for a baby, but for the possibility of transforming their marriage from one of convenience to something resembling a true partnership, a bond forged through a common devotion and responsibility, even if it were not marked for one another.

John straightened, his mind battling with itself, his heart conflicted. Her words stirred something deep within him, a glint of desire for the very thing she sought—a life, a family, a home filled with more than just silent resignation. But he also felt a cold thread of fear winding its way through his thoughts. A child would mean more than just the practicalities of care and provision.

‘I have no objection to us bringing a child into our home,’ he said at last, his voice gauged and unhurried, as if each word were a promise as solemnly etched in stone as The Ten Commandments themselves. But even as he spoke, he could feel the hesitation within himself, the doubts that gnawed at the edge of his resolve. A child was not a solution to their problems, nor a balm for the wounds they had inflicted upon each other. It was a responsibility, a fragile hope that could just as easily shatter under the burden of their unresolved tensions. They could not do that to a child.

And yet, as he looked at her—at the woman who, despite all their differences and disappointments, still held a firm place in his heart—he knew that he could not deny her this. He would give her everything and anything her dear heart yearned for. Perhaps, in giving her the chance to be a mother, they might both find a way to heal the rift between them. Perhaps the act of creating new life would breathe life into their own marriage, transforming it into something genuine, something lasting.

‘Then why do I sense a reluctance?’ Margaret persisted, her voice tight with frustration, a tension that was suspended in the air between them like a tautly drawn thread about to snap. The intensity of her gaze pierced through him, leaving him feeling exposed, as though she had peeled away the layers of his composure to reveal the vulnerable man beneath.

John felt himself waver, his carefully constructed reserve beginning to crack under the influence of her questioning. She was right, of course. There was something deeper, something darker that bedevilled at the flanks of his thoughts, disturbing him in ways he had barely allowed himself to confront.

At last, he came out with it.

‘But is it my baby you want?’ he asked, his voice low, the question slipping from his lips like a confession long buried. There it was—his insecurity, laid bare at her feet. Did she truly long for a child with him, or was it merely the abstract notion of motherhood she coveted? A dream that had nothing to do with him.

To his astonishment, Margaret did not falter, not for a second.

‘Naturally,’ she replied, the word spoken with such ease, as if his very question were absurd. ‘You are my husband. Whom else would I have a child with?’ Her tone was direct, almost scolding in its ingenuousness, as though the notion of any other possibility was inconceivable.

John had braced himself for doubt, perhaps even a hint of revulsion, convinced that the inevitable intimacy that such an event would require might repulse her. And yet here she was, meeting his self-loathing with a forthrightness that both rattled and emboldened him. Could it truly be that he had misunderstood her once more? That the distance he had always felt between them was a creation of his own fears, his own suppositions?

‘I…,’ he began lamely, lost for words. ‘I just assumed that you would not be interested in such a thing. Not with me.’

Margaret’s scoff jolted him from his reverie, a sharp sound filled with restrained anger.

‘That is a rather bold assumption on your part,’ she said, her voice consciously hushed so as not to disturb the sleeping infant in her arms, yet laden with a quiet fury. ‘Maybe you should have consulted me before presuming to know my feelings on the matter.’

Her words, though spoken softly, struck him like the crack of a whip, each syllable stinging with a truth he had too long ignored. It reminded him—painfully—of the countless times he had presumed to know her mind, as if her thoughts and wishes were as plain as the printed ledger of his mill. He had assumed that she had shielded him during the riot out of some deep, hidden affection for him; assumed that her rejection of his first, self-conscious proposal had been born of disdain; assumed, too, that the man at the station had been her lover, filling his heart with needless envy. He had been proved wrong time and time again. Assumptions, each and every one of them, had done nothing but drive a wedge between them, sowing seeds of misunderstanding and pain.

Perhaps, he mused grimly, it was time he learned to listen, to hear her—not merely the words she spoke, but the deeper meanings behind them, the emotions she held in silence. Margaret was a woman who spoke many languages, and he could understand her better than anyone else, he knew he could, if only he would learn to listen a little more carefully.

‘You are right,’ he said, his voice tempering, laden with the emphasis of humility that now hit him. ‘I am sorry.’ The words felt unfamiliar on his tongue, but they were true. ‘I only thought... that you might be averse to what it would involve... to what it would mean.’

Margaret frowned, confusion knitting her brow. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, the question almost a challenge as she shifted in her chair, still cradling the baby in her arms, its tiny form swaddled in blankets, oblivious to the crucial conversation that was going on around her.

John delayed, his throat tightening as he sought the correct words. ‘For a start, Margaret,’ he began, his voice cracking with the strain of nervous embarrassment, ‘we would... we would have to share a bed, as man and wife,’ he said, his tone discreet, as if it were a secret.

Margaret exhaled a soft sigh, as though relieved by the simplicity of his concern. ‘Oh! Is that all?’ she responded, her pitch light, almost nonchalant. ‘Yes, I know.’

He blinked, caught off guard by her unruffled acceptance. Perhaps she had not fully understood. ‘And... it may need to happen more than once,’ he added awkwardly, almost apologetically, as though the suggestion itself carried a burden of guilt.

Margaret nodded, her expression sober, her seriousness almost disarming as her rosy lip curled into an unworldly smile that quite disarmed him. ‘I cannot pretend to know much about the duties of marriage, nor the facts of how children are conceived, but I understand it involves... certain things.’

John felt the heat rise in his cheeks, an uncomfortable flush creeping up his neck. ‘And what, may I ask, do you believe those things to be?’ he inquired, his voice strained with gentlemanly discomfort.

Margaret met his gaze squarely, her frankness surprising him yet again. ‘I know that I must be... unclothed before you,’ she said, her tone steady despite the slight blush that caressed her cheeks. ‘That I must lie down, and you must... come over me. That a part of you must... join with a part of me.’

John made a strangled sound, entirely unprepared for the bluntness of her words. He found himself momentarily speechless, his breath catching in his throat. Yet before he could summon a response, Margaret continued, her next words laden with a fearless resolve.

‘And that it may hurt,’ she said, her voice quieter now, more tentative. ‘But I should endure it bravely, for that is what is expected, is it not?’ She paused, her gaze faltering. ‘I understand that I must please you if I am to have a child, though I do not know how... especially given that I seem to displease you in every other way,’ she said with an allusion of hurt. ‘But I am willing to try.’

Her confession was too much for John to bear. The bleak vulnerability in her words slashed through him like a blade, yet he felt like the brute that was wielding the knife that had cut the cord between them. With swift, purposeful steps, he crossed the room, his movements light but urgent, his heart aching at the thought that she believed herself a disappointment to him.

‘Margaret,’ he said fervently, his deep voice shaking uncontrollably, ‘you do not displease me. You never have. You bewilder me, yes, but you do not displease me.’ He stopped, his brow furrowed with the muddle of his own complex feelings. ‘But I thought... I thought the very idea of being with me, in such a way, would have revolted you.’

Margaret turned her gaze to him, her eyes clear and brimming with surprise. ‘It does not,’ she said plainly, her retort firm in its sincerity. Then, after a moment's pause, she added, ‘Why? Does the idea of being with me revolt you?’ Her eyelashes flickered and she appeared dolefully self-conscious.

Her question hit him with startling force. ‘No!’ he exclaimed, his answer escaping him too quickly, too forcefully. He steadied himself, modifying his manner to not appear quite mad before her. Her question was the most ludicrous thing he had ever heard. ‘Not at all,’ he repeated, more gently now. ‘But... it is not just that.’

Margaret's breath, tinged with nervousness, barely rose above an angel’s sigh as she dared to glance sideways at John. The room, bathed in the soft light of the fading night, seemed to hold its breath, as if aware of the gravity of the discussion unfolding within its walls. John, sensing the importance of the moment, sat down beside her, the creaking of the chair the only sound in the stillness. His thoughts, like a tempest of doubt and decorum, swirled within him as he struggled with the words he knew he must say. There was no gentle way to broach the subject, no remedy to soften the sting, so sting her, he must.

‘Margaret,’ he began, ‘if we were to consummate our marriage, then it could not be annulled.’

The effect of his words was immediate. Margaret's head twitched, her eyes wide with shock, and in that instant, the baby in her arms, sensing its aunt’s distress, began to cry. The sound pierced the silence, a plaintive wail that tugged at John's heart, yet it was not the child’s cry that troubled him most—it was the sight of Margaret cradling the infant, soothing it with an overwhelmingly lovely tenderness.

As the child’s blubs subsided into soft, contented murmurs, Margaret turned her gaze back to John. The initial shock had given way to a glare that spoke of both anger and sorrow. The depth of her sadness was like a gloom behind her eyes, and for a moment, John felt as if he were gazing into an abyss of his own making.

‘Oh,’ was all she managed to say at first, her attempt at poise strangely piteous. ‘I did not… I did not know you were contemplating such a thing.’

John felt a surge of regret at her words, her evident distress stoking an intense guilt within him. ‘I am,’ he admitted frankly, ‘for your sake.’ He paused, gathering his thoughts, trying to express the convoluted reasoning that had led him to this point. ‘I assumed—’

But before he could finish, Margaret rose abruptly, holding the child close as she began to pace the room. The distance she put between them was not merely physical; it was as though she were creating a barrier, a defence against the hurt his admission had inflicted.

‘There you go again!’ she accused, her voice rising in that heated way he usually adored, but tonight, it made him terribly sad. ‘Always assuming! John, I remember when you once told me that you had presumed to know me, but you were mistaken. Did that experience not teach you anything? Would it not be better to refrain from presumption, to ask instead? If you bothered to ask what I thought, how I felt, then you might find more accuracy in your conclusions. You might even surprise yourself.’ Her words were sharp, laced with the irony of using his own logic against him. ‘Assumptions are surely a form of speculation, and I thought you despised speculation, sir.’

He could only nod, feeling the bite of her rebuke. ‘I do,’ he conceded. Damn her, but she was right—right in a way that left him feeling exposed and humbled.

‘Then do not do it,’ she urged, her attempt at authority faltering as her voice wavered. ‘Next time, do not assume, but ask. I know I have lied to you before,’ she acknowledged, a tad shamefully, ‘but I vow never to do so again. I am an open book to you, John, as open as the books that lie on your desk.’

A deep sigh escaped him, the heft of his own folly pressing down upon him. ‘I am sorry,’ he said, the words tasting of sincerity and remorse. ‘I only thought that if you wished to leave, to return to your friends and family, I could allow you to do so with as little distress or embarrassment as possible. That would only be possible if we had not... been intimate.’ He adverted his gaze. ‘Otherwise, we would need to divorce, and that is a much more public affair, much more painful… for both of us.’

Margaret halted her pacing, turning to face him with an expression that he could not quite fathom. For a while, she said nothing, merely studying him carefully in that perceptive way of hers.

At last, she spoke. ‘Do you want to know what I think?’

‘Always,’ he replied, the single word carrying with it the full import of his earnestness.

‘You need to decide what you want, John Thornton,’ she said, her voice uncompromising but not unkind. ‘You asked me to marry you once before, if you will recall, so you must ask yourself why. If you do not wish to tell me, I will understand. But this cannot go on. We cannot continue as we are.’

Her words were not a demand, but a call to clarity, and he felt their weight pressing down on him as he stood there, caught between the past and the future. For all his careful planning, for all the ways he had tried to protect her—and himself—he had avoided the simplest, most essential truth: What did they want? It was not about him. Or her. But them.

‘I agree,’ he granted. ‘And may I add that you too must think this through, Margaret Thornton?’ he countered with a slight smile that she found deliriously handsome.

She nodded, maintaining her seriousness and refraining from smiling herself. She liked it when he jested, not that such frivolity was often, but she was not about to let on that she enjoyed his impish side.

‘Then you must decide whether you want me or not,’ she continued, her tone growing gentler, though no less certain.

‘You make it sound so simple,’ he snorted, speaking more to himself than to her, his voice touched with the weariness of a man who had wrestled too long with his own heart.

‘It is simple,’ she responded, her eyes meeting his with a sovereignty that took him by surprise. ‘Either you choose to annul our marriage, and if so, we can part amicably. I will go to London or Spain, and it will be as if none of this ever happened. And as for you, you will continue as you were before, as if I had never come into your life.’

He scoffed. As if such a thing were possible!

She paused, allowing the gravity of her words to settle between them before she resumed. ‘Or,’ she said, with a quiet force that made his heart quicken, ‘we can try. We can try and be happy. We can try to be a married couple and see where it takes us. I assume it will not be easy; I assume it will be confusing and sometimes exceedingly awkward and uncertain for us both as we learn how to share a life. But we are determined people, and when we want to do something, we are intractable. So I think that if we want this, if we want each other, then we can work at it until we are truly happy.’ Her voice softened, the steel giving way to an aching vulnerability. ‘But I will leave the decision up to you.’

The room seemed to grow still as her words echoed in his mind, each one carving out a space in his heart that throbbed with the realisation of what was at stake.

‘And what do you want?’ he asked, his voice hoarse with the effort it took to utter the question. ‘It is hardly fair that I alone should be left to make this decision. It is hardly fair that I alone should share the secret sentiments of my heart and confess what I truly want, leaving myself exposed to scorn, or worse, pity. You talk of a partnership. Well, surely such a thing requires the involvement of both parties.’

Her eyes glimmered, sharp as shards of glass catching the last light of day, as she looked at him. The sternness that so often hardened her gaze softened, dissolving into something warmer, more inviting, like the first breath of spring after a long winter. The tension between them crackled in the air, taut as a drawn bow, ready with its quiver.

‘I want to be married to you,’ she confessed, her voice trembling on the edge of a whisper, yet the gravity of her words rippled between them like the rumble of distant thunder that was too strong to suppress.

His heart thundered in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears, as though the room itself pulsed with his longing. ‘Do you?’ he asked, the words thick in his throat, almost choking him. ‘Do you really?’

‘Yes,’ she assured him, her tone unwavering, though her eyes shimmered with a depth of vulnerability that made him ache. ‘But not like this. I want to be your wife, if you will let me. I want us to be husband and wife, to have everything that entails. To have a marriage, a real marriage, with all its ups and downs. You say you think I ought to go to London or Spain to be with my family, but you are my family, John. Your name is mine. And if you let me—if you give it to me—your heart can be mine too, and I promise to take care of it, always.’

His chest tightened, each breath a laboured effort. He was overwhelmed by the promise of everything that he had longed for since he had first met this incredible woman.

She felt it too. Across from him, she stood frozen, her pulse racing beneath her skin, her chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. The air between them was thick, suffused with tension so tangible it seemed to cling to her like a second skin. The space that separated them—just a few feet—suddenly felt like an abyss, vast and unbridgeable, filled with all the moments they had skirted the truth, all the emotions they had kept at bay.

The desire between them was no longer implicit; it was a force, raw and undeniable, pulling at her, daring her to step forward, to break the unspoken pact that had kept them apart. It buzzed in the air, electric, vibrating with the tension of everything that had been withheld for so long.

The silence that stretched between them was charged, alive, trembling with the weight of what had yet to be said. It was no longer just silence—it was a presence, a fragile moment teetering on the edge of change. They stood on the precipice of something profound, something that could either bind them together or shatter the fragile balance they had maintained. And now, the chasm that had slowly, imperceptibly grown between them was suffocating, begging to be crossed before they were lost to it forever.

‘I want those things too,’ he confessed, the truth of it flooding through him like cool water on a wound long neglected. It soothed, yet stirred something deeper, a yearning that had never quite gone away, buried beneath layers of duty and fear.

‘And what is it you really want?’ she pressed, her gaze unwavering, cutting through him as though she could see into the deepest corners of his soul, laying bare all that he had hidden from himself.

He swallowed, the tide of emotion he had dammed up for so long surging forward, unstoppable. ‘The one thing I have only ever truly wanted,’ he said, his voice rough, frayed at the edges from years of holding back. ‘You.’

The silence that followed was thick, charged with a current that made the very air hum. For a single, suspended moment, the world seemed to hold its breath around them. Then, without a word, she slipped away, and John stood in the empty space she left behind, stunned. It felt as though the room itself had expanded, a vast emptiness opening up where she had just been, leaving him untethered.

Moments later, she returned, the babe now laid to rest in its cradle, her arms free and open to him in mute entreaty. Her steps were slow and deliberate, each one closing the distance that had separated them—physically, emotionally—for far too long.

In that instant, the weight of uncertainty, the fear that had kept them apart, dissolved like smoke in the wind. What remained was the transparency of a truth they had always known but had never fully spoken. They had always belonged to one another, and now, finally, they stood on the precipice of that truth, ready to leap into the unknown together.

‘Well then…’ she whispered, her voice trembling, not just with the weight of what lay ahead, but with the fragile hope that had begun to bloom between them, delicate yet unstoppable. It was a sound suspended between fear and longing, her breath catching in her throat as she spoke.

John reached out, his hand finding hers with a quiet, steady assurance. His grip was firm, yet tender, as though he were holding something both fragile and precious—something that could shatter if held too tightly. ‘Well then,’ he echoed softly but soberly as if sealing a pact between them. In that simple repetition, there was a world of meaning, a vow as powerful as any words they had ever spoken.

Margaret moved first, her steps shy. She did not know where this night would lead them, whether their union would be sealed in the physical sense, whether they would finally share a bed as husband and wife. It no longer mattered to her. The unknown did not frighten her, for the only certainty she needed was in his touch, in the way their hands remained clasped, fingers intertwined as though they were tethered to one another. Whatever the night would bring, they would face it together.

As they walked, hand in hand, their movements were almost instinctive, as though they had always known how to walk this path—this uncertain, untrodden future that now stretched out before them. It was not gilded with the golden promise of fairytales but rather paved with the rough-hewn stones of reality: effort, sacrifice, and hard, honest love. They both knew this was not the stuff of romantic fantasy, but something far deeper—something that would demand everything of them and give back only what they were willing to put in.

And yet, there was beauty in that hard truth. The journey ahead, though uncertain and strewn with trials, would be theirs alone to navigate. Side by side, they would walk it, through the inevitable storms and the unexpected joys, through moments of heartache and moments of quiet triumph. Together, they would build their life, brick by brick, with the kind of love that was forged in hardship and strengthened by time.

The future, once shaded in doubt, now felt solid beneath their feet. It no longer loomed like a dark unknown but unfurled before them like a map—one that might twist and turn but would always lead them forward. And perhaps, in time, there would be other hands to hold—little Thorntons, born from the testimonies they had made this night. One day. But for now, all that mattered was that they would walk this path together, whatever came their way.

As they moved quietly along the corridor, Margaret slipped her arm through John’s, drawing herself closer until her head rested against his solid frame.

‘Will you promise me one thing?’ she suddenly asked.

‘Anything,’ he replied, without a moment’s hesitation.

Margaret lifted her gaze to him, her eyes shimmering like stars caught in the moonlight. Rising onto her toes, she pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, her lips barely grazing his skin, yet the intimacy of it sent a hot shiver throughout him. ‘Just never presume to know me again,’ she beseeched, her breath impossibly soft against his weathered face. ‘Ask—don’t assume.’

He let out an abrupt laugh, short and bright, almost startled by the simplicity and truth of her request. There was a lightness in that sound, a carefree joy he had not felt in years. Leaning down, he returned her kiss, his lips brushing her cheek with the same delicate reverence.

'I would not dare,' he murmured. 'After all,' he concluded, kissing her hand with a featherlight sweep that made her skin burn wonderfully, 'assumptions are the mother of all misunderstandings.'

Chapter Text

A WAY TO REMEMBER THEM BY

(The Thornton Tales)

One dark and stormy night in God knows where a man sat down on a stark wooden bench.

The act in itself would seem trivial to most, but for the cursed few, (or perhaps many, too many), who lived as he did, (if one can call it living), it was as heavenly as sinking into a bed of silken sheets and fluffy pillows after a day of punishing toil, and as hallowed as sex with a Goddess.

God! It was good to sit down.

He had been outside for what felt like days, the tenacious rain battering him like pellets, the drops of water that fell from the sky somehow hardened by the atmosphere of demonic brutality that surrounded it, what with the relentless and ruthless cloud of smog that choked the air like a diseased phantom that lived for the pleasure of killing, suffocating everything within a hundred miles of this hell.

It was a fetid mist, that is how one poet, a fine fellow, now as dead as one of Dickens’ doornails, had described it. It was the brew of something rotten, in which every sense was sucked into the fog of misery and went to die. It consisted of the odour of gas, sickly, yellow and mustard-like, mixed with the reek of bully beef, that rancid mass of pink meat that looked more like something a dog had devoured and then vomited back up, the texture too raw and repulsive for even the most starving animal to stoop so low as to willingly digest.

Then one could not forget the most pleasant aroma of all, the stench of decomposing corpses, bodies that lay strewn about the landscape like furniture that was out of place, their legs spread in one direction, their arms in another, and that was only for the lucky sods who had their limbs intact, not dispersed over the fields in scattered pieces of fragmented bone and flesh. They stayed there, of course, lying about as if it were normal for them to be there as if they were part of the decor. There was nowhere to bury them, the graves were full and overflowing. Ha! He said resting place, but that was too dignified a term. This was more of a hole in the ground, a hovel that had not yet been dug up as a trench, blasted to the core by cannon fire, or crushed as flat as a pancake by rolling tanks. And even with all that, how was one supposed to get them to their final resting place with an onslaught of assault showering overhead?

The man laughed to himself and it stuck in his throat like a tickle. He did not have a way with words, but assault was the perfect word, right on target, a bullseye. Rubbing his hand along his neck, he sighed. God! The guff of the whole thing was really getting to him. But it was true. It was an assault, because this, all of this hell on earth, it assaulted a man in every way, murdering everything that made him mortal.

And that was just the smell.

There were sights, and sounds, and tastes, and touches too, each one enough to chill you to the core and remain with you forever as a taunting trauma.

His least favourite were the screams. The sound of men dying in the night, their howls like that of a wounded animal as they clawed onto life with each laboured breath that brought them closer to their last. He almost wished that he could take a revolver and point it to the wretches’ heads, put them out of their misery with a twitch of his trigger finger, and usher them into their eternal rest. It was the decent thing to do, but he was too cowardly to see it through. Instead, he would stand and stagger through the mud, ignoring the way the sludge crept into his boots through the holes like an assailant and soaked his feet, tarring them with a filthy sludge that had been purified by sick, piss, and less savoury ingredients.

He would stumble through the darkness towards them with unshakable resolve, their sobs his only sense of direction. Thinking again on his analogy, it was not so much that their death cries were like that of a wounded animal. Well, they were, with all their whimpering like a kicked dog and wailing like a newborn babe, but it was worse than that. It was a sound that stabbed at the very soul. It was as if somebody had taken a jagged knife, and not cut, but sawed at your soul as you listened with no choice to that excruciating uproar, and from that secret and sacred place inside you that no doctor could ever find, the essence of who you are would slowly leak out from the wound of grief and disappear from you as it oozed and evaporated, leaving you less. Not less of a man, just less of yourself. The cynical part of him often thought that if somebody clever enough could bottle that symphony of pain, then it would be the best and most brutal tortuous weapon the world had ever known, but thankfully, such an ingenious fellow had not yet come along.

With outstretched hands, he would claw at the sides of the high ditch, his nails scraping the earth, and at last, he would find them. Once he reached their side, all the compassion he possessed in his DNA would compel him to stay with them, doing whatever he could to bring them comfort, the Hale blood in him unable to walk away and leave them to suffer as an abandoned soul to face their wasteful and untimely end alone. He would pray with them, laugh with them, drink with them, swear with them, commiserate with them, but be with them, he would, and then death would show up announced but uninvited, and the cloaked reaper would take them away to dwell with him, but whether as his friend or his foe, he had yet to find out.

After that, he was left with nobody but the rats to talk to, their squeaks loud as they scurried past him or over him in hoards. He could not let them bite him, or else he would be a fevered wreck lying catatonic in a hospital bed before long, and they did not need his pound of flesh, not when they were massive bastards already, the only creatures on this earth who seemed to grow genuinely fat and happy on the spoils of war.

The man sighed.

You must forgive his depressive state, but it had been a long day. A long week, even. Or month, to be fair. In fact, let’s call it a long year, a long, heedless, hateful, hideous year, that he wished he could rip from the pages of history, but alas, life was not a book, and unless one is the victor in a conflict like this, one cannot edit or control the narrative of the past, let alone the present, or the future. All he could do was struggle to survive, and hope, that one day, maybe not tomorrow, or the day after, but one day, he could go home. Then again, whether most of him would be allowed to return too, God only knew.

He had been on duty for fourteen hours, and now it was finally his time for rest, a well-earned right to lay down his head before the alarms sounded, and then it would be a case of taking up his rifle and defending his king and country, all for the sake of a measly few inches of land, and that is if they were lucky.

Leaning his head against the wooden wall of the hut, he closed his eyes and put his hand inside his breast pocket. There, his fingers curled around a package, a personal and private bundle that had kept him lucid all these months. Dragging it out, he caressed a parcel that was wrapped carefully in a collection of handkerchiefs to stop it from coming to harm and retaining its blissful ignorance and innocence, each stained patch of cloth bearing the monograms of his four sisters who had cried into them when he had last left the shores of England.

He smiled to himself, and his fingers pulled at the string, revealing a bundle of papers beneath. Blinking, he knew he should sleep. Sleep was sane, sleep was the whetstone that helped to keep a man safe when he needed to keep his wits sharp, but all he wanted to do was read, because in these pages he found solace, in these pages he found home. Sniffing, but whether it be from sorrow, or from the sore that scabbed his nose, he did not know, but either way, the man decided that he would, indeed, read. So he did.

‘What you got there, Master?’ came a voice from the shadows a few moments later, and his head snapped around and his eyes narrowed in threat since he was constantly on alert for danger. ‘I mean mister, no master, no, I mean, I mean ─’

Lifting his lamp, he could see that it was a lad, a scrawny one with pustulated skin and oily hair as red as a carrot. He was sitting hunched and huddled in the corner, his own eyes wide and wild with fright, like a rabbit caught in a motorcar’s headlights. He could tell he was just a boy, a pup, a runt, and what was more, he was afraid. Perceiving the way the stranger shivered, the man took his blanket and handed it to the lad, who took it gratefully and wrapped it around his shoulders to appease his shivering.

‘I’m nobody’s master here, boy,’ he said gruffly, his thick, northern inflection difficult to miss. He would have readily picked him up by the scruff of his neck and thrown the boy out of his hut because it was his sanctuary and nobody else’s, make no mistake, but he could not bring himself to banish the poor bugger out into the cold night that might well devour him with her icy kiss, sucking the breath of life right out of him.

Eyeing him sagely, he saw that his unsolicited guest was young, abhorrently young. He took in his relatively clean uniform, ample stores of body fat, and how his hands were not yet cut or bruised to the point of disfigurement. Nodding, he guessed that the boy was a novice to the game of war.

‘Who are you?’ the man asked by way of introduction. He would rather have said nothing and relished the delicious silence, but as his mother had always reminded him, it is rude to ignore people, and after all, manners maketh man.

With chattering teeth, the boy answered: ‘Gaskell. Pr ─ pr ─ Private Gaskell.’

‘I see,’ the older man replied, returning to his seat, this information being all he really needed, because in truth, he did not care who his infantile-looking intruder was, he was just being polite. He had done his bit, he had been gentlemanly, so he need say no more. However, as he would soon discover, the boy had other ideas.

‘I ─ I know who you are!’ the boy piped up, a strange sort of overwrought animation to his voice as it squeaked like a machine in need of oil.

The man creased his brow irritably. ‘Do you now?’

‘Aye, I do! You’re Lieutenant-Colonel Thornton!’ the lad proclaimed excitedly, as if he were addressing the king himself.

The man scowled.

Now that we have learned their names, then perhaps we should dispense with simply calling them the man and the boy, even if the terms remain fitting, because while the former was, in every sense of the word, a man, the latter could equally be the dictionary definition of a boy.

‘How did you know that?’ Thornton asked, never keen to have his confidentiality invaded in any sort of way. It was one thing for others to raid and annex his country, or so they would try, but it was another thing entirely for them to march upon and occupy his privacy.

‘Why, you’re famous!’ Gaskell laughed incredulously, as if the man did not know. ‘Folks all over talk about you, about your bravery. I hear you’ve won a hundred medals. You must be so courageous, sir, and so clever!’ he applauded breathlessly. ‘That’s why I came looking for you when I knew I was in your battalion. I knew I’d be safe with you,’ he explained, and Thornton’s heart could not help but swell with a bashful sense of pride.

Shaking his head, Thornton smirked, the corners of his mouth jerking upwards. ‘Not a hundred,’ he corrected. ‘Ninety-nine, maybe,’ he joked.

Young Gaskell laughed again, and Thornton discerned the way he looked about him, his eyes awash with dread as he took in the dark and dingy proportions of the slum that they were to call a house.

‘I take it you are new here?’ he checked.

A swift bob of the head confirmed it. ‘Aye, sir. I only arrived yesterday. It…it is not like they say at home, is it?’ he mentioned with a sniff as he uttered his glum assessment.

‘Not so glamorous. you mean?’ Thornton agreed sarcastically, vividly remembering his own shock and horror when he had first arrived. He had not been a guileless idealistic who had romanticised about a noble war, let alone a dignified one, but even he had been shaken to his core to see the carnage that lay around him, and worse, to realise that there was no real plan to get them out of this mess, no glimmer of hope, only despair.

‘Aye, it is a sorry place, this hellhole that we have founded in the name of glory, and I would not wish it upon anyone, not even my own worst enemy,’ Thornton granted forlornly. ‘But we will soon find you comrades, my lad. There are men from my own battalion. You can meet Major Higgins and Captain Boucher, and I have recently had someone transferred to me by request of his father who is about your age, Lance Corporal Lennox, you will like him.’

‘By the way, I think I know you, lad,’ he added after a minute of studying the boy’s familiar-looking face with his well-shaped nose and chocolate eyes that made him oddly hungry. ‘Your name, Gaskell, I know it, I’ve heard it ‘afore. Your great-grandmother, was she not the writer?’

‘Yes, sir, she was,’ Gaskell established enthusiastically, proud as punch of the fact and wishing he had not left his personally signed copy of North and South on the train from Calais. ‘Though not as many people read her books as they should.’

‘I knew her, I remember her well. She was friends with my grandmother,’ he told the boy matter-of-factly, and the whelp gaped in awe at this coincidental news.

‘So…what you readin’?’ the youngster nagged, getting back to his original question. He jutted out his head in the direction of the stack of what appeared to be papers that formed a book that had not yet been bound.

Returning his eyes to the sheets of paper, Thornton smiled to himself. ‘They are stories. Written by my grandmother.’

‘Why the ‘eck do you have them? And here, of all places?’ Gaskell pondered aloud with palpable puzzlement, wondering why the soldier was not reading the things others seemed to, such as letters from their mothers or sweethearts, newspaper clippings from months ago that they had only just managed to lay their hands on, or even slyly devouring books or cards depicting scantily clad totties.

Thornton took a deep breath and breathed noisily through his nostrils as he thought. ‘Because it is something to remember them by, my family, that is,’ he said plainly.

‘Are you married, sir?’ Gaskell presumed to enquire. Looking the man up and down, something that took a while given his immense height, he guessed that his superior must be at least thirty, if not a year or two shy of either side, so it would not be a stretch to assume he had a wife and weans back in England. Furthermore, he was handsome. Nodding, Gaskell judged that the decorated Major-General was an ideal specimen for manhood with his dark hair and tanned skin, his whole physique and profile being impressively angular, boasting arms and a chest that were toughened by sheer muscle, so it would not be surprising if all the girls swooned over him.

‘No, no, I am not,’ came a fast reply. ‘I have not yet found my Margaret.’

The boy scrunched up his face in confusion. ‘Your Margaret?’

Thornton grinned. ‘Aye, it is just a saying we men in the family have, ‘tis all, so never you mind.’

‘Where do you come from, then?’ his companion wanted to know. ‘I am from Manchester.’

‘And I from not far afield. I hail from Milton, just a little further north.’

Gaskell blinked and then gasped. ‘No!’ he cried. ‘You aren’t…you aren’t one of those Thorntons, are you? The ones who own Marlborough Mills? The cotton factory that supplies the British army with all the cloth for their clothes, sacks and sleeping bags?’

The man grinned proudly. ‘The very same.’

‘Boy-oh-boy!’ sounded a strident whistle that echoed like the screech of a thousand trapped birds. ‘There is no denying you are famous! But what brings you here, to the front? Shouldn’t you be safe at home making cotton?’ Grumbling, he knew where he would rather be.

‘No, I have brothers enough for that, and my aunts and uncles,’ Thornton explained. ‘I, on the other hand, have always been a keen shot and rider, so it made sense for me to be sent here, for my sins,’ he muttered bitterly, thinking about how he wished he could be back home in Milton, at the mill, his favourite place in all the world.

Sensing his distress, Gaskell thought once more about the paper held firmly in the Major-General’s hands. ‘Is that why you have the stories?’ he speculated.

‘Yes,’ was all his superior planned to say, but for some reason, he found that he could not stop. ‘I miss them, you see, my family, so this makes me feel closer to them.’

‘Will you tell me about them?’ Gaskell solicited, and Thornton was surprised by this strange request that probably came from nothing more than a desire to pass the time and take the lad’s mind off things, and while part of him wished to bark back a refusal, telling him to mind his own business, he felt a desperate need to speak what was on his heart.

‘My grandmother, she wrote these,’ he said, holding up the heap of unspoiled papers. ‘She decided to write an account of her life, of all our lives, all jotted down as tales that we could go back to. Not just us, but our children, and our children’s children, and their children. The idea was prompted by your own great-grandmother, actually, who advocated the joys and liberations that writing could bring a woman. But my grandmother did not seek fame or fortune, all she wanted was a way for us to know who she was. It was a chance for us to forever be able to hear her voice and understand how much she cared for us all, how proud she was of each and every one of us, and how much she loved the life that she had chosen with the man she married, the man she gave her hand and heart to, as she used to say. She was very brave, my grandmother, and I draw on her strength myself to this day.’

‘Brave, how so?’

Thornton sighed pensively. ‘She experienced a lot in her young life, I suppose. She was obliged to leave her home and go live somewhere that she must have hated, to begin with, at least. It was so different. She always said how there were no flowers, and that made her sad at first,’ he reminisced, thinking about how every time he saw a flower now in this barren land, he wished it well for her sake.

‘I remember how she said that shaking a man’s hand had been scandalous to her initially, what with being southern born and bred, and how when a certain mill master offered his to her for the first time, she flinched in fright at his audacity. We wouldn’t think twice about such things now, but they did then. Still, many years later, she was known to shake any man’s hand freely, and with as much warmth as the next person, a true Milton woman and master’s wife, they’d call her,’ he chuckled.

‘And there she met my grandfather. He was like nobody she had ever known, all hard and harsh on the outside, but gentle and shy on the inside. Ha, she used to call him her boiled egg,’ Thornton joked fondly, thinking back to the days when he had joined them at the breakfast table. ‘And even although he had no money or house to his name, no prospects, she wanted him, just him, nobody and nothing else would do as far as she was concerned. She was an heiress, you see, with choices, and she could have had just about any man who took her fancy. Her London family warned her against him, but she was as stubborn as they came, and so she married him and proudly took on his name and shared in his life, never once regretting her choice.’

Beaming at the retelling of this romance, Gaskell decided that he liked the sound of this person who seemed more like a lioness than a lady with the way she fought for what she wanted and defended what she loved. ‘What was she like, as your grandmother, I mean?’

‘She was a good woman, the best that ever lived. While I miss her sorely, I am glad she did not live to see this,’ he lamented, his eyes watering as he gazed at the wretched world that lay outside the door. While others believed that it was cowardly for a man to cry, he did not think so. He thought that it was honest, that it was pure, and that it cleansed the soul of everything evil and corrupting if left unbled. ‘It would have broken her heart to know of the heartache that I have witnessed, so I am glad that she is with us no more, no matter how much I wish I could see her, just once more.’

Gaskell nodded. ‘Did you see a lot of her? I never see my grandparents, they live in India,’ he said regretfully.

‘Yes, I did, thankfully. The Thorntons were a close family, they still are, so my father saw his parents often. I used to spend time with her when I was a child. She used to sit at her desk and write her stories, a posy of fresh yellow roses always in a vase with a note that read: ‘I found them in the hedgerow, you have to look hard,’’ he recalled nostalgically.

‘I would totter through and clamber onto her knee and play with my trains. I remember that she would gently take my two carriages and have them pass one another, but then they would stop for a rest, and two people would get out from each train, a man and a woman, and kiss, and then they would go back onto one train, and that would pull away, heading north. I never understood why she did that. I would protest and complain that the lady had to get back on her own train, but my grandmother would merely smile and say no-no, she had to go with the man. I would ask why, but all she would ever tell me, with a peck to my cheek, was: ‘Or else there would be no you.’’

‘And your grandfather, what of him? What was his name?’ an enthralled Gaskell wanted to know.

Thornton felt the strings of his heart tug in memory of that dear man. ‘John,’ was his sentimental reply, an affectionate gleam in his cobalt eye. ‘His name was John. John Thornton. Just like me. Or rather, I am just like him,’ he explained, his hand rising to scratch his long beak of a nose. ‘And she was Margaret, his Margaret, he her faithful John.’

‘When I was born, I was long with my lanky body and legs, and I had a mop of hair as black as coal and as thick as the snow that lay outside and coated the cobbles of the mill yard. My father, Frederick, laughed out loud when I came out, and declared that I was just like his old man, and so I was named John for his sake.’

‘And what was he like?’ Gaskell pestered further still, eating an apple that was surprisingly fresh.

Thornton’s face, muddied and tired as it was, radiated with the glow of fond memories. ‘He was the other half of my grandmother’s soul,’ he answered simply. ‘They were so different and yet so similar. She was friendly, serene, and full of grace, constantly insisting upon seeing the best in people, whereas, he was reserved, prone to being out of temper, and perpetually finding fault with others. He would work himself up into a fractious rage, but she would soon pacify him in an instant. All she had to do was place a hand on his shoulder, and without saying a word, my grandfather would be like a storm calm. He would forever say that she was his saving grace, his angel sent to rescue him, and without her, he would be lost and alone. She was his hope and his happiness, you see, his salvation.’

Gaskell swallowed a slice of his apple, welcoming the taste and texture of the moistened fruit as it slid down his throat. ‘Was he fearsome?’

Chuckling, Thornton shook his head in steadfast dissent. ‘No. He would like to think he was, the old bulldog, but he was more bark than bite. I used to think he was like a big bear, but in truth, he was just like the teddy bear my niece takes to her bed at night, all rough on the outside, but soft on the inside, there to bring us all comfort when we were sad or scared. While he could be cross, and while he was imposing and impressive as a man and a master, he was the very best grandfather a boy could hope for. He was kind. He was patient. He was intelligent. And he never once raised his voice or hand to me. Whenever I was crying, he would come, as if from nowhere, and bundle me up in his arms. There was nowhere safer in all the world than his arms, so it was never a surprise to me that my grandmother was usually to be found sheltered there in his tender embrace, the two of them standing close and swaying in a slow dance, almost like giddy newly-weds who had just discovered their passionate love, even when they were old.’

‘I remember that grandfather used to read every evening,’ he said, his eyes flitting to the inside of his kit bag to spy something hidden away there, a family book that had been bequeathed to him by his namesake, and one he could not bear to part with. Letting his fingers slip inside and stroke the cover dotingly, Thornton continued: ‘Plato was his favourite, an old volume that was well-worn, his most prized possession, and my grandmother would sit by his side, and the two of them would read it together, always holding hands, whispering secretively like children about Northampton, riots, misunderstandings, and dresses of icy blue and green. We would ask them what they were talking of, but they just smirked, winked at each other, and then shared a kiss or two.’

By now, Gaskell had given up all care about his apple and his fears as he listened to Thornton with bated breath. ‘When did they die?’ he ventured, unsure of whether this was a question too far, but fortunately, the narrator did not seem to mind.

‘They died at the same time, on the same day, just as we always knew they would. It was ten years ago today, in fact,’ he mused, amazed that he had forgotten until now. ‘They went to bed one night, and we found them the next morning, holding each other close as if they were young lovers, their arms wrapped around each other, her head on his chest, his fingers in her hair and around her waist, great big smiles on their peaceful faces. They departed this life as they would have wanted, together, and it could not have been any other way.’

Gaskell could feel tears welling in the corner of his eye. ‘How?’

Thornton frowned. Was it not obvious? ‘Because, as I said, they were two halves of the same person. John Thornton had been made and moulded so that he might be the husband of Margaret Hale, and Margaret Hale had been crafted and created so that she might be the wife of John Thornton. They did everything together, shared everything, and endured everything as a devoted couple. Their souls were twins. Their minds connected. Their hearts beat in time as one. They were the same being, in essence, as if God had used the same ball of wool to knit them in their mother’s wombs. We always knew that one could not exist without the other, so when one went, the other gladly went too.’

By now, the tears were well and truly rolling down the boy’s face. ‘It sounds like they were very happy.’

‘They were, they truly were,’ Thornton settled, his own blue eyes wet with the memory of unadulterated contentment. His grandparents had always said that they were each other’s whole lives, that their children were their world entire, and their grandchildren were their pride and joy, and John, this John, had felt that every day that they had lived, the two of them loyally showing him how loved he was through their gentle and generous thoughts and deeds.

Gaskell understood, he understood completely. ‘And that is why you read the stories? It is something to remember them by.’

‘And so I can go home again,’ Thornton replied honestly, praying that he one day would.

Just then, there was a loud noise outside, and the sky lit up with the colours of bursting flares that dissolved across the inky-blue backdrop of the night. There were loud cries that punctuated the previously eerie silence of stalemate, the roars of machines a furious call to arms, announcing that the enemy was awake, alive and ready to attack.

Thornton stared at the scene for a few seconds as his mind absorbed what this meant and what may come. ‘Yes,’ said he, clutching his grandmother’s stories, her Thornton Tales, close to his heart, her timeless love seeping from the pages and into his soul, ‘because even if I can never go home again, at least I can go home.’

The End

Chapter Text

THE RIGHT PLACE

(Parodies and Other Such Poppycock)

‘So, you are to be married soon.’

This was how it all started. Seven seemingly harmless words that very nearly saw to it that John Thornton and Margaret Hale were never married.

It was an odd line for her father to have delivered, for it was neither a question nor a statement, but a tentative irresolution that lingered hesitantly on the threshold between both camps, a dithering foot in each, its tottering bottom potted on the fence in the middle. However, when it came to his daughter, she did not notice the minor chords that menaced his tune, for the one she hummed in her heart was abidingly melodious.

‘Yes,’ Margaret confirmed wistfully, the short response drawing her lips back as that word is known to do and affecting her to show a row of brilliant teeth that greeted the subject with a warm smile.

She never tired of talking of it, you see.

That would explain why a merry blush was once again flushing her cheeks as she thought on how happy she was, for it was an hourly, minutely, secondly (not a word, but you understand the sentiments), delight of hers these days, a pleasant pastime, to bask in the blissful joy that she held dear. The past two years had been marred by misfortune, so as far as Margaret was concerned, she was well and truly ready for her happy ending. Only, it was not an ending at all, but a beginning, a bright, beautiful beginning for a bride and her groom.

Immersed in the safe knowledge of this blessedness that was almost too perfect to contemplate, Margaret lifted a rose to her nose and inhaled its scent, the aroma of its sweet perfume leaving her quite giddy. Placing it with the others, she continued to assemble a posy to take to her fiancé to cheer up his mill office. It made her smirk to predict how he would regard them at first with sharp eyes and a terse mouth that mutely revealed his annoyance at such an intrusion upon his tidy and practical workplace. Nevertheless, when he saw the look of enchantment on hers, he would soon give way, and before he knew it, he would be turning to glance at them often with a satisfied grin, privately thinking on how they reminded him of her. He had promised her that their home would always play host to flowers and she knew he would be faithful to his word. Milton as a manufacturing city was not remotely green, and so, given that he still stubbornly believed that she had in reality been destined to marry a true country gamelan, but then fate had seen fit to bring her to him, he would do his darndest to ensure that she never had cause to miss her friend Flora because she had chosen instead to marry him.

After she had spoken, there was an expectant pause, during which her father thought, his eyebrows, which were flecked with thin white and blonde hairs, the latter now sparse in their numbers, were knitted together as he deliberated in a state of unease, the severity of their rumple a sign of the gloomy thoughts that agitated the mind contained within those fraying layers of skin and cogs.

‘And you shall go and live with him? With Mr Thornton?’ he asked after this period of private reflection, a cautious edge to his inquiry, and if Margaret listened intently, which she was always conscious to do, she could detect an ineffectually concealed layer of apprehension, perhaps even reluctance, lurking beneath the surface of what had, with great effort, she thought, been presented as a seemingly off-the-cuff tête-à-tête.

‘Why, yes, Papa, of course,’ she re-joined with a curious laugh, which was in itself mingled with a niggling disquiet as she took in his troubled demeanour, the girl pondering the strangeness of his reservation on this point, this quibble that ought not to be a qualm at all.

‘John is to be my husband, my place will be with him,’ she reminded her father simply, at a wonder as to why this fact should ever have been brought into question.

On hearing this, Mr Hale sniffed with an air of finality, and as if her words has ended a chapter as much as a conversation, he bowed his head and resumed reading his book, a look of entrenched despondency settling into the lines of his face.

‘As you say, my dear…of course.’

John Thornton was hard at work in his mill office cataloguing his various mounds, or more like mountains, of paperwork. He had decided to dedicate this afternoon to getting his affairs in order, although that did sound like a rather solemn task with a sombre implication, when in fact, it was mercifully, quite the reverse. John was known to be a well-ordered sort of man, the kind that is always certain to warrant that every area of their life is structured and orderly to the point of painstaking precision. As reliable as a Swiss clock, one might say. Right down to the last, meticulous detail.

Nonetheless, today he was more conscious than ever that there should be a proper place for everything, and that everything should be in its proper place. For you see, he and Margaret were to marry in just under two weeks, and –

Forgive me, here he must pause to lean on the table to steady himself, for the exultation of such an event, one which he would never have expected to transpire just a few short months ago, was known to leave him feeling, despite his unrivalled strength, utterly weak at the knees.

At any rate, he and Margaret were to wed wonderfully soon, and she had agreed to allow him to arrange a clandestine honeymoon. John wished that he could take his bride on a grand tour, but alas, he was needed at the mill, and with the business still getting back on its feet, he could scarcely afford a wedding as well as an extravagant travel bill. Therefore, after thinking it over, it has occurred to him that he had heard Margaret talking of her happy memories of visiting the seaside with her cousin as a child, and as for himself, John had not seen the sea since…well, he could hardly remember. He was not even sure if he could recall whether it was blue or green, hot or cold, wet or…well, he knew it was wet. So, that was that. Once the idea had entered his head, the excited husband-to-be now planned to take her to the coast for a week, and he knew that he would be much better prepared to devote his every precious minute to enjoying the company of his new wife (at this he blushed beneath his bristles), if everything was as organised as possible before their departure. However, it was just as John had stood on a chair and was reaching for a box that sat high on a top shelf that his door flung open with a crash, almost causing him to topple down at the fright of it. Whirling around, John half expected to find a ruffian come to cause trouble. One of his dissipated past workers perhaps, disgruntled for being let go for smoking on the factory floor, or possibly one of the men he had put away for drunk and disorderly conduct had just been released and now had a bone to pick with the magistrate who sent him to goal. But much to John’s surprise, before him stood not a man, but a woman, and far from being angry, she was aggrieved, her trembling countenance one of considerable anguish.

In the doorway, was none other than Margaret.

She simply stood there, rooted to the spot, her petite form shaking like a leaf with one hand on the door, the other clasped to her heart as if she were in pain. It would appear that she had come here in some haste, because her brown hat sat loosely on her head, insecurely attached by a few stray pins, and so it was not long before it fell limply to the floor without her knowing nor caring. John was understandably thrown by the irregularity of this startling scene, but before he had a chance to both welcome her and theorise as to the cause for this bizarre disturbance, Margaret announced through a series of blubs the reason for her impromptu visit.

‘We cannot marry!’ she cried, both in terms of the pitch of her voice and the fast-flowing river of tears which now blotted her cheeks. Margaret then faltered briefly while she considered whether she should add something further to her extraordinary proclamation. An explanation, perhaps, or more likely a refutation. However, with a sobbing choke, she called out, ‘That is all I have to say,’ before she turned and left her (former?) fiancé behind to soak up the news, and soak it up, he would, for the spot on which she had stood was now blemished by droplets of water from the tears she had shed in giving her speech.

Stilled like a pillar of Biblical salt, John was abandoned in the wake of her declaration, paralysed by the sheer alarm and astonishment of it all. He could hardly believe his own ears. Had she just ended their relationship? It was not until several seconds later that his usually quick mind, which was currently delayed by shock, informed him that his legs were not moving, and so, with great speed, he sprang off the chair with a clatter and chased after his (he refused to believe former) fiancée.

Running down the steps that led from his mill office, he tripped as he went, his long, heavy limbs proving to be a disadvantage. He could hardly command his faculties, his coordination non-existent as his thoughts sprinted and blundered in the darkness of his bewilderment. It was fortunate that it was a Sunday afternoon, and so the confined world that was the mill grounds was deserted. There were no workers about, and as for the house, his mother was at his sister’s, and it had been decided that the servants should have the afternoon off in recognition of their sterling work in preparing for the master’s forthcoming wedding.

A wedding that John prayed was still going to take place.

Once he reached the bottom step, John dashed after Margaret across the vast length of the factory floor, reminding him with a stab of remorse of the first time he had seen Margaret and she had witnessed him hurtling after Stephens, much like a hunter hounding its prey. John growled. He was not that man now. He was a better man, all thanks to her, and he would be damned if he would lose her.

It was not long before John stumbled into the blinding lustre of daylight, and shielding his eyes from the glare of the midday sun, his feet found a sense of permanency in the familiar footing of the flat plane that was the cobbled yard. After his sight had returned to its full clarity, he spotted Margaret again, hurrying towards the mill gate, and observing the swift rustling of her skirts that dragged behind her like tail, he could see that she was scurrying away like a little mouse being pursued by a beast of a cat. John wished she would slow down, and while the few seconds head start she had been afforded would usually be of no matter, he was reluctantly impressed by the speed at which she fled the scene. But at last, he caught up with her, and running around her so that he cut off her escape, he breathlessly wheezed her name.

‘Marg ─’

Nevertheless, he was unable to finish, for she lifted up a palm and held it before him in a commanding hush, and blast it! ─ John had not yet mastered how to counter her superior ways, despite being a man with an innate sense of authority that came part and parcel with his impressive character.

‘No, Mr Thornton!’ she asserted, shaking her head vigorously, and while she tried her best to muster a strict tone, he could sense the despair quivering her chords. This was worrying enough, but it troubled him even more acutely to hear her address him so ceremoniously. His Miss Hale was known to call him Mr Thornton from time to time, usually by way of a playful coyness, but there was something less flirtatious and much more formal about the way she referred to him now.

‘What the hell is going on?!’ he demanded to know, not giving a damn (at least this one was just in his head), that he had cursed. John was already well aware that he was an uncouth fiend compared to Margaret, this unearthly creature who was too pure for this wretched world.

‘Have I done something? Am I the cause of this unhappiness?’ John asked with a breath baited with fear as he edged nearer with tremulous caution. It would not surprise him in the least to discover that he had offended her with his artless ways, his internal status as a gentleman precarious at the best of times. However, Margaret once again shook her head and bit her wobbling lip as she fixed her eyes on his cravat, negating to look him in the eye, lest her courage give way and collapse before him in a crumpled heap. John blustered in frustration.

‘I will not discuss it,’ Margaret went on, refusing to concede and jutting out her chin regally, as if that would deter him for a moment, not now that John knew the sweet, sensitive woman behind that stately veneer.

John’s anxiety was now growing increasingly agitated, turning it into a dander fuelled by the accelerant of dread. ‘Well, what if I insist?’ he challenged, his eyes flashing with a passion that made her pulse race. ‘You can hardly finish with a man without citing just cause! Am I to be given no reason at all?’

‘I am sorry!’ Margaret apologised, wavering as she swayed with the exhaustion of her emotions. ‘I cannot debate it with you for fear that I shall injure us both more than I already have,’ she explained with a whimper that she tried and failed pitifully to repress.

‘We are not to marry and that is the end of it. So please do not make this any harder than it already is, for my heart is already breaking into a thousand pieces and I cannot bear it!’ she declared, the weight of her sorrow causing her to double forward and lean against him for support, her port in a storm, and on seeing the way she trembled like a child, John did not waste a second in wrapping his arms around her and pulling his beloved close into the refuge of his embrace. Her resolve had encountered a knock that had left her shaking, he thought, but he would show her that he was unshakable in his devotion.

However, for all his noble feelings, John hardly knew what to say. How could he, when he did not even know what the matter was? All he could do was speak the truth.

‘And so will mine, if you do not stop this nonsense at once and tell me what is the matter,’ he told her, his voice devoid of sternness, but merely a softness that made her want to weep all the more.

‘My heart will be cut up into a million pieces by the shards of misery if you walk away now and tell me we are not to be together after all we have been through. I will be left mutilated, mourning for my Margaret and the love we have declared, the life we almost shared.’

He could feel tears pricking behind his eyes and they stung him bitterly. But as they washed their watery film over his gaze, the mill and everything around became a haze, leaving Margaret his clear focal point, reminding John once again that nothing else mattered now, for she was his world entire. He could not help but unconsciously raise a hand to caress the nape of her neck with his fingers in soothing comfort, and it inspired his spirit to hear her quietly purr against him, her shoulders shuddering at the tenderness of his touch. It was then that John realised that Margaret had not changed her mind about marrying him, and whatever the impediment was, it was not for a lack of love on either side, because here he felt sure that there had never been two people in the history of the humanity who had cared for each other more than they did.

‘Margaret,’ he urged, cupping her face with his hands and gently urging her head back so that he could see her properly. At first, it seemed as if Margaret would not yield, her eyes remaining tightly closed for fear that looking into those hypotonic pools would melt her resolve, and so, with a fond smile, he gently kissed each of her eyes to stir them to open. When, after a moment, they did with a blink, John was sure to hold her gaze firm as he confided to her the sentiments of her heart. He was a private man, he always had been, but he would never keep anything from her.

‘I love you,’ he confessed, and that alone caused the breath to catch in her throat, but he was far from done. ‘I need you, I need you badly, madly. I care about nothing in this life other than for us to belong to one another. Now, we have set a date, we are to be wed, and so I will do whatever it takes to ensure that you meet me at the altar. So, my darling girl, tell me, what has happened to distress you so?’ John continued to hold her close, their eyes locked on one another, a current of intimacy flowing between them and tingling the hairs on their arms.

After a period of silence that was interspersed by panting from them both, during which she considered her answer and how honest she should be, Margaret agreed with herself that she could not, would not, lie to him, not again, not ever. She had to tell him the truth. She owed him that much.

‘My father,’ she bleated, a heavy burden falling away as she set the truth free.

John’s focus flickered. This was not what he had been expecting. ‘Your father?’

She nodded lamely. ‘I cannot abandon him.’

John then let out a long breath of understanding. At last, it all made sense.

Leaning in closer, as if to tell a secret she had guarded for years, Margaret sniffed. ‘My father has never been the strongest of men. I think you know that. My mother, she used to take care of him, she was his everything for all the years that they were married. Her company was his pleasure, her peace his solace, her reassurance his assurance, her very being his reason for being. But now she has left us, and with the tormenting fear that he will never see my brother again, I am all he has left.’

‘I know,’ John consoled, his thumbs rubbing her cheeks to wipe away the dew of distress which had thankfully ceased its needless spilling. It occurred to him then that he had never seen Margaret cry before. Not when her mother died. Not when Higgins had left for the south to start a new life and took the Boucher children with him. Not when her brother had almost been arrested on his return to Spain and she had come, once before, bursting into his office, fallen to her knees, and begged John for his help, allowing him to finally learn the truth about the man he had seen her with that night at the station. And, finally, not when Fanny had partaken of one too many glasses of champagne at her wedding, and on seeing the way her brother and the southern beauty had been stealing longing glances at each other from across the room, she had proclaimed to her hundred and more guests that they were in love. John’s ire burnt fiercely at the recollection of it. All of Milton had stared at them agog with a mixture of shock, envy, disbelief and amusement, waiting for one or both of them to deny it, which, of course, they could not. Poor Margaret had paled to the colour of milk and fled the room, and so John had naturally sprinted after her, leading to a profession of love by moonlight, followed by a spontaneous proposal and her instant acceptance. So that is why John knew that Margaret must be in a very great deal of pain to cry now. He was about to respond, to calm her in whatever small way he could, but then she continued, determined that he should understand why she must call off their wedding and, in turn, destroy their combined hopes of happiness, hopes that were tied up, so securely, in one another.

‘He is not himself. I have never seen him like this. He was happy for us, I know he was, and his consent and blessing were sincerely bestowed, but he cannot endure without me near. I have suggested he come and live with us since you so generously recommended that arrangement before, but he is too anxious to consider it. The upheaval would be too much in his present state, and he does not wish to leave the house where my mother last drew breath. He says that he took her away from her home before and he will not disturb her now she is at rest. I know that Marlborough House is not far away, and I know I can go every day to see him, but I fear that it is not enough. And it would not be fair to you. A husband deserves a commitment from his wife. He has the right to expect her nearness, that she should be with him, by his side, not just in his heart, but in his home.’

What came next was entirely unexpected.

‘I agree,’ John admitted openly.

‘You…you do?’

‘Yes, because, you see, I have given this some thought too.’

Margaret was not sure what to make of this, but her initial gladness in believing that the man she loved was attuned to her hopes and fears soon gave way to desolation as she realised that, for a man of such acute intellect, it could not have eluded him that there was no solution to be had.

‘Then you will know there is nothing to be done. I cannot forsake him, John, not for my own selfish wants,’ she rallied, but not in rebellion against him, but in revolt against the injustice of it all, her fists lightly thumping his shoulders, the highest point she could reach without standing on her toes. Margaret wanted desperately to cling to him and never let go, so instead she rested upon the sleeve of his shirt and inhaled, very possibly for the last time, the essence of him, that peculiar hint of ink, textile dye and cotton fluff that was particular to him. Something she would always remember him by.

However, it was John’s turn to talk, and he was far from finished.

‘Hush, my darling!’ he allayed, his forehead bumping against her own as he tugged her nearer still, his hands mellifluously covering her ears so that he might drown out the noises around them, each clambering din fighting for their attention and distracting them from what really mattered, and that was what, or rather who, stood right before them. John yearned to dip his head to kiss her as he had grown used to over these past months, and while he knew that she would not resist, and while he trusted that he would again soon, John would not take such a liberty with Margaret. He would never presume to know her, he would never possess any portion of her, so he held back.

‘Now, firstly, Margaret Hale, soon to be Thornton, there is not a selfish bone in your body, do you hear?’ he avowed with a mock tone of exacting authority, and it would have been convincing too if it were not for the impish twinkle in his eyes.

‘You have spent your life looking after others, always putting them first and never thinking of yourself. Well, no more. Now I will think of you, always, and my every endeavour will be dedicated solely to your happiness. So, you see, that is why I shall live with you,’ he clarified, ‘in Crampton,’ his head nodding towards the other side of town.

Margaret wrinkled her nose. ‘In Crampton?’’ she repeated, dumbfounded. ‘I do not understand.’

‘You speak of uprooting your father, but why can I not be the one to make a move?’ John tested, curling a graceful strand of chestnut hair around his finger and looping it behind her ear before gently stroking her lobe.

‘I suppose that is true,’ Margaret deliberated, still not quite sure. It was just that she had never heard of such an arrangement. Not in the north or in the south. But then again, she and John were hardly the most conventional pair.

‘And you forget that Mr Hale is not only to be my father-in-law, but he is first and foremost my friend. I have never cared so much for a man as I have him, so why would I take away the one thing that brings him comfort and cheer and thoughtlessly take it for my own?’ John snuffled, rubbing the tip of his nose against hers.

‘Besides, if I come and live with you, it is not as if I will be relocating to another planet,’ he laughed, privately thinking about how cosy he found the Hale’s modest little haven in comparison to his own large yet rather impersonal residence.

‘The mill is only a half-hour away. I can walk there in the morning and back to you in the evening. And there is no reason why you cannot sometimes come to me during the day as you do now. Moreover, it will not be forever. Your father will come round, I am sure of it. Once he sees us happily settled, and perhaps with a family of our own, new lives who will never replace those he has lost but will give him the chance to love anew, then I trust all will be well. We will be in our own home before we know it, but until then, dear heart, we can still make a life together, because all that matters is that we are together.’

As John spoke, he watched Margaret carefully, trying to assess what she thought of this plan, and it filled him with hope to see a slight smile crease her eyes and dimple her cheeks, until, at length, she nodded in agreement.

‘There, then,’ he pronounced, breathing a shuddering sigh of relief. ‘So let us hear no more talk of cancelling our wedding, please,’ he implored, ‘I cannot bear it.’

Margaret let out a puff of disbelief. ‘But would you really do this, John?’ she entreated. ‘For me?’ It was true that Margaret had spent the majority of her life attending to the wants and whims of others, so it was incredible to her that anyone should wish to go to such lengths to secure her contentment.

‘For us,’ he refined, thinking how it was no longer he and her, two divided singulars, but we and us, two united plurals.

Taking her hand in his, John gently steered Margaret to walk with him. The sooner they went and spoke with her father and put this whole sorry misunderstanding behind them the better. But then he stopped, and peering ahead to ensure that nobody was watching from the street, he turned his back to the road. Concealed as they were, he tugged open the top of his shirt, and keeping Margaret’s hand encased in his, John slipped it beneath the cotton fabric and laid it on the left side of his chest, before whispering:

‘And besides, where does it matter where I live, my love, so long as my heart is in the right place?’

The End

Chapter Text

THE NEWS

(The Thornton Tales)

MRS SHAW

The page is filled with scratches, crossed-out words, and unfinished lines.
Ink spills over, as though the writer’s thoughts cannot be contained. It is horribly, hideously messy, and she loathes to see such disarray! But this is a most hideous day! So on, she writes.

I cannot bear it!
I simply cannot bear it.
Margaret—our Margaret—
She is to marry him,
That—that tradesman!
A northern brute!
Uneducated, uncouth, a hawker.
Not even a gentleman—
But a man of commerce, of business,
A grubby one, at that.
A man who smells of oil and grime,
A man who thinks himself equal to my dear niece—
Oh, but I cannot finish this thought.

She strikes through the words angrily,
Her pen trembling,
Hovering over the paper,
Trying to settle upon the right words,
But failing.

She rubs at her brow.

Where are the smelling salts?

Oh! How can she only write her feelings in poetry when she is most agitated?

My poor sister—
What will she say from heaven?
What would she say if she were still here?
It would kill her again, for sure.
She will never know. She cannot know.
It is too distressing to think—

Margaret, my sweet niece,
Born in Helstone, raised here in London,
Under my watchful eye.
She is to leave us.
What did I do wrong?

I did my best by her, with  God as my witness, I did my best.
Soon, she will be swept away
To that dreadful northern town—
Milton: That is its unattractive name,
As if it deserves the name of a poet.
A mire where there is nothing but industry’s stench,
Where the poor and the proper sort mix in the streets.
And men like him,
Sweating, shouting—
I will never understand it.

She begins again,
Trying to compose herself,
But the words tumble out,
Disordered, unchained.

Oh, Margaret,
Why? Why him?
Your mother would have—
She would have been horrified.
Horrified.
She will think I have let you down.
How could you?
You were born to more than this—
More than a life spent in dust and clatter.
Dirt-ridden urchins scuttling about your yard.
And the factory bells—
They will pierce the air.

You will have no peace.

You will go mad.
And what then?
What will you do then, Margaret?

The page is torn at the edges,
Ink soaked through in frustration.

She will be tied to him,

His property.
Unable to flee.
She will be lost to that place.

But then…
She never fit in here, did she?
Margaret, that wild, wilful girl.
She reads too many books.
Her mind filled with worldly nonsense.
So different from the rest of us.
She never cared for the city,
For our London life,
Never liked the drawing rooms,
The languid afternoons, the refined walks.
She was always out of place,
Chasing some fanciful notion,
A girlish romance,
Some great adventure,
Some unknown fate.

And now she has it—
Her own fate, her own life—
But at what cost?

The pen slips from her hand,

Sending an objectionable squiggle across the blotted page.
She bites her lip, staring at the paper,
Waiting for the words to come,
But they do not.

Oh, how I tried to stop her.
How I begged her—
I begged!
But she will not listen.
Her mind is made up,
Like a stubborn child,

Like her poor Mamma,
Her heart set on a foolish dream.
She will not see reason.
She will not see the truth.
I will never understand it.
That place—Milton—is hell.
The streets clogged with soot,
The sky sickly with smoke and steam,
The very sky is grey,
And everything is loud.
So loud.

And now she is to live there,
Raise children there.
There!
Among men who never look up from their work,
Men who think of nothing but the next day’s wages,
Their business, their factories, their smoke.
And she—she will be his wife.
A wife to that man,
That... tradesman.

To think the daughter of a Beresford will marry into trade.

How will she endure the disgrace?
I cannot make sense of it.
She will waste her money,
Her youth,
Her... her life.
For what? A dream of nothing.

She halts.

Out of breath.

Hands shaking.

Heart racing.

Sickness rising.

Tears welling.

I cannot—
I cannot bear it.
But off she must go,
Off to face the consequences of her obstinate error,
Off to a life that will only drown her.

Well, just like my poor sister,
I must sit back and watch
While she makes the ultimate, unsalvageable mistake,
By tethering herself to an unsuitable man.
Oh, well.
She has made her bed, I suppose.

Good luck to her!

MRS WATSON

Monday, 22nd May, 1855

I am sorry I have neglected you, my one, true friend. It is been so long since I have written to you, my dearest diary. So much has happened, and yet, I have been so consumed with being a wife and leading lady of Milton—and I have put you aside, as I thought a woman, a married woman, too mature to need one. But today, I just could not help myself. I must write. It feels so good to hold my pen again, and I do miss the comfort of it. I used to write in you, to you, all the time when I was younger. Do you remember? There were so many things I could not talk about with Mother or John—well, especially with John, who always thought me silly. Writing down my thoughts helped me feel less alone.

But now, I am married, and my life should be full— or so I thought. Today, however, my mind is a whirlwind, more tangled with thoughts than ever before. I find myself at a loss for words— me! The one who has never been without them. That shows you how shocking and scandalous this news is. I cannot wait to tell you!

John, my brother, is to be married. John! Oh, I can hardly wrap my mind around it. I have always thought of him as so serious, so dull—like an old stick in the mud, always wrapped up in his work and his thoughts. He has hardly ever given us the slightest reason to think of him as anything but sensible and severe. He was, to my mind, unchanging. And now... now he is to marry.

But, wait for it—he is not marrying Ann Latimer, the girl everyone thought he would. That would make sense. I would even be pleased by this association. No, he is marrying Margaret Hale. Of all the plain, hoity-toity creatures, he has chosen her. I can hardly believe it! When did this happen? How did it happen?

I am so confused, I can hardly keep my thoughts in order. It is all happening so quickly. Margaret Hale! I suppose I must start calling her Margaret now—after all, she will soon be my sister-in-law. It sounds strange to think of her as such. How will she fit in here, with us? I cannot imagine she will be much fun to have around. She strikes me as painfully grave—certainly not the sort of person who would want to go shopping with.  She reminds me of my mamma, all scrupulousness! Neither of them can tell a joke or take one. And neither shares my love for music. Such dull ducks. They will get along, I am sure.

I am in such a fluster over it all.

But then again, perhaps I am being too harsh. Perhaps I did see this coming. I did notice the way John looked at her, though I am sure no one else did. People think me silly, but I am not blind. There was something between them, something in the way he became all nervous around her, and I think she must have been aware of it too. John is always the master in the room, but with her, he was like a schoolboy in trouble. It was quite funny seeing him so uncomfortable. She was good at toppling him from his throne. And I saw the way he was after she left Milton. Watson said it was because the mill was struggling, but I knew it was because of her. He missed her. So he will surely be happy now that she back and she is to be his. Then again, John, happy? I cannot imagine such a thing. Reasonably content and satisfied, I can picture, but not happy. But then, maybe she is his idea of happiness. Like a new hat is to me. Still, I never thought it would come to this. I never thought that my boring brother would marry at all, but especially someone so foreign to Milton. But perhaps Margaret will be just right for him. They are both so earnest. Neither likes society. They shall not seek out parties or drink champagne. And they do not gossip. Then again, they have been the source of so much gossip themselves. I suppose they will suit each other. Neither of them has ever shown much of a spark, so perhaps it is for the best that they have both chosen someone equally tiresome to marry.

I suppose I should not complain. I am not marrying her, after all, and it could be worse. Margaret could be worse. I just wish—oh, how I wish—she could wear something a bit more fashionable! I have only seen her in those gloomy dresses, never anything that catches the eye. Yet, that green gown was striking, I must admit. I am sure she wore it to capture John’s attention that night, and it worked. He could hardly keep his eyes off her, though he feigned disinterest. Oh, but if only I could help her with her attire! How absurd that she should not have all that money, I do hope she spends it properly on the right finery. I could guide her. She could look so much better if she just let me help her—if she would let me improve her. She is not ugly, after all. She is rather pretty, in a country sort of way. But I suppose that is not important, is it? What is more important is that John is happy. He deserves happiness. Even I can admit that. I have not forgotten our misfortunes. Of how we lost everything, and he did everything to keep me safe and made sure I never went without anything my heart desired. He is bleak and boring, yes, but he is a good brother. He looks after his own. So it is time he had a wife who looked after him.

So, I will just have to resign myself to the fact that my life is about to change again. And as much as I may fuss and fidget, I suppose I will have to accept Margaret as my sister-in-law. At least she has not been completely dreadful, and she is not unkind. So, who knows? Perhaps I will grow to like her more in time. I might even learn something from her, though I doubt it.

But for now, I am left to ponder how on earth I can ever get her to wear more fashionable clothes. And I must destroy that horrid brown hat!

Until tomorrow,
Fanny

MRS LENNOX

My Darling Max,

I hope this letter finds you well, despite the reason for your absence. How I wish I were by your side in Scotland to offer what little comfort I can while your uncle ails. But alas, as you know, I am confined here, still somewhat unwell, and with the added condition of our little one growing inside me, I find myself often fatigued, much to my dismay. Oh, how I wish I were feeling more energetic! But then again, I can never quite seem to keep up with everything—too many things to think about, too many things to do! Only yesterday, I had to have a stern word with Cook and Nanny. The life of a wife and mother is truly exhausting, but I bear it with the grace my sex must.

Oh, my dearest, I do hope you will forgive the state of this letter—my hand trembles terribly, as my heart is full to bursting, and I can hardly control the flow of my emotions. I feel as though I must tell you at once, before my thoughts trip over one another’s skirts and become too muddled. And do excuse the excess of exclamation marks, it is quite startling, I know. But once you read this, you will understand the to-do. How could I not let my excitement (and confusion!) spill onto the page?

Margaret! Yes, you read that correctly—Margaret has agreed to marry Mr Thornton, and they will soon be returning to Milton. I can hardly believe it! One moment, she was set to stay here, with me, a constant companion, and now she is to become a wife. Not the old maid we once feared she might be, after all. It feels like such a change, such a swift passage of time, that I scarcely know how to comprehend it.

I should be happy, of course—I am happy for her. Who would not be? She is the kindest angel that ever was, and she deserves to have the same joy and security I have found in our life together. But, Max, my love, there is a part of me that feels quite wretchedly sad. For you see, Margaret has been such a solace to me, particularly with dear little Sholto. She has been so good to him—he adores her, and she, with her natural way with children, has made him laugh in a way I have never seen before. She always seems to know what is wrong with him and puts Nanny to shame. And as for me, well, I love her like a sister. It is hard, very hard, to think of her leaving.

As for Mr Thornton—well, I confess he is wonderfully dashing. I have finally met him, and while he is certainly a man to look at, his manner is so very different from yours. There is something fierce about him, something intense, almost to the point of being a little unsettling. There is a blaze behind his eyes, cold and hot all at once. You should see the way he looks at Margaret with those eyes. So adoring. I can see that he worships her beyond words. He is devoted to her, of that, I am sure. Then again, darling, no one could compare to you. You, with your steady calmness, your kind, gentle nature—you are my world. There is no blaze in you, but there is no need for it. Your mildness is a warmth that never falters, and that is what I love most about you. That and the way you dance so beautifully.

How I wish, oh, how I wish that Margaret had fallen in love with your dear brother, Henry. I could have seen them together—he is such a fine man, after all, and I know how much he cares for her. And she could have lived here, in London, or we could all have lived in one big house. It would have been perfect. But alas, it was not to be, was it? I see now that they were never meant to be. There is no passion in Henry—not the sort Margaret needs. And that, I think, is what draws her to Mr Thornton, despite his undesirable qualities. His being in trade, his rough ways—it all makes mother livid! She can hardly bear the thought of it. But, my dearest, there is something about Mr Thornton—a fire in him, a spirit that Henry simply does not have—a soul that matches Margaret’s own. She is no ordinary person, I have always known that, and so she cannot be expected to marry an ordinary man.

I know I must sound silly in all this, and I hardly know why I feel so conflicted. But I cannot help it. My heart is full, and it is a strange, confusing feeling to be torn between joy for Margaret’s happiness and sorrow that she is leaving me. Milton, too, feels so far removed from everything I know—such a harsh, strange place. I cannot quite understand why she feels so drawn to it. But, of course, it is her life, and she must follow her own path. If Mr Thornton is anything like you, my darling Max, then Margaret will be the luckiest woman alive.

I shall stop my rambling now, though I could go on for hours! Oh, how I do go on sometimes! Please know that you are ever in my thoughts, and I long for the moment when we are reunited. Margaret’s newfound happiness has only reminded me of my own, and I cannot wait to have you home. Love is everything, after all.

With all my love,
Your Edith

MRS THORNTON

(Note: Hannah: Mrs George Thornton, for there will soon be two).

I sit before the mirror in my bedroom, my hands trembling as they hover over the polished surface of the vanity. I hate the word vanity, since I have never been vain. I have not had the time for the vanity to be vain.

Still, my finger lingers. The silver frame catches the last gleam of daylight, its pale light dancing across the glass. But I do not see my own reflection. I see only the storm in my mind—sharp, chaotic, unfocused. My thoughts whirl about me like dust motes in a darkened room, ever-present yet impossible to grasp.

The telegram came this morning. It was brief, as telegrams are, but its message was clear: the mill is saved. John’s tireless efforts have secured its future. I knew he could do it. I never lost faith in him. And yet—though the relief should flood me, though I should feel nothing but gratitude and pride—I find myself gripped by a cold, unsettling dread. The mill is saved, but at what price?

Margaret Hale. I gulp. Margaret Hale is to be the new Mrs Thornton. She is to marry my son, John. My son, who I raised, loved, protected, who has always been mine in ways that no other could claim. And now, he is to belong to her. She is to take him from me.

I cannot fathom how this has happened. I thought I knew my son, or at least I thought I knew what he needed. John has always been a man of purpose, of direction, dedication, and self-denial—but this?

The question that haunts me: Has she bought him? The thought is repugnant to me, something I would never wish to entertain, but it creeps in nonetheless. Did she lure him with promises of wealth, of status? Did he feel that he had no choice but to marry her, to secure both his future and the future of the mill? But no. No, I cannot believe that.

He has always loved her, even when she had nothing. I remember it well—the way he looked at her, with such longing, such hope. The way he talked of her—the pining, the pain, the passion. He has never once cared for her wealth. Perhaps it was always her, from the very beginning. Perhaps, despite everything, he was destined to choose her. I have known for some time, ever since I first met her, ever since he first mentioned her, that it would happen. She was the one. She was the one for him. She was so startlingly perfect for him. So much so that I refused to accept it. But still, I pushed it aside. And now, fate has wielded its will.

But will she be enough for him? Will she accept the ceaseless demands of the mill, of Milton, of his heart?

And what of me? What will become of me in all of this? It feels so selfish to ask, I know, but surely I have the right to question. I have no other place in this world. What if I am simply left behind, like an old, forgotten portrait gathering dust in the corner of a room—once cherished, now faded and irrelevant, no longer needed, no longer wanted? The thought of it twists inside me.

For so long, I have been the mistress of this house, the first woman in John’s affections. Will I now be nothing but a shadow, lingering in the background, ignored and forgotten? The thought is too much to bear.

But deep down, buried beneath the hurt, beneath the fear, I know that this is what must be. I cannot fight against it. John has chosen her, Margaret, with all her strength, with all her love for him. There is no question in her eyes when she looks at him; it is a love as fierce as his own. And that, I know, is enough.

So, I will trust in their love. I will place my faith in it, even as my own heart trembles with uncertainty. I will carry on, for them, for him. I must believe that she will be a good daughter to me, so I must do my best my her.

I take up my pen, and with trembling hand, I begin writing the advertisement for tomorrow’s paper:

An Announcement of Importance:

Marlborough Mills to reopen under its former master.

Followed by the marriage of John George Thornton of Milton to Margaret Maria Hale of…

Where did Margaret belong?

Now I see it. Now I realise. Here. She belongs here. With us. For all her faults, Margaret is made of Milton's mettle. She is strong. She is fierce. She is determined. She is independent. She is made to be a Milton woman. I saw that when she came to the empty mill, she was looking for him. She was not just a landlord looking over the carcass of a man’s hopes and dreams, a shell she could exploit. She was not just searching for him; she was searching for home, and she found it, here, with him. She wants to be here. She wants him. Truly. Completely. So, perhaps, that is why she was destined to fall in love with the greatest son Milton has ever known.

And as I write, I pray. I pray for their happiness, for their love to endure and grow. I pray that, in time, I will find my place again—somewhere beside them, a part of their life, a part of their love. So, good luck to them, and may God bless them. I truly wish them all the joy in the world. My boy deserves nothing less, after all he has endured. And if Margaret is the one who can bring him that happiness, then who am I to argue?

Chapter Text

THE CROOKED CRAVAT

(The Thornton Tales)

It had all begun a few days after John had brought Margaret back home to Milton.

During her early days settling into their future home, their nest, it was clear to anybody with eyes that both John and Margaret were head-over-heels in love with each other. Their smitten smiles and giddy laughs were more than enough evidence of their mutual attraction and affection, which seemed to create an aura of passion that swathed the pair in their own clandestine, heavenly realm.

However, at the same time, despite their gladness at finally being reunited and having their love requited, they had each been acutely shy and charmingly awkward. They had both yearned for each other for so long, but neither of them quite knew how to go from being distant in both location and relationship, to suddenly being engaged and, quite scandalously, living in the same house whilst still unmarried. Therefore, over the first genesis days, their bond was explored and expressed through a series of blundering kisses, clumsy huddles, tongue-tied chance meetings in passageways, and radish-red flushes at their inelegance. Nevertheless, despite their self-consciousness, the newly affianced couple had found resourceful ways of coyly demonstrating their fondness for each other.

They each had their own methods of disclosing their ardour, of revealing their devotion. Margaret would nestle beside John while he read his newspaper, and in turn, he would drape his arm around her and draw her close, inviting her head to lay on his chest, (when nobody was looking, of course). Again, while John sat at the summit of the dining table for breakfast, Margaret would sit on his right, the tips of their fingers playfully brushing against each other as they passed the teapot. Whenever Margaret wished to go for a walk to visit her friends or survey her reinstated hometown, if John were free from commercial demands, he would fold her arm around his and proudly escort her about, constantly revelling in the congratulations that came his way, never missing an opportunity to introduce Miss Hale as his intended. Then, in the evenings, John would purposefully conclude his business as soon as possible, and instead of toiling in his office as was his previous disposition, he would now impatiently race home to the woman he treasured. The once severe master would beam from cheek-to-cheek and after hunting her down, would swiftly scoop Margaret up and hold her as snugly as he could without breaking her. It was after many hours of murmuring sweet sentiments into each other’s ears and stealing a kiss under the cover of shadows, that his mother would force John to relinquish his fiancée, so that they could both begrudgingly go to their dispersed beds.

However, it was five days after Margaret had come to reside at Marlborough House that it had started, and John had discovered his favourite routine.

One morning when John had been readying to leave for the mill, he turned as Margaret entered the drawing-room, plainly oblivious to his presence, for she was still pinning up her hair, the loose ends of chestnut locks dangling over her shoulder. On seeing him, she had halted and fluttered, unsure of whether she should come or go. After a moment of graceless indecision, they had both stopped what they were doing, glanced nervously at each other, blushed a great deal, and then keenly edged closer, eager for a brief assignation before the demands of the cotton trade so cruelly separated them.

‘Good morning, you,’ John had sighed, encircling his large hands around her slender waistline, and pulling her near so that he could deposit a featherlight kiss on her eyelids.

‘Good morning, you,’ Margaret echoed modestly, her fingers demurely stroking his muscular forearms.

His heart galloped as she sniffed and snuffled, as his lips ghosted the tip of her lovely nose, which then wrinkled enchantingly.

Good God! – how was he ever supposed to leave her every day for work?

John had always been enthused and energised by his enterprise and knew that it fuelled him in the same way that food or slumber nourished others. Nevertheless, since Margaret had entered his household as his wife-to-be, he had come to bitterly resent anything that took him away from her for even a second, even his faithful mill. In the long and lonely period of their estrangement and parting, John had constantly imagined what life would be like if Margaret had agreed to be his wife. He had thought about their wedding, their children, their quarrels, their ideals, their shared triumphs and struggles, but oddly enough, it had never once occurred to him that he would actually have to abandon her every day and how damned difficult that was going to be.

As Margaret coquettishly swayed in his hold, too timid to look at him properly, John let his hungry eyes drink in every inch of Margaret’s beautiful face. He did not think he would ever tire of seeing her in the morning, with her sleepy eyes that sparkled brighter than any twinkling star. He could not count the number of things that he enjoyed doing with, to, or for his betrothed, nor which was his preferred act of service. He suppressed the urge to think about another certain activity that he would be looking forward to doing with, to, and for his alluring bride. Scolding himself, John determined that it was best to banish that seductive yet sinful fantasy from his mind…for now…but not for long…Hell! - hopefully not for long!

One of John’s cherished privileges was simply being allowed to touch Margaret. For so long he had craved her, ached for her, longed to reach out and simply fondle the folds of her dresses. But now, he could do so much more than that, letting his hands innocently wander over the permitted parts of her person. But even more gratifyingly, he felt his manly sense of pride soar like an eagle at the very idea that she welcomed his fervid attention and that she voluntarily ran into his open embrace, wholeheartedly making his secure arms her home.

He basked in the sensation of her waist, her limbs, her back, her hands, her shoulders, and her cheeks. Her body was so pleasing in its shape, so well-proportioned in its size. Her silky skin was soft and warm like melted butter, and he was endlessly craving a taste of it, never quite able to satisfy his appetite. Everything about her enticed him like a witch casting her incantation and he most willingly fell under her spell. He adored it every time one of her unruly tresses strayed from their fastenings and curled over her temple. Margaret would typically absently push them away, but now, she was learning to leave them be, for there was another, a helpful servant who was more than agreeable to oblige in this task. John would let his trembling fingers rise to Margaret’s visage and with reverence, he would coil her locks around his digits and slowly tuck them behind her ear, his fingers skimming her flesh. His heart would skip a beat as he sensed her moan, shudder, and unwittingly shift into his touch, silently appreciating his ardour.

At any rate, on this particular day, John was about to commence his now-established pattern of peppering her face with gentle kisses of farewell, but, much to his surprise, as he moved his head closer to hers, he was halted by her hand, which she positioned firmly on his neck. John’s eyes flew open questioningly, as he searched her features for clarification, worrying that he may have caused offence. Without uttering a word, Margaret shook her head and began to yank at the ends of his cravat, tugging it loose, and whipping it clean away.

John stilled and gulped as she exposed his strong neck and stared at his uncovered skin, the hairs bristling in the knowledge of her presence and anticipation of her contact. He knew that this was not the first time she had seen him this bare, indeed, she had seen him in a much more shocking state of undress at the train station. But still, on that occasion, he had been so distracted by the excitement of seeing her again and the euphoria of their elopement, that he had not even noticed his lack of propriety.

However, today, this was quite a different kettle of fish.

Margaret subsequently commenced to narrow her eyes and titter to herself, as she affectionately tidied John’s shirt collar, as if it were the most natural thing for her to do, something that she had done a hundred times. She then leaned in so close that he could smell the fragrant scent of her neck, which intoxicated his lungs with a thrilling aroma, and she wrapped the ascot back around his neck and began to arrange it with vigilant care.

John continued to stand in stupefied amazement, fascinated by this simple yet delightfully intimate undertaking. On registering his stunned gape, Margaret coloured, her slightly visible chest resembling the shade of a cherry tomato. Much to John’s alarm, she almost withdrew, but to his relief, she thought better of it, allowing her courage to prevail.

‘Your cravat was crooked,’ she explained bashfully, embarrassed by her bold act of familiarity. ‘We cannot have the most important man in Milton stepping out of his front door looking any less than his very best,’ she defended, hiding her mortification behind a veil of giggles.

Lord! – how he loved her!

Margaret took her time in fixing his necktie, perhaps a little longer than was strictly necessary, her lithe fingers slipping between the fabric and stroking his jaw, something that made every nerve in his stiffening body tingle.  

At last, she concluded her mission, and after rubbing her hands along his lapels, she breathed: ‘There, Mr Thornton, my man is as dashing as ever.’

John was speechless.

For what felt like an age, he was rooted to the spot, simply panting and struggling to breathe, as he mutely asked God what he had done to deserve such overwhelming happiness. Then, abruptly, John lurched forward and captured Margaret’s mouth with his. As she stumbled backwards under the intensity of his desire, his ravenous hands reached out and hauled her nearer, so that her tantalising body was flush against his own. He gripped her for dear life, terrified that he would wake up at any minute to find that this had all been no more than a heavenly dream, invented by his obsessed mind.

John groaned as Margaret let out a gasping breath and swooned into his ministrations. She raked her fingers through his hair, pressed against him, and parted her lips diffidently, to allow him greater access.

Finally, after the clock chimed the hour and interrupted their tryst, they both pulled away, breathless, letting their foreheads rest together as they allowed their fiery senses to calm.

‘Margaret,’ John exhaled, his voice deep and husky.

‘Yes, John?’ Margaret answered, her pitch high.

He closed his eyes, the sound of his name on her honeyed lips so delicious that it threatened to tear his resolve to shreds. If he was not careful, they would be on that train to Gretna Green as fast as he could carry her. God! - where was his renowned self-denial when he needed it most? 

‘I love you,’ he confessed.

John scowled, for he felt horribly inept, because even although his declaration was true and he had now told her of his undying love more times than he had fingers or toes to count it on, he cursed himself for not being more eloquent in his address, in his ability to woo her with words. If only he were fluent with a romantic tongue, then he could poetically describe just how much this darling woman meant to him. But for now, “I love you,” was as much as his inadequate vocabulary could accomplish.

However, he was soon enticed out of his resentful, self-deprecating mood by the feeling of his Venus tenderly patting his sideburns. Opening his eyes, John gazed into her own orbs, ones that glistened with unshed tears of joy. They conveyed a profound and prophetic message, one of constancy, trust, admiration, and unwavering friendship.

‘I love you too,’ she smiled, reaching up on her tiptoes so that she could place a reassuring peck on his cheek. John grinned, for their considerable height difference meant that she missed and could only reach his chin, but all the same, the misplaced kiss was appreciated.

Holding her head in his splayed hands, he looked at her with lingering devotion before reluctantly stepping away, taking one last glance at his darling girl. As John quitted the parlour, he mischievously wrenched at the ends of his cravat, causing it to once again become askew. As he strode outside and walked towards his office, he hoped and prayed that his dishevelled appearance would later catch Margaret’s eye, and that she would once more allow them to engage in their private act of informality, performing the precious roles of husband and wife.

As it would turn out, Margaret did notice John’s scruffy appearance and had commenced her fussing the moment he traipsed through the door at the end of the day. While John had watched her with serenity, he had a funny feeling that she had guessed of his tomfoolery, but just like him, she was more than happy to pander to any excuse that allowed them to be close, to be content in each other’s company and caresses.

It was a routine that John evoked the following day, and the day after that, and the day after that…

Little did he know on that unassuming morning, that this ritual would become an established habit of John and Margaret Thornton’s, one that would endure for over fifty blissful years.

The End

Chapter Text

THE MEASURE OF A MAN

(The Thornton Tales)

Margaret had been busy all morning tidying up the shocking mess that had overtaken her home, a clutter which consisted of strewn clothes, ornaments and books, all indiscriminate artefacts that the boys had left scattered in various rooms, almost like a particularly exasperating treasure hunt that had no rewarding prize awaiting her at the end as a form of compensation.

Muttering under her breath, Margaret did her best to return the house to a tolerably orderly state before anyone stumbled upon this ungodly mayhem, a mish-mash of objects that were not only unsightly, but could well end up causing some poor unsuspecting soul to trip or slip, the outcome being them falling flat on their face. With her cheeks blushing, the mistress of the house was mortified by the very idea that the servants should feel obliged to pick up and put away the pandemonium that had been left behind in the wake of none other than Mr Thornton and Mr Thornton, the most troublesome twosome that had ever been born and bred – God love ‘em!

As she wondered and worried what tricks the boys were up to as we speak, what with having daringly, (if not unwisely), left them alone in the nursery unsupervised with a plate of ginger snaps and a collection of wooden animals to buy their brief attention, Margaret found herself using a few choice and not entirely ladylike words as she reached behind a chair and collected up yet another sock. (How and why those two monkeys managed to find and toss about so many socks, she would never know).

However, as she snatched up the mucky garment and added it to her pile of irregular odds and ends, Margaret’s ears pricked when she heard a deep tenor resonating from the nursery a few doors down. Stopping, she stilled as the sound drifted into her ears, and all at once, the stressful burden that had been weighing down on her spirit lifted, and Margaret was left feeling as light as a feather, the plumes tickling her insides and leaving her giddy with gladness.

The sound was strangely gruff yet gentle all at once, a voice she knew oh-so-very-well, since it was the last thing she heard every night before she went to sleep, her very own lullaby. Straightening up and overlooking the wearisome grumble that came from her back, Margaret furrowed her brow as she tiptoed closer to the door and paused outside, her keen eyes peering through the thin crack of the joint.

Margaret beamed, so brightly that her skin glowed and her eyes gleamed.

There, before her, was a scene that warmed her soul with the most heavenly of joys, a blessedness that no amount of money can acquire, might can build, or bartering can persuade, since it is something so wholesome that only a pure heart could ever hope to bring it about. The spectacle was a simple one, nothing out of the ordinary, not in that house anyway, but still, such a sight never ceased to fill Margaret with a richness of cheer and contentment, a sentiment that was so moving, she sometimes found herself trembling from the potency of it.

At the other side of the room, sitting in a high-backed chair, was a man, a person whom she could map every inch of, inside and out, so much so that Margaret knew him better than she even knew herself. He was tall, dark, and excessively handsome, and while he slumped back, his large frame relaxing in equanimity, he grinned, the skin around his eyes creasing as his face spoke of the pride and peace he felt within.

John.

Why was he proud, one might ask? Well, it was because of what sat before him, or better yet, of who sat before him, for there, on each of his sturdy knees, were perched a pair of boys, two further Mr Thorntons, ones who were much, much smaller than he, even if they did take after him in so many wonderful ways.

John’s sons.

Margaret rested her head against the doorpost and clutched a nurturing hand to her stomach, her belly now beginning to reveal a slight bump as she entered into the fourth month of her new pregnancy, and as she did so, her heart sang to think that her baby would be so lucky as to have such a devoted and doting papa as John. Margaret knew that many a man had a negligible interest in his children, considering them a noisy nuisance who should be kept out of the way until adulthood, only permitting them a fleeting wisp of attention when they were trotted out in their best clothes to shake his hand once a week before church.

However, when it came to John, Margaret was delighted to report that far from being aloof in his parenting, her husband was an incredibly affectionate father. Instead of banishing his little ones from his sight, the hardworking master and magistrate did whatever he could to spend time with them, even if he was always in demand elsewhere because he made it a steadfast priority to be at home with his children whenever he could. In fact, John’s study had become like a nursery in its own right, his floor covered in all manner of toys, because while he worked away, John insisted on having his three little Thorntons come to him and crawl, totter, and run about his feet while they played. It was funny, given that he was a man who had once needed silence and seclusion to focus, but now, John found that he could not concentrate if they were not near at hand, the sound of his children’s giggles and gurgles being the symphony, the harmony of his soul.

The boys, Richard and Daniel, who sat wriggling upon his knee like they had ants crawling up their backs, were John and Margaret’s second and third baby chicks, a set of twins who had come after their eldest, a daughter, Maria. No more than two years old, the young masters of the house were utterly darling, the pair of them full of inquisitiveness, cleverness, and fun. What was more, they each possessed a delightfully charismatic charm, their fetching little grins enough to steal your heart with just one fatal look. To be sure, it would seem that the lads had made a conquest or two already, many a grown woman swooning at the sight of their smouldering smiles as they strolled down the street with their pockets full of sweeties, the sewing circles of Milton hailing them as the most handsome chaps from here to Timbuktu.

Margaret could not claim to know a great deal about the mysteries of childbirth, but she did know that having unidentical twins was a fluke, and that in reality, it was down to nothing more than sheer luck that two babies came out rather than just one. It was such a strange happenstance, to be sure, and John, ever the tradesman, would laugh and say they had been given the bargain of, “two for the price of one,” the man joking that it had been a productive day of business when his lads had been conceived. Nevertheless, since her boys had been born, Margaret often found herself brooding over what it would be like without one of them here, and as she watched the two of them playing side-by-side, she felt a shudder of grief in her maternal breast to imagine having to say goodbye to either child, and so she thanked her lucky stars that God had seen fit to sew two cherished seeds in her womb that day, rather than only one.

However, Lord help them, John and Margaret knew that there was no denying that while their angels might be sweet and sensitive by nature, they had also been made with a generous helping of impishness, God having no doubt accidentally spilt a mite too much of that ingredient into their mixing bowl when their mould had been made. This meant that while her boys were still sweethearts, they were also a set of cheeky cherubs, rascally scamps who kept their parents on their toes with their never-ending array of mischievous hoaxes and hoodwinks.

Nevertheless, despite that irritable temper which was part and parcel of John’s disposition, Margaret had been both astonished and reassured to find that in contrast to being constantly displeased or even angry with his boys, her husband was the very definition of patience. Indeed, their father had never once failed in his ability to simultaneously encourage their spirited characters, whilst also trying his darndest to manage their puckishness with a wealth of tolerance, a forgiving and forbearing charity which left Margaret in awe of her husband.

As she watched in stealthy silence, Margaret’s eyes sparkled to see John playing unreservedly with his sons as he tickled and teased them, the scallywags letting out a series of shrill giggles which filled the house with laughter, the merry music of a blissful childhood. Leaning in a little nearer, Margaret cooed as John began to bounce them briskly on his long legs, the two tinks sat straddling his thick thighs while he clicked his teeth and pretended to be a horse trotting along a bumpy road. In a fit of hysterical glee, the twins were near enough howling with gaiety as they teetered from side to side and nearly toppled off their saddles, their father’s shielding hands hovering nearby to ensure that no such calamity befell his precious cargo.

Covering her mouth with her palm, Margaret had to stifle a chuckle of her own. Oh! How she adored her three boys.

However, as much as she treasured their Ricky and Danny, there was just one teeny, tiny problem that was hard to ignore, and this was that the twins had developed a most unfortunate habit, one which all children do at that age, especially boys, I am sorry to say, and that was the unpleasant tendency to –

‘NO!’ came a terse bellow, one which was as loud as a lion and as thunderous as…well, as thunder. You must forgive Margaret her want of articulation at this point, but she was so taken aback by the brusque outcry, that her wits quite deserted her.

Indeed, Margaret jumped on the spot at the sudden rumble, an uproar which had been so ferocious in its booming vibrations, that she found her knees knocking beneath her skirts. Returning her anxious eyes to the narrow slit, Margaret glimpsed that John’s countenance had changed, and in place of appearing tranquil, her husband was now terribly out of sorts, his features set into a rigid mask of disapproval as he held on tightly to the boys’ wrists, their gangly arms raised into the air and dangling there in suspended motion.

Oh, dear!  

You see, this was the very problem of which I attempted to tell you of earlier, but was so rudely interrupted by said problem itself rearing its ugly head. The issue was that the twins, like many children who find themselves at the interesting age of two, had taken a liking to the rather hostile and indeed horrid practice of hitting. That is, they were not sadistic or savage little ones, not in the least, and you must not think so, for it would break Margaret’s heart if you should judge her beloved boys so harshly. No, it was just that when they got excited and were full of beans, as Dickson would say, before they had the chance to think, they would lift up their arms and scratch, thump, nip, or slap people with a bounty of vigour. It really was a most unflattering thing for them to do. And what was worse, because they were their father’s sons, then Richard and Daniel’s strength was startlingly incalculable, meaning that one half-hearted wallop from them could whack someone all the way into the middle of next week if they were not careful, something which they unfortunately never were.

Things would not have been so bad if this had remained both an infrequent and mild occurrence, but oh-dear, oh-my, I am sorry to say that this barbarism had become an everyday predicament in the Thornton household over the past few months, a crisis which Fanny had now dubbed as: “The Thornton trouncing,” (a fellow alliteration fan, apparently). After several weeks of this waywardness, the lads had now amassed a list of victims so long that all the paper in all the world would not suffice to catalogue their offences, their poor prey including the cook, the scullery maid, the butler, and Mr Slickson (although to be fair, John and Margaret were not so fussed about the latter).

What was worse, because there were two of them, then they tended to provoke and pester each other with their frolicsome jokes and jests until they were so riled, that nothing and nobody could ever hope to calm them. Then, as they chuckled away like a pair of small-scale mischief-makers, Richard and Daniel would grow increasingly animated, meaning that all this fizzing momentum that bubbled away inside of them had to have some form of release, and regrettably, well, it was no wonder that it often came out as an act of feisty aggression.

Oh-boy-oh-boy, what a pair of boys they had!

No, they were not naughty, honestly, they were just boys, and boisterous ones at that. What was more, equipped with the additional clout of a strapping Thornton arm, the rascally duo found, through no fault of their own, that they were outfitted with a most formidable weapon indeed in the form of a powerful right hook…occasionally the left one too. Again, while some parents would not have been troubled in the slightest by such commonplace trifles, marking it down to the lads exercising their latent masculinity, Margaret, ever the gentlewoman, could not abide it, and it made her miserable to see her sons lashing out, even if it was just for a supposedly harmless lark.

To be sure, it would not do, since their waggishness had caused more than one person to cry and complain, and flushed with embarrassment to think that her own children had instigated such an unholy upset, Margaret could not allow it to go unbridled, and neither, so it would seem, would their father. In actual fact, John gave the impression of being more concerned by it than anyone, even with his mother clucking away and reminding him that he was no different at that age and that her grandsons would soon grow out of it as they matured into their manners. Yet still, the moment their skirmishing started on any given day, John was the first to leap to his feet, and after towering high above their heads, he would growl at them to stop. Dragging them apart and separating them like two felons, the master would give his sons that look, the one we all know, the one which only fathers are able to give, one which contains a multitude of promises of punishment if his authority is not obeyed to the letter.   

Margaret smiled to herself. Dear John! While some men might be more fearsome when it came to dishing out discipline, as a mother, Margaret was relieved to have discovered that she would never have to find herself in the distressing position of begging the father of her babies not to strike their little ones. No, she had never had to suffer this dilemma, since such cruelty was just not in John’s nature, and the very thought of laying one furious finger on his three Thornton pups seemed to turn John as white as a sheet. John had never once used physical penalties as a form of penance, and Margaret trusted that he never would. Nonetheless, there was no denying that when John Thornton got that look in his eye, the same one Margaret had seen during their first encounter when he had caught a worker smoking, then such a frightening mien was enough to terrify the living daylights out of anyone and intimidate them into submission.

In light of John’s irrefutable aptitude for looking daunting, what with his irate eyes, taut jaw, angled head, and laboured breathing, then it was surely no surprise that the boys backed down and retreated in meek compliance as the alpha male asserted his dominance over the pack, John’s untamed features giving him an imposing wolflike quality. Margaret sighed to think that they had not long dealt with this problem, since only four days ago, John had been alarmed to hear his wife yelp all the way from his study, and after investigating, he had been livid to discover that whilst trying to wheedle them into their evening bath, the boys had struck Margaret directly in the abdomen.

Overwhelmed by a sense of defensive anger, John had shouted at the twins for hitting their mother, especially when she was with child, his hand covering her belly to try and show them that this was a precious and protected spot that they had to treat “nicely.” After ensuring that his wife was well, John had sent Margaret away and seen to the boys’ bath himself, the father scrubbing them more roughly than was strictly necessary, ignoring their whinges and gripes of protest.

After that, he had put them to bed early, and no matter how many times they climbed out and strayed through the house to find their parents sitting at the table eating their dinner, John would just pick up his sons, and without saying a word on the matter, he would take them back to bed. Margaret had felt sorry to see them go, the two of them bleating as they went, their little hands held out to her when all they wanted was to see their mother and offer her cuddles by way of apology. However, John was firm on the matter. While he respected their regrets, he needed them to learn the consequences of their actions, so off to bed they went for the hundredth time that night, all three Thornton men playing out a battle of stubbornness, none of them willing to back down and admit defeat, since such a word was not to be found in their dictionary.

As she stood there on the brink of this unsettling scene, Margaret sighed to herself, wishing that such pleasant moments as a father spending his valuable time with his sons would not be ruined by bad behaviour. But alas, such a world did not exist, and parents had no choice but to grin and bear it, muddling through and doing their best to both love their children and to teach them the difference between right and wrong, a line in the sand they would inevitably have to decide for themselves one day.

As Margaret set down her pile of socks, she was about to make her presence known and step into the room so that she might lend a helping hand. However, for some reason, the wife and mother held back as her feet froze in place when she found herself suddenly rooted by a curious inclination to keep her distance and observe unseen. Why? Perhaps it was because John was so much better at dealing with this quandary than she was, and after trying and failing goodness knows how many times to persuade Richard and Daniel to play politely, Margaret had found that she sorely lacked John’s convincing demeanour of strict say-so, and so, she decided that on this occasion, she would wait and see what her husband did next.

With her heart pounding, Margaret resumed her position beside the door, waiting and watching quietly in the wings.

Letting go of their arms with cautious unhurriedness, John continued to keep his eyes fixed upon the twins, his stare so severe that the pair of them recoiled and whimpered in subservience, the tykes fully aware that they had crossed the line in trying to thwack their father squarely across the face.

‘No!’ he repeated, even more firmly this time, his speech overly pronounced so that the boys, who were only two years old, might fully heed his warning and his order to desist at once, or else face his displeasure. ‘No hitting!’ John reminded them, shaking his head solemnly.  

The boys hunched their shoulders and peeked up at their father sheepishly, but if he studied them carefully, John was sure he could spy a trace of defiance lurking behind their guilty expressions, and this made him smirk, since at that precise moment, as they regarded him thus, all he could see was his darling Meg looking back at him. Yes, despite the gravity of the situation, John could still find room in his heart to feel blessed that his boys had such a beautiful and benevolent mother as Margaret, for with such a woman’s blood running through their veins, then there was no question in John’s mind that his lads would turn out to be the very best of men.

Correcting his tone so that it was more calm than cantankerous, John raised his brows to them both and narrowed his eyes shrewdly. ‘Now then,’ came a dense Darkshire twang, ‘have I not told you before, lads, hmm? No hitting!’ he reiterated.

‘Why?’ Richard spluttered huffily as he shoved his thumb into his mouth and sucked away, the child using one of the few words the boys had learnt, and, as it would turn out, by far their favourite, one which they used so frequently that it had lost all meaning.

‘Aye,’ Daniel agreed, his head bobbing up and down vigorously as he squirmed about, creasing his father’s trousers in the process. ‘Why Dada, whyyyyyeee?’ he echoed, the boy’s question coming out as nonsensical gibberish as Daniel’s palms pressed down on John’s leg to steady himself while he attempted to push his brother over, the two of them still scrapping, even in the midst of their ticking-off. It was always like this, the boys soon forgetting all about John’s stern scowls after a moment or two, meaning that after feeling sorry for the pithiest of intervals, they would promptly return to revelling in their horseplay and hijinks within the twinkling of an elfin eye.

Lordie, they were insatiable!

‘Because it makes people sad,’ John said simply, aware that it was difficult to rationalise the concept of indefinable kindness and respect to such young weans, the man finding that his lack of eloquence when it came to expressing himself was being sorely tested now that he was a parent. This had left John constantly searching for new ways of communicating with his children, a vital requirement that mattered a great deal to him, since he was determined to prove himself worthy of the honoured title of: “father.”

But the boys just shared a confused glance and frowned, their little mouths turning downwards theatrically as their heads shook from side-to-side in mulish descent to their father’s daft reasoning. ‘No sad, Da! We no sad!’ they contended in unison, baffled as to why their papa should think their antics would bring them the least bit of uneasiness, not when they enjoyed their boxing and wrestling immensely.

John laughed out loud, a real robust chortle. ‘I know you’re not sad,’ he acknowledged, massaging his brow despairingly, amused by their logic. ‘But I am, it makes Da sad,’ he explained as he pointed to himself and assumed a sorrowful expression, his lips puckered and his eyes moist. ‘It makes me cry, in here,’ he said, placing a hand over his most loving and loyal heart.

All at once, the boys gasped, and they quickly sprung up and scrambled onto their knees so that they could fling their arms around John’s neck and squeeze him tight in a comforting embrace. ‘No, Da!’ they cried in concern, the boys taking after their mother in their instinctive need to demonstrate compassion. ‘No! Peese!’ Kneading their heads against his neck and giggling at the feel of his scratchy bristles, they each clutched onto John and nearly ripped the material of his shirt, their grip as strong as Hercules himself, just like their father’s.

‘Dada no cry,’ they pleaded unhappily, a tragic whine to their voices. ‘We-we-we be good boys!’ they vowed, although to be fair, this pledge would most likely only endure for an hour or two at best, no matter how sincere it may be in the here and now since one cannot realistically expect long-term commitment from children whose span of attention averages around three minutes.

Wrapping his arms around them, John hauled his sons close into his chest and held them there, his hands rubbing along their shoulders, their arms warmed by the woollen clothes their grandmother had knitted them last winter, the weans already outgrowing the threads with their substantial Thornton frames. Smirking, John guessed that the lads would be taller than their mother by the following month if they kept on growing at this rate. Leaving a tender kiss upon the crown of Ricky’s black mane and Danny’s blonde curls, John smiled, because he recollected sitting in this very chair five years ago, this being the only room in the house which afforded the brother an escape from his sister’s strangled singing. After finally finding some solace, the master had attempted to read so that he might prepare himself for his forthcoming lesson with his tutor, but alas, he could not concentrate, not when she was on his mind, and on his mind she was always to be.

As he had closed his eyes in days gone by, John had pictured a woman, an enchanting one with pretty eyes and a refreshingly pert tongue, but a woman nonetheless who had no interest in him whatsoever, since she would never have him, not if he were the last man on Earth. Oh, how John had wished that one day she would sit here in this room with him, and together, they would tend to their children, the married couple as happy as can be to share this familial bond and know that their united flesh had created such a sweet thing as a babe. But thinking back on those prayers now, John’s heart leapt for joy, because never in his wildest imaginings had he envisioned that any of it could actually come to bear fruit and that such contentment really could be within his grasp to achieve. Moreover, his fantasies had been hallowed enough then, but it was a miracle to now find that the reality John had been gifted with far outshone his most fervent dreams.

With tears wetting his lashes, John returned his gaze to his sons, the two of them peering up at him, their broad eyes twinkling with a thousand questions of youth.

‘You are good boys,’ he told them with a sentimental sniff, since it was true, they really were as good as gold if you dusted off that thin layer of audacity which veiled their kind-hearted natures. ‘You are my good boys, and I love you so very much. But you should never hit anybody, not for any reason,’ he counselled, the master’s face growing dark as he remembered a time in his life when, much to his shame, he would not have thought twice about raising his own fists to another man, not when he felt the sorry sod deserved his wrath.

It would be unfair to say that John had ever been a genuinely violent man, for such an assessment would disgrace his principled character and degrade his sense of justice to an extent which is just downright slanderous, given that despite his surly temper, the Master of Marlborough Mills was a man grounded by the doctrines of fairness and honour. However, it was unfortunately true that in his formative years, John had voiced much of his pent-up frustrations and fears through the use of his brute strength, his knuckles having boxed many a man’s ear, nose and jaw, blows which had been rougher than he would care to admit. As a grown man, his menacing moods had been seldom, but again, John felt both humiliated and humbled to confess that while he would never have struck a woman nor a child, never, he had been known to knock down and knock out the odd fellow or two, most of them, not gentlemen, but wretched souls who were far weaker in both physical brawn and social eminence than he.

Yes, it was a chapter and component of his life which John regretted bitterly, but on this occasion, his repentant ruminations were interrupted as he felt something tug on his shirtsleeve impatiently, and he twitched as a small voice piped up and pierced the silence. ‘But why, Pa?’ Daniel parroted sulkily, his little mind struggling to work it all out.

John sat in reserved contemplation for a while as he thought on this, his boys staring at their father with enquiring gazes while they continued to cuddle into him, because to Richard and Daniel, John was not merely their papa, but he was their friend too, someone who provided security, a fatherly fortress of shelter that kept them safe against the tide of any raging storm, even if that tempest was his own disapproval.

At long last, John drew a deep breath and replied cryptically with the words: ‘Because that is the measure of a man.’

Nodding his head sagely, John thought back to a particular evening when he and Mr Hale had sat and considered the ways of the world together, and while they enjoyed each other’s company before a cheerful fire, the pupil and teacher had discussed Plato, the scholar of old whom they both greatly admired. If John remembered correctly, then they had not been alone that evening, and off to his left, just within his range of vision if he squinted, there had sat a young lady, her head bowed over a book, her cheeks aglow with the flush of the passionate flames. God, she was so lovely, this Aphrodite who hardly cared to know what he thought or what he wanted, her radiant beauty so appealing and her shy countenance so endearing that the master had been forced to loosen his cravat, since he found that he could hardly breathe in her presence, something which had not changed to this day.

Lifting his head, John looked at a well-worn tome of Greek philosophy which lay on a nearby table, a volume which he could recite in his sleep. ‘The measure of a man is what he does with power,’ he started. ‘For a man to conquer himself is the first and noblest of all victories…and all men are by nature equal, made all of the same earth by one workman; and however we deceive ourselves, as dear unto God is the poor peasant as the mighty prince….so you should never consider yourself better than any other of God’s creations, since it is in the womb of this misconception that wickedness is born. Because, you see, there are three classes of men, boys, lovers of wisdom, lovers of honour, and lovers of gain, and I hope that you shall never be the latter,’ he determined pensively, the father wondering what paths in life his sons would choose for themselves.

‘I may not be able to give you everything in this world, Ricky, Danny, nor should any man acquire such a thing if he wants to preserve both his own sanity and the safety of others. Rather, I believe that parents should bequeath to their children not riches, but the spirit of reverence. And so, my sons, I tell you that the measure of a man is not found in the muscle of his arm, but in the sharpness of his wits, the grit of his fortitude, the loyalty of his nature, and most significantly, in his ability to both offer and receive love without restraint and without the need to keep a record of rights and wrongs. In doing so, he will learn that love is the most prized commodity of trade in the world, one which the more he gives away, the richer he will become himself.’

As John’s faraway gaze faded and the nursery returned to the forefront, he restored his penetrating eyes to his sons, and he smiled, because it goes without saying that far from appreciating his erudite reflections, the little lambs had not understood a single word. Raising a hand to caress their soft cheeks, John could only hope that one day they would meet a man as knowledgeable as Richard Hale, and after welcoming them into the heart of his home, such a man, (or woman), would open up their minds to greater things than facts and figures, profit and loss, and good-old cotton. Instead, such a person of endearing simplicity would allow them to realise that when all is said and done, love is all that really matters, it is all that remains, and it is what makes us human after all.

Clearing his throat, John tried one last time to help them understand. ‘What I mean, boys, is that a man should never use these to manage his problems,’ he explained, lifting his fists and tutting as he shook his head, their curious eyes following his every move. ‘No, a man can sometimes use this,’ he suggested, settling a finger over each of their mouths. ‘But most of all, a man should use these,’ he told them, one hand resting over Richard’s heart and the other on Daniel’s head. ‘These, my sons, these characteristics are the real measure of a man. Do you know who taught me that?’ he tested.

The boys looked at each other and then back at their father before shaking their heads.

John’s heart stirred as it thought of its keeper. ‘It was your mother.’

John smiled, a small and private smile. Margaret, his darling girl. Again, John could never be described as a truly vicious man, but there was no denying that since he had met his wife, something had changed in the character of the Master of Marlborough Mills, and he had experienced a shift in his thinking, an alteration which meant that he no longer harboured a base desire to assert his strength, but rather, he now cultivated a fundamental need to nurture his sensitivity. John would never forget the look on his sweet Margaret’s face when she had witnessed him beating Stephens for smoking on the factory floor, and while John did not regret reprimanding and dismissing the man for putting himself and everyone else there in grave danger, he would never be able to shirk that feeling of shame which niggled away at his conscience for the way he had dealt with that threat. Looking back, John appreciated that he could have achieved the same end if he had simply told Stephens to leave and never come back, but no, with the nightmarish memory of that Yorkshire fire and the hundreds of bodies laid out on the hill, many of them children, the master had seen red, and his temper had got the better of him.

It was just so dammed unfortunate that it had been in front of her…of all people!

But where he would have once put it down to an inconsequential lapse in his self-control, John had not been allowed to forget his transgression as a gentleman, because the very next day, standing in the parlour of a cramped Crampton house, he had turned to face the most captivating woman he had ever met, and it had been she. However, far from fawning over and flattering him as many young ladies seemed to do, she had simply stared back at him with naked disgust, and from that moment on, John had wanted nothing more than to earn and secure her good opinion. And now, well, he had won it, but with God as his witness, John knew that so much as one outburst would diminish and demean her respect for him forever, and such a thought was too unbearable for the enamoured husband to stomach. Therefore, day after day, despite the red blood which coursed through his veins, the master knew that he had had to suppress any hint of rage which flared up within, and he must never let it go unchecked, since he could not do that to her, not to the one who had tamed his temper and made him a better man for it.

Once again, John’s thoughts were disturbed as he heard Richard ask him another question. ‘Is Mama a good girl?’ the lad wanted to know, his head cocked as he tried to puzzle it out for himself. John smirked. The twins had a habit of calling John a boy and Margaret a girl, something which never failed to entertain him, especially when Margaret said that while John toiled away at the mill, his sons would roam from room to room looking for him, and ask: ‘Where dat boy gone?’ Bless ‘em! The two of them were never content until their father walked through the door at six o’clock sharp, shortly before scooping them up into his arms, the man having missed them more than they would ever know.

John nodded confidently. ‘She is all goodness,’ he said. ‘There is not one bad bone in your mamma’s body, and that is why I know that deep down, you are good boys at heart, because you come from her, and there is nobody so compassionate or caring in all the world than your mother. With her by your side, you cannot go wrong.’

Still lingering and listening on the other side of the door, Margaret placed her fingers over her mouth and pressed her lips to them before blowing a clandestine kiss to her husband. Picking up her pile of discarded items, a load which no longer seemed so bothersome, Margaret quietly walked away, since she understood that she was not needed here, not when her boys were well, the three of them looking after each other.

As she rested a hand on her belly, Margaret wondered how many babies she and John would have, because while the idea of a large family may once have daunted her, it no longer did, not now that her babes had a protector and provider like John. Stopping in the twin’s bedroom and gathering up the blankets that Hannah had knitted them when they were born, she lifted them to her face, the soft yarn warming her skin, that delightful newborn smell still enduring, even after all this time.

Margaret did not know how her boys could ever hope to be as remarkable as their father, but they could but try, and if her dear children turned out even half as munificent, conscientious and faithful as he, then they would do their mother proud, since in her eyes, John Thornton was the truest measure of what a man should be.

The End

Chapter Text

HERE’S TO HER!
(Before We Were Us)

Hannah Thornton stood beside the drawing-room window, as stoically still as a sentry.

It had been her practice for many years to pass the time of day in this manner.

She would remain and watch the bustling business that was a cotton mill, with people, carts and bales trundling in and out of its gates. She would watch as the feathery strands of white fluff arrived in sacks, like infant cotton clouds, then would oversee their departure, now finished, fine and ready to be used, made to the impeccable standard that only this mill could guarantee. She would watch as the workers scurried around like grey and brown mice, darting here and there to attend to their work, their steps quickened in fright when they knew she was supervising them from atop and afar.

She had heard the hands refer to her as the black crow, the ominous guardian of Marlborough Mills who presided over them all from her lofty roost, like a menacing presence that they could not shake off. She had to smirk at the comparison, for it reminded her of the Tower of London and its resident ravens. Legend has it, should they all fly away from the fortress grounds, the stronghold will dissolve to dust and the monarch will fall, casting a plague of trials and tribulations upon England for a thousand years. Yes, she deemed the analogy fitting, for as capable as her son was, she could not help but pride herself on the idea that if she were ever to abandon her post or forsake the mill, the machines and mortar would crumble into rubble, like the temple in the story of Samson, and not a stone of this magnificent cotton kingdom would be left standing.

Then again, it mattered little now.

The mill would indeed perish, and all because its king was being deposed.

Well, if it fell, it served them all right for getting rid of him. He had given his everything to this place. His best years. His blood, sweat and tears, not that he let anyone see the latter, and what thanks did he get in return? None, that was what.

It occurred to her that today would be her last watch, her last stand in this battle for… she would not call it survival, because they would survive, she would make sure of it, and he would not allow it to be any other way. He would work heroically to ensure that she was comfortable and content. To be sure, she would not call it survival, but thrival, not that this was a word, but it should be, because they had strived to thrive through many strife-riddled chapters of their joint existence. Nobody deserved success more than him, not after all those ups and downs and bends and twists that had taken them from riches to rags, to rags to riches, and now, it would seem, to rags once again. In this saga of victory and defeat, he had never once allowed himself a moment of peace, of amnesty from his latent insecurity, for his entire journey had been one of deprivation and scrupulous self-denial, and because, all along, he had feared this day would come. He had dreaded that he would lose everything all over again.

And now he had.

Bah! Doom and destiny had conspired to bring her son down, she was sure of it. Providence was wicked, and Mrs Thornton shook her fist at it in furious defiance!

Yes, today was her last day standing here. She had observed as all the men, women and children arrived in the morning, as usual, and much to their credit, they had gone about their tasks with as much energy and enterprise as they typically would, as if nothing was amiss, as if this day was not as ill-fated for them as it was for their employer. Mrs Thornton, who was not one to smile by nature, her features almost having forgotten how, struggled to fight the urge to break her stern expression, and so the slightest crease wrinkled the corner of her lips as she beheld the scene unfolding before her. There was a palpable sense of camaraderie in the air. Despite facing the loss of their livelihoods, and for some, the potential threat to their very lives if they failed to secure work soon, not a single grumble leaked from their lips. They showed up, they laboured diligently, and they remained steadfastly loyal to their master and the mill. Shouldering the weight of this sombre day collectively, they stood as one, akin to a tightly-knit family. Deep within, Mrs Thornton harboured a silent gratitude for their unwavering support. While she might not have required it herself, she understood its significance to him.

At any rate, the hours had passed, and, at length, the machines had slowed and stopped, their spinning subdued, their great roar snuffed.

With the drawn-out paces of threadbare shoes, the workers had trailed out, one by one, dragging their feet, demonstrating to the very last that they did not want to go. It was like a funeral procession, with their eyes cast to the ground, their shoulders drooped in depression, their shuffling unrushed and solemn, a chorus of a solemn hum coming from them.

And yet, there he had stayed to meet them, to face them, at the mill gates, tall and confident, as if nothing was different, as if today did not mark the end of an era. With an outstretched hand that grasped each weathered palm as an equal, he thanked every one of them for their service as he individually handed them a well-packed drawstring pouch with their wages, generously paying them until the end of the month, an extra three weeks, even though he had no obligation to do so, and the cost would come out of his own diminishing pocket. From her perch, Mrs Thornton, the maternal crow, had witnessed the exchange, a sea of grown men holding back their emotions and refusing to break down, even when Higgins, whom she had been greatly mistaken in, having proved himself an assiduous and reliable man, had imparted a piece of paper, a list of names of all the workers who would gladly return to serve under the former Master of Marlborough Mills if his fortunes should ever return.

Then they had left. And everything was silent. Everything was eerily empty.

The yard stood lifeless, a graveyard to industry, a burial ground for dead dreams.

She had lingered there a while longer, as if cemented in place, patiently waiting, mutely praying that she was mistaken, that all would be well, and she would blink and find it had all been a figment of her imagination, just a hideous nightmare. But no, the scene before her did not change. It was very much real, very much their reality.

Suppressing a snivel as a rogue droplet of water escaped her nose, for she was not one to give way to something as self-indulgent as sentiment, Mrs Thornton was about to return to her seat and pick up her sewing, but then a shadow flickered in the corner of her eye, and returning her eagle gaze to the yard, she spotted a figure making their way across it with rapid, determined strides.

John.

At first, she thought nothing of it as she watched him walk towards the outer stairs that led directly to his office. The mill may have closed, but there were doubtless a number of menacing papers that demanded his attention still, each one mocking him for his supposed failure, not that it was his failure, not he, not a man who had worked with ceaseless aptitude and integrity for years without demanding anything in return. But he would see it as a failure, and try as she might, wish as she may, she could not change that.

However, the detail which caused her to squint and mistrust her eyesight, was that he seemed to be dressed in his finest. Indeed, after weeks of appearing worryingly dishevelled with his grey pallor, rolled-up sleeves, dirtied shirt, hair that fell over his brows, unshaven jaw, and a general wearisome expression, each of these unfortunate points had been rectified, and he was, in essence, as handsome and impressive as he had ever been. Nevertheless, if this point alone was not enough to disconcert his mother, there was the additional and decidedly unusual fact that he was carrying with him a bottle of excellent champagne along with two glasses. Mrs Thornton had to think about this. This was an odd sight, indeed. It made little sense. It made no sense. Her son rarely drank, and what was even more peculiar, he detested champagne, he never touched the stuff.

Dwelling to deliberate on his strange behaviour, she sighed heavily. Ah, of course. He would be toasting to her, the mill. They had been through thick and thin together these seven years. She understood. He needed this. He needed to say farewell and good luck. To thank her for everything, to say sorry for having to let her go, and wish her well for a future in which they would no longer be partners, their fates once entwined, now severed by the saw of ruination. It was a miscarriage of justice, and she could not bear it, but accept it, she must, for his sake, if nothing else. Very well, she would leave him to it. She would leave him to his goodbyes and his grief.

In solitude, he gently closed the door, placing the glasses on the table with utmost care before pouring the champagne with meticulous precision, ensuring no drop was wasted. Acknowledging his weariness, his legs began to shake with exhaustion, and he felt sure he would collapse to the floor like a piece of crumpled paper. But he would not give in to his fatigue, not here, not now, not when he had something important to do, to see through. A surge of determination coursed through him as he gripped the table; he yearned to replenish his energy, to immerse himself completely in the impending moment.

Clutching both of the crystal flutes, he raised one to his lips while offering the other out to an invisible presence in silent tribute. After a brief pause, he tilted his head, supped and swallowed, letting the golden, fizzy liquid slip down his neck. He had hardly eaten or slept in weeks, so even a mere sip left him a touch giddy. Still, by God, it was refreshing. It had been a long day, and while it irritated him to admit it, he welcomed the Dutch courage.

And so, with a quiet resolve, he embraced his seclusion, allowing its quiet currents to guide him toward a sense of calm, quietly thankful that after months of feeling constantly harassed by a hassling horde of bankers, suppliers, customers, workers, and the other mill masters, he was at last alone, he was at last at liberty to do what he had impatiently awaited for what felt like an age.

Finally, the day, the hour, the moment had arrived.

Today was an occasion not for sorrow, but for celebration.

A bittersweet smile danced across his face as he softly murmured, ‘Here’s to her!’

Today marked her twenty-first birthday, a day he could not forget amidst all that had occurred, as his sense of security and self-reliance had toppled, and his world came crashing down around him.

Margaret: his beloved Margaret.

He had not forgotten her; how could he?

John had specifically chosen today to officially close the mill. It had been a most resolute decision. It was because he wanted to have something to rejoice in. When he looked back and remembered this day, one that would forever be tainted with regret and marred by humiliation, he did not want to focus on all the anguish and shame, but to feel a swell of joy in his heart to think that while his future lay in tatters, hers was taking flight. And, in an inexplicable way that was entirely irrational, he felt as if this was his gift to her.

He had wanted to give her so much, his all, his everything, but she had refused it (wise woman), and so he told himself that in his failure, he was giving up his achievements and prosperity to bequeath Margaret her happiness. It was all nonsense, of course, he had played no part in her emancipation from a dependant daughter, niece and cousin with no defined home or role of her own, to an independent heiress and woman who could, at last, take control of her own life, a life that had until now been dictated by the wants of others. Yet, he had been prevented from giving her any real present, as both hardship and impropriety prohibited it, so he told himself that he had struck a final deal as a businessman, and had made a contract with fate, offering himself up for her sake. It was a straight-up trade. His future for hers, and he somehow liked the poetry of that, because, after all, had she not accused him of being heartless? Of being able to care for nothing other than buying and selling?

Ha! The truth of her words was deplorably ironic.

But this changed nothing.

His pride for her was immense. She had shown remarkable strength, and now, as a woman of means and maturity, she possessed an unstoppable spirit. He had tormented himself with the idea of going to London to see her, only to dismiss it as folly. Would she refuse to see him? Or worse: would she even remember him after a year? Could her time in Milton have faded into a distant, inconsequential memory, one that she would rather forget?

The notion of her looking upon him with disdain, or harsher still, indifference, weighed heavily on his vulnerable soul. He could not stomach the thought of believing he meant nothing to her while she meant everything to him. And the mere suggestion of seeking her out for financial assistance wounded his pride deeply. He couldn't stoop to that level, especially in her eyes—a worthless, bankrupt manufacturer, once regarded as a tyrant.

Though she would readily aid his workers, she might hesitate when it came to him. He couldn't bear the idea of her viewing him as anything less than the man he once was—a man who, despite his faults, held her in the highest regard, even if just from a distance.

How right she had been not to accept him almost two years ago. Had she already known what he had not? That he was destined for failure? That his self-assurance, his ego, would fall and fracture into smithereens? Perhaps she had. If they had been married now, possibly even with children, he would not have been able to provide for them as he ought. Margaret had never been a vain woman who wanted all that was gold, all that glittered, but even he could see that she would have lamented at their unexpected privation, thinking, for the rest of her days, how much better she could have done if only she had been bold enough to refuse him.

He pondered her whereabouts now, imagining her revelling in her newfound sovereignty with family, friends, and perhaps even a fiancé—though the thought soured his expression momentarily.

No, there was no use scowling over such things. Jealousy had no right to be aggrieved.

No, she was lost to him now.

No, he was nothing to her. He could give her nothing.

No, she deserved better than him.

Should he have gone to her?

No.

Would she have wanted to see him?

Never.

Did they stand a chance of ever being together?

No. Never.

At that moment, the door creaked open, and Williams, the steadfast foreman, cautiously peeked his head around the frame, well aware of the master's fluctuating temperament of late.

‘There’s a visitor for you,’ he announced, his voice tinged with a hint of uncertainty.

‘Business or personal?’ John asked crossly, annoyed at being interrupted, especially when there was nothing to be done now to salvage his position.

‘Both, they say,’ Williams answered.

John stopped.

They? He had not said “he.”

As Williams swung the door open wider and stepped further into the room, John's gaze caught the subtle outline of a brown hat behind its concealing structure, and, all at once, an overpowering deluge of hope flooded from his core.

‘She’s right determined, she won’t be dissuaded,’ said Williams with raised brows, and John felt a spark of hope ignite in his heart.

‘She says you cannot refuse to see her,’ the foreman added.

‘How so?’ John pressed, breathless with suspense, shaking from head-to-toe in anticipation.

Here Williams offered a knowing grin, ‘She says it’s her birthday.’

The End

Chapter Text

MARMALADE MISCHIEF

(The Thornton Tales)

The morning sun streamed in through the mullioned windows of the dining room at Marlborough Mills, casting a mellow golden light across the gleaming table and its neatly folded linens, that peaceful hour before the mill opened a haven of tranquillity—though in truth, tranquillity was nowhere to be found.

At the head of the table sat Mr John Thornton, master of the mill and of this house, flanked—at some peril to his person—by two high chairs. Seated within them, like twin cherubs gone slightly rogue, were his infant sons, Richard and Daniel, some nine months old, and wholly committed to what could only be described as domestic misrule.

Daniel had affixed a piece of toast to his forehead with evident satisfaction and regarded the world with a look of serene absurdity. Richard, meanwhile, pursued a private study into the physics of porridge, launching spoonfuls from his bowl with all the focus of a budding engineer. Much of his research now resided on the floor, the tablecloth, and the right sleeve of his father’s morning coat.

Mr Thornton, unperturbed by this siege upon his person and furnishings, managed to rescue the salt cellar from imminent collapse while maintaining a firm grip on the Milton Times, which he had thus far only skimmed between interventions.

Mr Thornton, unperturbed by this siege upon his person and furnishings, managed—by what must surely have been instinct honed in the mill—to rescue the salt cellar from imminent collapse with one hand, while his other remained firm upon the Milton Times. He sat upright and composed amidst the mayhem, his back straight, his brow slightly furrowed in concentration—not at the mess, but at the latest financial column. He turned a page with the solemnity of a man preparing to sign a treaty, only for a sudden squawk to interrupt his perusal.

Richard had discovered his own foot and was in high-level negotiations with it, while Daniel, his face already bearing the pasty marks of porridge diplomacy, was slapping his tray in apparent protest against trade tariffs.

‘Well now, gentlemen,’ John began, his tone a picture of dignified gravity, as if he addressed a roomful of shareholders rather than two porridge-smeared infants. He folded the paper with the same crisp precision he employed when dismissing a foolish proposal in the boardroom. ‘It appears exports to France are up this quarter. A welcome development for cotton, though no doubt your Uncle Bell in Argentina shall raise objections on the matter of tariffs. Perhaps we ought to pen him a letter and furnish him with our expertise?’

Richard paused mid-foot negotiation and offered an emphatic ‘Ba-ba-ba!’ by way of economic insight.

‘Ah, yes,’ John replied, nodding sagely. ‘Concise, but persuasive.’

Daniel, evidently unimpressed by France’s foreign policy or perhaps by the state of his toast, hurled a buttered crust over his shoulder. It flew with surprising elegance and landed squarely in the teapot with a muted plop.

John arched an eyebrow—only slightly—as he glanced at the teapot, then returned his gaze to his youngest son. ‘Quite so, Richard. Protectionism is an ill-conceived notion. And Daniel, I must confess, I thought the toast rather innocent. Was it truly necessary to sacrifice it to make your point?’

Daniel responded by banging his spoon against the tray as if to say justice must be seen to be done.

The boys erupted into shrieks of glee, clapping their hands and squealing as if they had just personally negotiated a rise in cotton prices. John set aside the Times at last and braced himself, for he had learned that whenever laughter echoed from those high chairs, chaos surely followed.

Sure enough, a porridge-laden spoon was flung into the air, soaring with the elegance of a dove and the velocity of a cannonball. John reached up and intercepted it mid-flight, just inches before it could redecorate the damask curtains. He placed it firmly back on the tray with the quiet resignation of a man who knew this victory would last all of five seconds.

‘You shall be managing Marlborough Mills yourselves soon,’ he murmured, his voice rich with amusement, watching as Daniel attempted to knot a linen napkin about his neck like a tradesman’s cravat. ‘I daresay you’d get on well with the board—half of them fling things about and pout when decisions don’t go their way.’

‘Da-da!’ said Richard emphatically, banging his cup against the tray with such vigour that a splash of milk arced across the table.

John chuckled. ‘Precisely, my son. Milk before profits. Sound priorities.’

Just then, Daniel began to wriggle with purpose, grasping the napkin in both hands and attempting to loop it round the tray in what could only be described as a rudimentary escape attempt. John leaned over, gently prising the cloth from his determined fingers.

‘Oh no, my boy,’ he said, shaking his head as he tied the napkin properly about Daniel’s neck. ‘You’ll not break from your post so easily. There’s marmalade yet to be applied to every available surface.’

Daniel grinned at him—a sticky, lopsided grin of triumph, framed by the one or two teeth he had. Richard kicked his feet in jubilant solidarity.

John surveyed them both with a mixture of pride and exasperation. ‘Two small anarchists in breeches,’ he muttered under his breath, retrieving the salt cellar again, which had somehow made its way back to the brink of disaster. ‘If I had half your energy, the mill would be five times as profitable.’

At that moment, the door opened with a gentle creak, and Margaret entered, wrapped in a soft, knitted shawl that hugged her shoulders. Her hair cascaded in charming chaos, a cascade of curls catching the morning light like a halo. Though she was fully dressed in a simple yet elegant gown, her eyes still carried the soft haze of sleep, blinking softly against the sunbeam that streamed through the window. Her expression was serene, her cheeks flushed with the warmth of slumber.

‘John,’ she murmured with a small, melodious laugh, ‘why ever did you not wake me?’ Thornton gazed at her, mesmerised by the angelic aura that seemed to surround her in the morning glow.

‘You looked altogether too tranquil, my love,’ with a little warmth in his features. ‘I wouldn't dare be the one to deny you this kind of rest.’

Margaret leaned over and bestowed kisses upon her sons, who responded with vigorous kicking and gurgling joy. Daniel immediately reached for her with marmalade-streaked fingers; Richard crowed with unrestrained delight.

‘And how are my Mr Thorntons this morning?’ she inquired, gently extricating her locks from Daniel’s grasp, for no matter how spirited her boys were, Margaret was always the tenderest of mothers.

The boys clapped and squealed in unison. In their fervour, a beaker of milk toppled and cascaded across the linen like a tidal wave of dairy.

‘Oh gracious…’ Margaret murmured, seizing a napkin and blotting at the encroaching spill.

John, having risen and dusted the crumbs from his coat with the poise of a man long accustomed to breakfast battles, leaned forward to kiss her first on the cheek, then—somewhat stickily—on the lips.

Suddenly, Margaret gasped. The twins, those impish little rascals, executed their mischief with all the precision of a well-drilled battalion. The lustrous marmalade jar, not unlike a jewel upon its shelf, had been liberated from its careful placement, precariously perched upon the neighbouring sideboard. With octopus-like tentacles, the boys had reached out and seized their prize.

‘I must be off,’ he declared, his tone light, as if the master of the house had not a care in the world.

One of the lively twins, emboldened by the sugary treasure, gleefully filled his small lap with several fistfuls of the tasty delight, while the other displayed a near-artistic flair, liberally smearing the golden concoction across the polished oak tabletop—a canvas now stained with the exuberance of youthful creativity.

‘John—John!’ Margaret exclaimed, her voice rising to a shrill volume. ‘You cannot simply leave the servants to manage this!’ she cried. ‘They will never forgive us!’

Yet, despite the chaos unfolding within the dining room, John stood poised in the threshold, a picture of studied innocence, as if entirely unaware of the mayhem he had left in his wake.

‘Mill matters, my dear! Most pressing,’ he replied, the corners of his lips twitching upwards into a roguish smirk, his eyes sparkling with puckishness. ‘A man cannot be late for his own business, after all,’ he added, casting a playful wink in her direction before darting off, his footsteps echoing against the staircase with surprising speed.

‘Good luck, love!’ he called back with feigned sincerity, his voice trailing off as he vanished from sight, leaving Margaret to wrestle with her mounting vexation amidst the gooey pandemonium—determined to restore order before the full breadth of their folly descended upon them

‘John Thornton, you shameless coward!’ Margaret called, raising a spoon like a sceptre of maternal justice.

He merely turned, gave a cheeky wink, and vanished.

Margaret turned back to the scene before her: marmalade smeared like modern art, milk puddling beneath the chairs, two sons beaming with the satisfaction of a job thoroughly done. One was waving a spoon like a flag, the other had removed his sock and was engaged in tasting it.

‘And that,’ she muttered, plucking the sock from Daniel’s mouth, ‘is precisely where your cheek comes from.’

As if on cue, Shawn, the housemaid, entered the room, already donning her apron with the air of a woman resigned to breakfast calamities. Her eyes moved swiftly from the table to the high chairs to the orange-streaked floor.

‘Marmalade again, ma’am?’ she said dryly, stepping around the milk.

Margaret handed her the nearly empty jar. ‘I fear the ‘handsome horrors’ have struck once more.’

Shawn shook her head, her expression betraying both exasperation and affection. ‘We’ll be needing a stout wall to separate them from their breakfast chairs if this continues. They are in it together, the pair of them.’

Margaret gave a tired laugh. ‘They’ll have to be prised off like barnacles, I daresay.’

Just then, Richard sneezed—sending a fine mist of oats across the table—prompting Daniel to applaud his brother’s performance.

Margaret laughed and buried her head in her hands. ‘Why do you all put up with us?’ she asked, a playful challenge woven into her words. ‘There are far calmer houses to work for in this town. I shall have to increase your wages tenfold.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Shawn interjected warmly as she hitched up the corners of her aprons and dabbed at their mouths. ‘They might be handfuls, but they are our boys. We love them, as they love us.’ Her grin widened as the boys giggled, one blowing exaggerated kisses in Shawn’s direction, each smacking sound punctuated by peals of delight.

Margaret sighed as she watched their strong, chubby legs thrash about as they attempted to wriggle free from their chairs. ‘Heaven help us when they learn to walk.’

Shawn smiled wisely. ‘Oh, ma’am. When that day comes, we shall have to bolt the tea service to the shelves.’

And with that, the two women exchanged the sort of look known only to those who bear the daily trials of young boys—and the fathers who cunningly flee them.

Chapter Text

B IS FOR BILLY! B IS FOR BOOKS!

(The Thornton Tales)

When John closed the door to the Crampton house, he turned and readied to make his regretful departure back to the mill, away from Margaret. He hated leaving her, the thought that their lives were still separate pained him greatly, but still, he told himself that it would not be long until they lived under the same roof, and they would never need to be parted again. So, while the thought of saying their brief goodbye saddened him, the thought that Margaret would soon be his wife made John smile.

However, when he veered round, he stopped, for he was confronted by an unexpected sight that halted him in his tracks. At the bottom of the steps, stood a boy. He was tall, straggly, with tattered clothes and grubby skin, that was patched with splodges of white and black, the latter as dark as soot. He was scuffing his feet off the pavement in idle boredom. I say feet, because there were more feet down there than shoes, his shoddy excuse for boots having been worn away to a thread, all the way to the point of non-existence.

Billy.

When the boy detected John’s shadow, he glanced up, his eyes vigilant as he surveyed his company, for you see, a boy such as Billy was always in the habit of watching his back, since young lads of ten could not always trust those around them, given that a policeman may be lurking close by, ready to cart them off to gaol or the workhouse for no other offence than that they were poor and a blight upon the city streets and the eyes of the fine folk.

But when he realised who it was, he grinned, a broad, cheeky smile. It would be nice to say that his teeth gleamed, as that is the clichéd turn of phrase, but alas, the small white pearls that had once crowned his mouth were now stained yellow and brown, and John deemed it a mercy that they were still there at all, chipped and crooked as they were.

‘Alright, master,’ Billy hailed, tipping his cap and bowing theatrically. ‘Has you been visiting your girl?’ he asked, knowing fine well that John had, no hint of deference to his mischievous voice.

John, who was accustomed in the art of schooling his features into an impassive mask, did not move a muscle, but inside, he could not help but smirk. There was something about Billy, he did not know what, which he admired, although he would be damned if he ever admitted it.

‘Yes,’ he conceded, taking a step towards the boy, and when they came to both stand upon the pavement, John soared above his companion, boasting nearly double the height. Nevertheless, the boy did not flinch, but rather valiantly stood his ground, and he stared up at the man with endearing bravado. Not only that, but he tried to subtly copy him through straightening his back, squaring his shoulders, and clasping his hands behind his back in a brooding pose, all so that he might emulate some of the master’s impressive bearing.

‘I thought you might be here to see the Miss,’ Billy surmised. ‘Were you kissing her again?’ he asked with a giggle, not minding if he got a thump for his effrontery.

John cleared his throat and opted to change the subject quickly. ‘Ought you not to be at school? Or at work?’ He mentioned school first, because despite employing many children in his mill, John was always of the opinion the young ‘uns ought to in a classroom, not in a factory, that is, if it could be helped, which it often could not.

Billy leapt into the air and reeled round to face the house. ‘I is working,’ he told John. ‘The Mrs has asked me on to do some fetching and carrying for ‘em,’ said he, pulling on his vest smugly, his chest puffed out with pride.

John knew this to be the case, and while he would not wish to deprive Mr Hale of his sovereign entitlement to pay his way in life, he decided that he would try and pay the boy’s wages whenever he could. The Hales needed help, more help than they did, but they were proud, and John had no wish to step on their toes. However, he could not abide to see his lovely Margaret demeaned to the level of a servant, and at least now he had a reason, a right, to help her, so nowt was going to stop him from providing for and protecting his fiancée and her family.

’I’m waiting for the fat one, see,’ Billy explained, and John wondered how long the child would live if he insisted on referring to Dixon in such a way. It was a shame, really, because through the shrewd application of his wit and wiles, the boy had made it this far in life, but it would be a terrible shame if he were to be clobbered over the head with a rolling pin and baked in a pie within a week of arriving at the Hales by their formidable maid, all for the crime of cheek.

John did not know why, but he decided to wait with Billy awhile. He had things to do, places to be. His time was more harried than ever now that he was engaged, given that he was spending more of it here with Margaret, meaning that he could offer less of it to his mistress, the mill. Part of him wished he could request that Margaret spend more time at his house. His mother would not mind, or that is, she would not verbalise her complaints, and that way, he could see Margaret whenever he wished, popping home on the hour, every hour, if he so liked, just to gaze upon her pretty face. But alas, it would not do. For one, that would be selfish of him. And two, Margaret was busy nursing her sick mother, and so, it was right that she should stay here with her, savouring every precious moment they had together before the dear lady departed this earth. Still, there was something about Billy that was winning, and so John lingered, and as he did so, a thought came to mind.

‘When you were at my office the other day, I saw you, looking at my papers. You seemed curious.’

Billy frowned. ‘That ain’t no crime!’ he reminded the magistrate as he jutted his chin up into the air, his jaw taut with the fine lines of intractability.

‘I never said it were,’ John retorted, the bulldog giving as good as he got. ‘But it got me to thinking. Do you have your letters?’

Billy’s head suddenly dropped, the sight of which was most jarring, for it suddenly fell from a great height of self-assurance to a markedly lowered one of demeaning shame.

‘Some,’ he mumbled huffily. ‘Not all. But I has more than some I know.’

‘There!’ he suddenly shouted, pointing to a horse and cart before him. The boy was directing his gaze towards a squiggle which was painted on the side of the wagon. It had an elevated, vertical stem, accompanied by two identical circles that rolled off to the right in parallel lines.

‘B!’ Billy proclaimed proudly. ‘I knows B. B for Billy,’ he told John, almost if the man did not know.

John nodded as he examined the butcher’s dray. ‘Aye, and B for books,’ he added. ‘Would you like to learn to read, Billy? So you could know all the letters and make words? But not just for readin’, but for writin’ and speakin’ too?’

The lad shrugged his shoulders. ‘ ’Course I would, you’d have to be a fool not to, but all that learnin’ ain’t for the likes of me,’ he disparaged.

The master’s brow furrowed. ‘How so?’

The young buck sighed. ‘Ma says that there is some born to great things, and then there is them that ain’t, and I is most surely one who ain’t. Boys like me, we will never even be able to write our own name,’ he said, his whole body wilting with defeat.

A few moments of silence passed between them, and John could not explain what came over him in that interval, but without knowing, without thinking, he found himself saying: ‘Well, if you come to my office tonight, I’ll teach you how to write your name.’

Billy’s head shot up, and he regarded John with wide eyes that shone in the winter sun.

‘Why?’ he demanded to know, his reply crowing all the sharpness of the bite of a pup.

His question may have appeared odd, but you see, Billy had no doubt that the man could teach him, for he knew that Thornton was a clever chap. He was also in no doubt that the man would teach him, for he trusted that Thornton was a man of his word. No, what was niggling Billy, was why such a man, a lion among men, would take the time to help him. He knew of this man, this master and magistrate, who commanded respect everywhere he went. People said he was a just man, but a hard man, the type who carefully weighed and measured everything he did, so it left Billy feeling wary, wondering why he would offer him his help, especially when the lad could offer him nothing in return.

‘What’s in it for you?’ he interrogated. Billy had been offered assistance before, sometimes with clothes, or food, or shelter, but over the years he had come to realise that a boy needed to be savvy, since not all gentlemen were gentle men, and as such, their intentions were more often than not lacking in honour or selflessness.

John, on the other hand, thought on this, but at first, he had no answer to give. It was true, there was nothing in it for him, he gained in no way, and for a man who was steered by profitability and sound business sense, this made no sense. But then he realised who and what this was all about.

Margaret.

John smiled to himself.

It was always about Margaret.

Before he had met her, he would have been unwavering in pursuit of personal or professional benefit. John had always been a generous and giving sort of man at heart, but he had firmly believed that while it was always his duty to do right and be fair, there were those who needed his care, such as his family, and outside of that intimate circle, people were required to fend for themselves. That was the natural order of things, and besides, Milton folk were a proud, independent lot, so they would not take kindly to having charity thrust upon them.

However, since Margaret had come into his life, the ice around John’s heart had thawed and melted away, and now, he was much more compassionate, and so, he felt it his new-found responsibility to help those in whatever modest way he could. That is why it mattered to him that Billy should learn to read, and not just him, but Tom Boucher too, and possibly others besides. He knew that schooling brought long-term advantages for masters and workers alike, but it was more than that, since John appreciated that a man was restricted and shackled in this modern world of theirs, an age of self-made men, if he were illiterate.

Nonetheless, despite this, John did not have a reason to give the boy, or that is, not a plausible one. Perhaps it was all because John knew all too well what it was like to be robbed of his education. Yes, he had gone to school until he was fifteen, he knew far more than Billy did, but all the same, he could have learned more, but the cruelty that was fate had deprived him of that opportunity, much like a pickpocket filching his mind and leaving it unfed and ultimately starving. It had been a pitiless experience, and so John felt it his obligation to take pity on another child and stop it happening to him or her.

‘I do not know,’ John replied at last. ‘I do not have an answer to give you. But I tell you this: I will help you. I want to help you. And you can achieve greatness, if you just put your mind to it. So, my office door will be open tonight at six sharp, and every Monday from now on, and you are welcome to come and read any and all of my books, and I will show you how. It is up to you if you come, I like those who think for themselves, but the decision is yours, and I will leave it with you.’

And with that, John affixed his hat to his head, patted it down, touched the rim as he bowed his head to the lad, and then swiftly left to attend to business. Billy remained there, standing still, his mouth slightly agape in awe as he watched the master go, and there was one thing he knew for certain, beyond the shadow of a doubt, and that was that his life would never be the same again, not now that he had a faithful friend in John Thornton.

The End

Chapter Text

HURRY! MAKE HASTE!

WE WANT TO GO HOME!

(The Thornton Tales)

John and Margaret were both fidgeting, fiddling, and feeling unspeakably frustrated in general, a most disagreeable combination if there ever was one.

As they each cast a restless glance at the clock on the mantel, the hundredth time they had done so in the past hour, they both let out a long and rather loud sigh of exasperation, the volume and vigour of which caused those positioned to their left and right to turn their heads sharply and eye them with a mixture of confusion and annoyance.

Sitting opposite each other from across the expanse of Fanny and Watson’s lavishly decorated dining table, they both tilted their heads, widened their eyes, and shared a conspiratorial grumble, their faces contorting into petulant grimaces.

Four hours!

They had been at this ghastly gathering for four sluggish and darned dreary hours, and it seemed as if it was threatening to go on and on and on until the good Lord interrupted the tedious revelry with his rapture, an event which they both privately thought could not come too soon. As they were thinking this most depressing and disturbing thought, Margaret emitted a restrained moan while John let out a significantly less discreet groan, each rude sound a reflexive response to Fanny clearing her shrill throat so that she might make ready to regale her guests with the tale about how she had acquired her Indian wallpaper, her attention to detail both surprising and painfully mind-numbing. As she swayed tipsily from side to side, the woman had consumed enough wine to knock out a rhinoceros, John and Margaret guessed that this particular version of the riveting story was going to last as long as a Shakespearean play – the unabridged version, mind.

Flopping back against her chair, Margaret tutted while John went one further and folded his arms in a surly sulk, all the while muttering a few choice profanities under his breath.

The couple had very nearly not ventured out at all this evening, but after a lot of whinging from Fanny, flattering from Watson, and coaxing from Hannah, they had finally conceded to get dressed up and dragged off to play their parts as social butterflies. John and Margaret had not even been married a year yet, and much to the disappointment of a miffed Milton society, the new Mr and Mrs Thornton had declined to attend almost every social event that the town had waved under their nose, the two of them choosing instead to remain at home like hermits.

Indeed, rather than swanning around like Lord and Lady Muck, (something that people thought they ought to do, given their unfairly good fortune when it came to youth, attractiveness, commercial success, and wealth), the masters and their wives of the manufacturing elite were peeved to discover that the newlyweds seemed to prefer their own company and had rarely been seen out in public.

However, after the pair had point-blank refused to attend a single party over the festive period of December, due to understandable reasons, Hannah had put her foot down and said that as much as she respected and appreciated their wishes, it was time the lovebirds flew their coop and attended at least one function, especially given that they were the toast of the town, what with Marlborough Mills now being hailed as the most profitable cotton factory in Darkshire. After a great deal of fussing, not to mention fretting, the couple had finally admitted defeat and agreed, which is why they now found themselves at the Watson’s end of January dinner party to celebrate goodness knows what, since Fanny never needed a pretext to hold an extravagant soirée, the woman having more silliness than sense in that head of hers, as John would say, a meanness which Margaret chided him for as she tried not to chuckle.

But why, oh why, did it have to take so long?! How long did it take for one to nibble a few disgusting canapés, make courteous conversation with a  cluster of humdrum strangers, shake one or two sweaty hands, laugh at four or five of Watson’s dreadful jokes, listen to six or sixty of Fanny’s egocentric anecdotes, and then make some sort of polite excuse to depart and then disappear as quickly as one could scarper with one’s dignity still intact? Not four hours, nine minutes, and forty-three seconds, surely!

Peeping at her husband from below her long eyelashes, Margaret could see that he was getting terribly hot and bothered under his starched collar, his cravat tied far too tight and no doubt making him cross and crotchety as it cut off his circulation. She could tell that John was tapping his leg beneath the table, his thick thighs trembling as his foot tetchily thumped on the floor so fast that if his heart tried to keep up with the punishing pace, it would most certainly cease to beat and seize up from exhaustion. Gnawing her lip, Margaret could see that he was in one of his sullen and snappy huffs because his eyes were narrowed, his jaw was taut, his lips were clamped into a thin line, his nostrils were flared, and his head was hung low in that menacing way of his. To be sure, Margaret felt a tad concerned that if someone said so much as boo to John, he would bark at them and bite their head off, such was the king’s temper tonight at being forced to abandon his castle and all the treasures that lay within.

Although, to be fair, Margaret could not help but smile a little, since despite his evident tetchiness, her husband was looking mightily handsome this evening in his silver waistcoat and blue necktie, the colour of which set off his dazzling eyes, causing them to smoulder like burning blue coals, not that there was such a thing, but still. Even though Margaret would never let on, she actually quite liked it when her husband grumped in the way he was tonight. It was a girlish fancy of hers, a foible even, since Margaret always felt that John was at his most strikingly good-looking when he was brooding, something which made him irresistible to her, affecting her body to yearn for him in a way which still made her turn as red as a radish. It was as if his whole features and figure took on a wild quality, giving him a most roguish visage, one which quite undid her if truth be told, a fact which her husband had soon cottoned onto and now frequently used to his benefit when he wanted his wicked way with her.

However, her attention was soon filched as John took out his pocket watch and then sniffed, snorted and scowled in succession, the man at his wits end with aggravation at being kept here against his will.

Margaret giggled under her breath. Oh, John! Her dear boy, how she loved him.

In turn, John’s sulking was interrupted as he suddenly glanced up from his interrogating inspection of the floor, his agitated eyes at once arrested by the sight of his wife smirking at him. God! – she was so beautiful! All at once, John felt his body still, (and stiffen slightly), as he looked upon her with undisguised adoration and attraction. His Margaret, she was so unreasonably lovely, and John found that he could do nothing but stare at her in awestruck wonder. She was wearing that dress that he had bought her, the material thin and delicate, the hue a subtle blend of pale golds, the fabric so fine that it looked like her flawless porcelain skin glowed by the light of a thousand candles from within, a halo forming around her most pretty and pleasing form.

However, despite her customary comportment of charm and composure, John could tell that Margaret was not comfortable, since she was chewing her bottom lip in the way she did when she was jittery, and he could see her twisting something round and round in her small hands on her lap, no doubt her napery. As Margaret inclined her head so that she could hear the extremely piggish fellow sitting next to her natter monotonously at a deafening decibel about shipping his goods to America, John could discern that she was not listening. Yes, even although Margaret smiled and nodded at all the right intervals, always the refined southern lady of breeding who knew how to be a delightful table companion, he could tell that her mind was miles away, back at home, the nest which she had reluctantly been forced to forsake. With a frown of husbandly vexation, John vowed to make sure he got her back as soon as he could, the man was always devastated to see his wife look unhappy, something which thankfully was not a frequent occurrence.  

Nonetheless, despite his longing to escape this profligate party and retreat to the sanctuary of his own four walls, John could not help but grin to himself. He was such a lucky so-and-so! While all the women sat around him were gaudy with their overly trimmed trinkets and trussed up frocks that were so bright it was a wonder he was not blind, his Margaret, his remarkable Meg, she was the very definition of modesty and majesty with her unpretentious gown and natural grace. John’s ardent eyes darted to take in the small yellow roses that adorned her hair, each one tiny and hardly noticeable, but he knew they were there all the same. After a trifling tiff during their engagement, John had made a promise to himself to give Margaret at least one flower every day of their marriage, and so far, he had been true to his word, and those roses were today’s humble offering from one man to his woman, his world entire.

John thought about how in an attempt to make her feel more excited about the dinner, he had gifted her a set of elegant yellow rose pins from the same Helstone jewellers from which he had acquired her engagement ring, the proprietor only too happy to send them up to John on the northbound train. While she had sat at her dressing table tonight, Margaret had looked up at his reflection in the mirror with something akin to dreamy reverence, and in turn, John had stood behind her and gently placed the floral pins into her neatly arranged hair one-by-one, hiding them with quixotic amusement between the strands of her chestnut locks, waiting on her like a most willing servant. John had been overcome with a longing to scoop her up in his arms and negate his promise to quit the house this night, since it was offensively unfair to expect a husband to leave the refuge of his bedroom when his wife was looking as radiant and ravishing as ever, the woman being a true Helstone rose plucked and replanted in Milton, this rare flower’s new and permanent dwelling place.

Gazing at her now, John’s chest puffed out in pride to think that this goddess was his one and only, just as he was hers, and out of all the men in all the world, he would be the lucky one to escort Margaret home tonight and take her to his bed, a cosy haven where he fully intended to show her just how special she was to him in every conceivable way.

John laughed under his breath. Oh, Margaret! His darling girl, how he loved her.

Before they had left their bedroom tonight, the couple had stopped, stilled, and stared at each other, their breathing ragged, their hearts beating far too fast to be salubrious. With heaving lungs, prickling flushes, and skin itching with longing, they had fought to quell the erratic eruption of emotions which surged within them. They had held each other’s gaze for an obscenely long period, their bodies slowly but surely inching nearer, until at last, they had stood wonderfully close, their aching limbs brushing against each other in irritated impatience, screaming out for them to touch with scandalous intimacy. As their panting mouths drifted closer, they had felt each other’s hot breath tickling their skin, and their minds were flooded with indecent thoughts that they could no longer ignore.

They had not done anything remotely like this for weeks, not since…well, not since their ability to do so had been disrupted and temporarily suspended, pleasantly so, but still. But then, who was to say that tonight, they could not….there was nothing stopping them…perhaps it was time…yes…they could again…at last…if only they could ─

But then there had been a boisterous knock at their door, Dixon’s knock, and this had caused the couple to jolt out of their trance, and after springing back in alarm and shaking themselves out of their sensual and seductive stupor, they had both blushed, shuffled away in clumsy self-consciousness, and made ready to leave for the Watson’s.

Now that dinner was over, John found himself slouching against the wall in the shadows of the drawing room like a towering tree that was dangerously close to falling over. As he listened with distracted disinterest to Hamper blather on like a right boor about how the union had cost him a small and sore fortune of late, John’s eyes darted to the side so that he might peer at his wife with unapologetic enthralment. With his lips curling upwards in satisfaction, he found her almost at once, since she was never difficult to find.

For one, John was so tall that locating anyone was not really a problem for the lofty giant who tended to be head and shoulders above his average-sized acquaintances. Secondly, Margaret was the most damned irresistible woman in any room, meaning that the graceful swan that was his wife stood out in the crowd of ugly ducklings like a sore thumb. Well, not a sore thumb exactly, but John was not so good at expressing how enchanting he found his lover, so we must not blame him for his lack of eloquence. And lastly, Margaret, in her infinite sweetness, somehow seemed to radiate warmth and light wherever she went, the sunshine of her gentle and generous soul overflowing from her every pore and making her shine with purity. As a result, John never found it hard to find her, his own soul always feeling lonely if its twin was not near at hand.

At the same time, as Margaret listened to Mrs Slickson drone on about her latest servant crisis, the young lady stole a sly glimpse around the room so that she might hunt for – ah there he was! With hardly any effort at all, Margaret discovered John standing across the room staring at her with blatant fascination, although, to be honest, he was always looking at her. Margaret had once considered that her husband’s unremitting affection and attention would perhaps cause her embarrassment in public, the woman being of a shy disposition, but in fact, this could not be further from the truth. Indeed, Margaret found it oddly comforting to know that his devotion was so resolutely steadfast, the knowledge of his fierce fidelity allowing her to feel safe and strong all at once. Certainly, John may have been a formidable figure to his fellow men and masters, but to Margaret, the resilience of her husband’s power of body, sharpness of mind, and force of character, did not cause her to feel intimidated, but in contrast, they only served to inspire her with a sense of serenity and fortitude.

As their eyes met from across the crowded room, they both shared a secret smile, one which was small, soft, and tenderly soulful. John loved how Margaret always looked for him when they were apart, even if they were only separated by a few feet. She was a lioness, a creature of magnificence and valour who could not be tamed or daunted, but still, it filled him with a strange manly pride to know that this woman who was both beautiful and benevolent still sought his presence and found both comfort and courage in it. In turn, Margaret loved how John, the man of the hour, the one person whom everyone always bustled to speak to in the hopes of gaining advice relating to trade or the law, only seemed to have eyes and ears for her and her alone. Well, perhaps she and one other Thornton woman, thought Margaret, as Watson raised his glass to her in greeting from beside the piano where Fanny was playing as noisily as her nimble fingers would warrant.

To be sure, that is why John and Margaret were both beside themselves with pent-up frustration tonight. It was because they wanted to go home, now, right away, at once, so that they might return to their own little world where they were alone, a private paradise away from the prying eyes of the world, a place where they could cherish the treasured fruits of their marriage and bask in their bond of love, loyalty and laughter. And tonight, well, they had something very specific they wanted to do, and sharing a knowing smirk, they each acknowledged that there was a certain somebody they wanted to see a lot more of.

Swaying coquettishly and grinning like giddy schoolchildren, they wordlessly communicated all the clandestine confidences of their heart from their own secluded and shaded corners of the Watson’s drawing room. While he winked, she waved, and they both spoke to each other from across the void, the other guests none the wiser to their furtive conversation.

‘Hurry!’ he griped. ‘Make haste!’ she grumbled. ‘We want to go home!’ they protested and pleaded in chorus.

Rolling their eyes and shaking their heads drolly, they both glanced at the clock for the hundredth time plus one, and they decided there and then with a firm nod of their heads that it was well and truly time to go home. Making their excuses and wishing Hannah a fond farewell for the night, Mr and Mrs Thornton said their goodbyes, hauled on their coats and scarves, scurried off out the door, bundled into their carriage, and bid the driver to look lively and trundle back to Marlborough Mills as swiftly as the horses would cart them.

Once they had arrived back in the familiar surroundings of the mill yard, the night dark, the air cold, the snow thick beneath their boots, Margaret and John both hopped out of the hansom cab and rushed as fast as their legs could carry them towards the house. Once inside, they tore off their outer clothes and near enough threw them at the poor butler before fleeing up the stairs, taking them two (sometimes three), at a time. Holding hands, Margaret dragged John behind her with a sense of urgency and energy which quite astounded him. Laughing heartily, John pulled her close and kissed the crown of her head in response to her endearing enthusiasm, the wisps of her hair tickling his nose. John too was as eager as a puppy to get upstairs, and he could hardly wait to hold and kiss his precious girl, something which he had been desperate to do all night long.

When they reached the landing, they both raced along the passageway, sprinting and skidding right past their bedroom, the two of them coming to a grinding halt outside a closed door. Pausing to calm down, they looked at each other and smiled before sharing a brief yet delicious kiss, their mouths lingering in delectable bliss. Then, with their combined hands bearing down on the handle, they quietly slipped inside. Peering into the darkness, John and Margaret tiptoed onwards as unobtrusively as two mice, their stealthy steps sneaking towards something which reposed in the middle of the room.

Coming to rest by its side, they both let out a sigh of relief, their tense shoulders sagging as all the anxiety and agitation which had been hounding them for the past four and a bit hours left the couple and floated away into nothingness.

Leaning their heads together, they both sighed contentedly and wrapped their arms around each other, her head cushioned against his chest, his head dipping so that his chin rested on her shoulder.

Standing cautiously still and silent, John and Margaret gazed down at the most perfect and precious jewel in the whole wide world. It was a bundle of joy with ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes, a sweet angel who was made from half of him and half of her, a baby girl who was no more than six weeks old. As she slumbered serenely in her crib, none the wiser to her mother and father’s doting cooing, her chest rose and fell, her fingers twitched, her arms stretched, and she let out a dreamy yawn, all of which affected her smitten parent’s hearts to melt at the sight of their darling dove who was healthy and happy.

Oh, how they had missed her!

Gazing into each other’s eyes, John and Margaret knew that right here, right now, this was precisely where they wanted to be, these three Thorntons together, one, two, and she. After rubbing noses like a pair of affectionate cats, they both bent down so that they might bestow a loving kiss on their daughter’s cheek, this tiny and utterly treasured Thornton that they loved beyond compare. As they did this, John and Margaret smiled and placed one of their fingers in each of her outstretched hands, and as she curled her teensy fingers around their larger ones, they both whispered as softly and as tenderly as can be:

‘Here we are, little one, we’re finally home!’

The End

Chapter Text

After All...

(Before We Were Us)

The train pulled into the station was an ominous screech. At last, they had arrived. Each of the four passengers in the compartment silently grappled with their own feelings. Mr Hale was feeling guilty for having brought his family here at all. Mrs Hale was afraid of what was to become of them. Dixon was dismayed that it should have come to this. And as for Margaret, she did not know what she felt. Not yet, anyway. If anything, she was curious. As she watched all the people milling past with their determined strides that spoke of purpose, she craned her neck to look at the sky. It was not remotely blue as it had been when they had left Helstone, but a thick grey that blocked out the sun with its billowing smoke from the chimneys that she could see towering high above the expanse of the city. She wondered what this meant. Was it an omen, she thought? One sent to forewarn her that things were about to change for the worse? That nothing good grew here in this metropolis built upon the bones of poverty and the backbone of greed? That this place would stifle all her hopes of happiness and suffocate it in its decaying smog? She prayed not. But she was curious all the same because even if this strange netherworld was assaulting every single one of her senses, not to mention her sensibilities, she felt oddly stirred by it all. Even in the few minutes since they had arrived in the town that would become their new home, Milton, she had discerned a oneness with it, and she could feel, deep in her soul, an awakening that refused to be quelled. She did not know what awaited her here, whether it be good or bad or somewhere in between, but she was ready and willing to embrace, come what may. Yes, she was home now, she knew herself to be. So, you see, it did not matter what her family said, because, for Margaret, she was a woman embarking on the next act in the play that was her life, a fresh start in which she was determined to be not a victim of doubt or fear, but a person of courage, conviction, compassion, and above all else, character. 

After all...a girl should always be the heroine of her own story.

The End

Chapter Text

THE POWER OF EMPATHY

(The Thornton Tales)

And (Parodies and Other Suck Poppycock)

In the heart of Victorian Milton, where soot-stained factories cast the sky in shades of charcoal and winter stroked the northern town with its icy fingers, the Thornton residence proudly stood amid the clamour of industry. The air, saturated with the fragrance of coal and ambition, took on a different essence on this crisp Christmas morning.

Within, the parlour was bathed in a soft glow and the comforting warmth of a crackling fireplace. Yet, a tangible sense of anticipation filled the space as the Thornton children awaited their mother's return so that they could start their cherished Christmas breakfast, an annual feast they had awaited patiently for months. The prospect of her imminent arrival heightened the festive atmosphere, with several pairs of eyes peering out of the window as tiny toes tipped and tiny legs stretched tall.

The Thornton family was well-respected in the community. At the helm was John, the firm but fair owner of a prosperous cotton mill. He ran his business shrewdly, and his diligence had served him well, for he was now the most highly respected master and magistrate in the county. Nevertheless, with the wealth that surrounded them, the Thornton children had been taught the value of humility and empathy by both of their parents who had each known their distinct share of bitter hardship during their early lives.

Within this Christmas scene, John, a man of steadfast character, weathered by the demands of an industrial age, stood in the glow of a flickering hearth, his hands calloused from a lifetime spent toiling in the bustling mill. Beside him, he awaited the return of his wife, Margaret, a woman of grace and resilience, whose laughter echoed through the corridors of their home like the comforting melody of a carol.
Furrowing his brow, he cast another glance at the clock, silently hoping for her swift return. In her absence, a peculiar sense of incompleteness settled upon him, as if he were not his whole self when she was absent from his side; Margaret, his wife, his joy, his pride. Yet, he found comfort in the knowledge that she was exactly where his wife belonged—among the people of Milton, her people. Despite the characterised exultation of the season, the harsh reality lingered that many were grappling with the plight of suffering. Among them were the poor, the sick, and those burdened by grief, and Margaret possessed a unique gift—a heart overflowing with selfless love—that she bestowed upon those in need.

Still, he was not alone. Before him stood his brood of children, a lively ensemble of eight souls—Maria, Richard, Nicholas, Lizzie, Hannie, Frederick, and George. Each child, a distinct personality with a unique blend of looks inherited from both of their parents, served as a living testament to the enduring love that had blossomed between the couple. As he gazed upon this diverse and cherished assembly, it was as if their very existence painted a portrait of the profound bond shared by their mother and father, an enduring legacy embodied in the laughter, quirks, and individual brilliance of each beloved child.

As they passed the morning, the mantel clock ticked with the deliberate pace of time itself, signalling the advent of a day steeped in tradition. In the festively adorned parlour, where holly garlands intertwined with candles flickering in windowsills, the children gathered around a majestic Christmas tree. Its branches bore handcrafted baubles of wood and paint, a testament to the nimble fingers of factory workers who, like the Thorntons, moulded joy from the hardened hands of an unforgiving era.

Earlier in the day, before their mother set out on her rounds, the children had unwrapped presents—tokens of affection from both their parents as well as others, such as Mary Higgins. Maria's eyes widened as she revealed a hand-knitted shawl, an artistic masterpiece crafted by her grandmother. Richard clutched a wooden toy train, its meticulous paintwork a tribute to the craftsmanship thriving in a town bound by the unyielding ties of industry.

As the children revelled in the simple yet profound joy of these handmade treasures, John and Margaret had shared a silent moment of gratitude. Amidst a world dominated by clanging machines and ceaseless motion, the gifts beneath the tree exuded a warmth that transcended the frigid atmosphere of greed and maternalism that lay outside.

Finally, after what felt like an age, the door creaked open, and a gust of cold air heralded Margaret's arrival. She entered, her cheeks rosy from the winter chill, her modest bonnet adorned with delicate white lace, her chestnut curls coiled over her temple. An excited hubbub erupted in the room as her children rose from their entertainments to greet her, their arms wrapping around her legs and waist as they clung to her and squeezed her tight.

"Mother, you're home!" exclaimed Hannie, the youngest daughter kissing her mother’s shrouded knee, this being the highest point she could reach.

"Indeed, my dears, I am," Margaret replied, her voice as peaceful as a summer breeze. She enveloped Hannie in a tender embrace before bending down to the others and kissing them on the cheek in turn. "Now, let us gather for our Christmas breakfast,” she invited, taking George, her slumbering baby boy, in her arms, impatient to bestow a doting smile on him when he awoke. “I know how long you have waited patiently.”

The children hastily rushed to take their seats at the dining table which glistened with glazed goose, golden pastries, and bowls of fresh fruits. The tantalising aroma filled the room, and the children's faces gleamed with delight, their eyes almost as big as their stomachs.

With everyone settled into their places, John cleared his throat, a subtle signal commanding attention. The children shifted their focus toward him, their faces illuminated by the radiant glow of the Christmas tree that twinkled with dozens of white sentinel candles.

"My family, let us express our gratitude to God for the blessings bestowed upon us this day," he uttered, contemplating the abundance of benedictions that had graced his once unhappy life—a fortune of true and unadulterated happiness that went beyond the aspirations of any one man.

Yet, as John spoke, Margaret's gaze retained a pensive quality, a fleeting shadow crossing her face and unsettling her mood. The children, attuned to their mother's nuances, exchanged curious glances. At the head of the table, John, vigilant, studied his wife closely, sensing a shift in the atmosphere.

"Margaret, love, what troubles you?" he inquired quietly, concern drawing furrows on his forehead.

Margaret hesitated, her eyes flickering between the abundance before her and the memory of the Humble family she had visited earlier that morning. The Humbles, as their name suggested, had very little, pitifully little, pathetically little, and they were near enough destitute in their cramped hovel of a house that played host to rats and dampness.

She shifted restlessly in her chair, her eyes dropping to look at her happy, healthy baby who knew nothing but contentment. "I find that I cannot enjoy this feast knowing that there are those in our community who have nothing on this day," Margaret confessed, her voice carrying a quiet determination.

The room fell silent.

“Those who are happy and successful themselves are too apt to make light of the misfortunes of others,” said Hannah, John’s mother, with sober reflection. “You are right, Margaret, that we should remember the less fortunate today,” she spoke, reflecting that without the benevolence of her daughter-in-law, a woman who, having enjoyed the freedom to carve her own path in the world, had not been obligated to extend such munificence to the Thorntons all those years ago, they might have found themselves once again teetering on the brink of poverty.

"We have indeed been blessed with plenty, but there are others who go hungry," Margaret continued with a pang of shame, her words laced with guilt to think of those poor children crying from starvation, their faces thin, their limbs nothing but skin and bone. "It does not rest easy with me, that is all,” she finished, not wishing to dull her family’s spirits with her miserable thoughts. It was not their fault, after all, that others were poor while they were rich.

John leaned in closer to his wife, wishing he could take away her sadness. “Come! Poor little heart! Be cheery and brave,” he whispered to her with trembling tenderness. “We'll be a great deal to one another,” he promised, and, at this, she smiled fondly in return at her husband’s softness, a faithful light in the darkness of sorrow.
Once more, a sombre silence enveloped the room, and Margaret soon regretted having ever mentioned anything. She wished she could rewind the moment and retrieve the lightness that had momentarily dissipated. The weight of the lingering quiet echoed in her thoughts, and she found herself yearning for the carefree celebrations that had characterised the gathering just moments before. In the stillness, she resolved to steer the conversation back to brighter shores, determined to cast away the shadow that had momentarily clouded the familial atmosphere.

However, her children, with hearts full of goodwill, harboured different intentions.

“Well,” piped up Daniel with his customary confidence, his blonde hair and blue eyes giving him an uncanny resemblance to his uncle, Fred. "Why not share it?" he suggested with perfect simplicity, his youthful voice carrying the innocent wisdom of a child.

“I think it's an excellent plan,” Richard concurred with the same manner of decisive headship his father possessed. “Let's share our Christmas breakfast with the Humble family and our factory workers. We can extend the warmth of our hearth to those in need."

“Oh, yes!” Elizabeth exclaimed, clutching her doll close. “We can visit our friends,” she added with glee, envisioning the playful company of boys and girls who found joy in getting their clothes dirty, far more entertaining than the stuffy ones who never dared.

Nicholas, stabbing a sausage with his fork, thrust it into the air. “They can have my dinner, Ma, Pa!” he cried out, his face beaming with pleasure.

Maria, the responsible elder sister, nodded in agreement. “And let's share our gifts, too. Waking up to so many beautiful toys is a privilege we shouldn't take lightly when so many have none at all,” she assessed, her face the very picture of her mother's, her heart equally gentle and generous. “After all, if you do not think too much about yourself, but try to do good to others, you will find yourself a happy person,” she said, reciting one of her favourite books.

There was a pregnant pause as the three adults contemplated this unexpected turn of events. The air seemed to thicken with contemplation, each mind processing the possibilities of the children’s ambitious idea.

"Well?" asked Margaret, her gaze anchored on John. The anticipation in the room lingered, and she awaited his response. "What say you, husband?"

The air held a charged expectancy as the family turned to their leader, their eyes reflecting hope and curiosity. At first, John wore a serious expression, as if lost in contemplation, but then a broad smile gradually spread across his face.

“I think our children have shown us what we must do, wife,” he said at last, settling the matter.

“Out of the mouths of babes,” Margaret replied, her eyes awash with gladness.
With a cheer, they all rose, and with a lively display of unity, the Thornton family transformed the meticulously prepared breakfast into baskets and trays. The grand feast, once a symbol of familial abundance, now stood as a beacon of bountifulness, ready to be shared with those less fortunate. Racing to the door, the children adorned themselves with scarves and mittens, prepared to brave the winter's chill, and so, against the dim glow of gas lamps lining the cobblestone streets, the Thorntons embarked on their journey through the town.

As they went on their way, people came out to greet them, their threadbare coats and shawls wrapped tightly around their shoulders. Meanwhile, in Princeton, the astonishing sight of a mill master offering sustenance and camaraderie to his employees on this special day brought tears to the eyes of the workers. John Thornton, often perceived as stern and unyielding, shared a rare smile with his employees. He was respected, and more than that, people wished him well, because a good character is worth more than all the wealth in the world, for what defines us is how we treat others, not our social status, and the legacy we leave behind is not measured in material possessions, but in the impact we have on others.

With their parents by their side to guide them, the children, hands filled with gifts, eagerly moved through the crowd, distributing bundles of food and clothes to grateful hands. The workers, their eyes reflecting the flickering candles that peered out at the scene from frosty windows, accepted these offerings with a nod of genuine gratitude, for, you see, kindness is a language that everyone understands.

The merriment unfolded as the Thornton family, alongside the Humble family and the factory workers, returned to Marlborough Mills where they prepared and presented a provisional feast in the warehouses, each household contributing their modest offerings with unselfish willingness.

Within this hallowed moment, the boundaries that class and wealth had erected crumbled to dust in the face of their stark similarities The sheds, a cavernous space echoing with the symphony of chatter and laughter, welcomed everyone, rich and poor, as they joined the rejoicing assembly. Long tables groaned under the sumptuous weight of the hearty fare, and a delicious haze of roasted meats and spiced puddings hung in the air.

After a while, John stood up on a bench, and with his voice carrying through the hall like a hymn, he spoke to the gathered assembly of workers, their faces etched with lines of labour and resilience. "My friends,” he called out in his deep drawl. “On this Christmas Day, let us cast aside the burdens of our daily toil and revel in the camaraderie that binds us. For you, the lifeblood of our town, we offer tokens of appreciation—a gift of coal to warm your hearths, oranges to brighten your tables, and knitted garments to shield against the winter's embrace."

A thunderous applause filled the room, punctuated by the sight of men enthusiastically removing and waving their caps, while women swirled their skirts in jubilation. The collective rhythm of fists joyously pounding on the table accompanied three resounding cheers for the Thorntons.

And so, the night progressed, and the mill yard underwent a captivating transformation, evolving into a vibrant medley of shared stories and laughter. The strains of a violin played with masterful tenderness, seamlessly blended with the gentle murmur of conversations, crafting a harmony that blended as a poignant tune of common humanity, reminding them all that people were simply people, no matter their background. At the heart of the celebration, the Thorntons stood as witnesses to the exquisite beauty of unity intricately interwoven into the very essence of their identity. The unfolding scene demonstrated the fact that we are all, at the core, the same. And as the irrepressible flames of hope gracefully danced in the eyes of those courageously facing the challenges of an unforgiving world, man and master were temporarily at peace, for it is true that we are all connected, and our actions ripple through the world.

As the day drew to a close, the Thornton children looked at their parents with newfound admiration. The memory of a Christmas day that surpassed opulence and privilege lingered in their hearts, shaping them into compassionate individuals who understood the true meaning of the season. In the embrace of that Christmas night, the Victorian era's harsh realities seemed to soften, if only for a moment. The industrial town of Milton, often polluted by the inevitable grime and greed that go hand in hand with progress, revealed a hidden hope—a people bound not only by necessity but by the enduring threads of compassion and community.

After all, it was a wise woman who once said: “The power of empathy can change the world.”

Chapter Text

THE FAIRY TALE OF THE SUN WHO MARRIED THE MOON

(The Thornton Tales)

It was several years after Margaret had married Mr Thornton, that Henry Lennox strolled through the woods of the New Forest with his son, the sunshine bathing the scene in a pool of golden light, his greying hair glinting as the rays frolicked across the landscape in their merry dance of May.

As he passed underneath the canopy of trees, their jade and fern leaves waved at him like hands swaying in the breeze, and the light which shone down from a clear blue sky winked at him as he passed beneath the branches which yawned and stretched lazily in the heat. Henry sometimes came here when the smog of London stifled his spirit and he longed to breathe in the purity of the country and bask in the unpolluted simplicity of nature, the ancient healer soothing his soul with all her hidden gems of wisdom and wonder. Today, as he listened to the birds who chirped away cheerfully in the trees and smelt the flowers as they spread their vivid arms of garlanded petals out in wide welcome as they greeted the genesis of this new day, Henry felt reinvigorated by the fresh air which filled his lungs and cast a spell of calming peace upon his unhappy heart. Although, at times, his eyes still flitted furtively to the band of black around his arm and his heart cried a clandestine river once more.

As they made their way leisurely through the long grass, he pointed to the old parsonage which sat across the fields of patchwork green.

"There, son,' said he, 'that is where the goddess lived once upon a time in days of old.'

'What happened to her?' asked the child as he strained to see, but he knew all too well, since his father had told him this fairy-tale many, many times before.

Henry sighed nostalgically. 'Well, my boy, she married a man. Not a prince in a castle, nor an ogre of the hills, no, he was just a man like you and I,' he replied, trying his very best not to let remorse taint his tone, but then again, he was pleased to note that after all this time, it was getting easier not to give way to regret, a private yearning for what might have been.

But the boy frowned in confusion. 'But why did the goddess marry him if he was just a mere mortal?' he questioned broodingly, the freckles of his tanned cheeks dimpling. 'Surely it was never meant to be,’ he decreed.

Henry's eyes, which had sparkled with the fond gleam of happy memories, faded into sadness for a moment, the film of his orbs coated with the glaze which derives from a look of naked lament.

He gazed down to the ground and thought this through as he studied the fertile soil beneath his feet, for it was a question he had asked himself many times before. 'No,' he said quietly, reflectively.

‘She was probably not meant to marry him, since you see, it was a strange hand of fate which brought them together. They may never have met, may never have known each other, and things could have been different for us all, you especially, my child, but out of all the people and all the places in the world, providence introduced her to him and him to her,' Henry explained, nodding his head as if to remind himself that he too ought to hear and heed the truth of this tale.

'They were from different worlds, her and he, she from the mild south and he from the bitter north, but she blew into his life like a summer breeze and brought it a radiant warmth which melted his icy heart. They were as different as the moon and the sun, but sometimes such differences tug two polar souls together and nothing can ever tear them apart, for it is written in the stars that the moon and the sun might be as different as day and night, but they need each other to survive,' he revealed, his voice melodic with the philosophy of the poets.

‘And which was she?’ checked the lad. ‘The sun or the moon?’

Henry chuckled. ‘Why the sun of course, for she is light, she is laughter, she is life, and she is love.’

As the boy tipped back his head and scrunched up his eyes, he peered up at the baking sun who reigned in all its majestic glory high in the heavens. ‘The man must really have loved her,’ he deduced, since he thought it must take the courage of a knight in a storybook to marry something as bright and beautiful as the sovereign star.

Henry nodded his head, half sadly, half sagely. 'Yes, he did, for who could not?’ he tested. ‘With just one look, one touch, he was lost to her, and he would never be the same again, since he was a changed man through and through, for the purity of her love held mythical powers. And after that, their souls and spirits forged a bond and made a vow to always be together forever. So, son, it was destiny who decided for them, it was love who gave its blessing for the mortal man to win her hand and wed her heart, and so, the sun married the moon and that was that. He may not have been terribly special in the narrow eyes of the world, but to her, well, he was her world entire,’ Henry described, a curious blend of admiration and angst gilding his words as they escaped his lips.

The boy thought on this for a moment and nodded. 'And was she happy, Father?' he asked with the earnest entreaty of a child, since in the end, children know that such humble aspirations are all that really matters in this life.

At this, Henry gazed into the distance, and his eyes fell upon that sheltered spot below the trees where he had come across a slumbering angel lying in the grass, his heart so full of hope, only for it to die its death before the hour was out, a fleeting optimism, but one which had beat true in his masculine breast. There, in the corner, if he looked carefully, he could see a lattice of yellow peering shyly back at him, a trellis of roses he would guess, the blossoming buds having been reborn in the shade, so it would seem.

But he was not sad, no, for he smiled, and the skin around his eyes wrinkled for the first time in weeks. Then, as the wind carried away his cares across the Helstone Hamlet, at last setting his captive heart free, Henry simply whispered:

'Yes...and so she should be.'

The End

Chapter Text

THE ICE QUEEN

(AN ANN LATIMER STORY)

The Swiss finishing school nestled in the Alps, decorated in pure, pristine white snow, as white as the virginal ladies who dwelt within, was where the ice queen was formed. The secluded chateau was a beacon of refinement and sophistication that called to the families of the newly rich, inviting them to send their daughters to be finished and ready to send out into society as docile, dutiful dolls to dangle off the arms of their future husbands.

It was a place where girls like Ann Latimer sought to not only polish their manners but also find that indefinable charm that would make them the epitome of grace, the woman out of all of the women he could choose from, that a man would wish to be his wife. Ann, with her blonde hair and serene grey eyes, stood out amongst her peers, her delicate features hinting at a vulnerability that belied her seemingly composed exterior. She was a jovial soul, gentle, and full of hope. And, oh, how she loved to talk.

It was against this backdrop that Ann met Edward Harrington, the son of one of the patrons. He was a striking young man, so impressive, in fact, that one would think he had stepped right out of a novel. He was adept at giving charming compliments, his smouldering gaze was like a ray of sunshine, and if he should look at you, your heart would be sure to flutter in your breast with a swoon. Indeed, tall and confident, with a gleam in his hazel eyes, Edward possessed the kind of charisma that drew people in effortlessly.

They had first encountered one another at a ball, and under a canopy of twinkling stars, they had embraced and swayed as one, their awe-struck shyness speaking for itself and speaking volumes as they danced the night away.

Ann, in her endearing unworldliness, found herself utterly captivated by his innate magnetism. Their acquaintance blossomed into companionship during afternoon strolls through the snow-covered grounds. Edward's words dripped from his lips with the pleasantness of golden honey, and he spoke of a tenderness so profound that it seemed to reach higher than the very mountains that surrounded them, touching the heavens with its celestial poetry. Ann, with her romantic sensitivities, was enchanted and found herself quite hopelessly in love.

As winter turned to spring, the two became inseparable. Ann's laughter was like sweet music in the halls as she shared her heart’s most sacred confidences with Edward amidst the blooming flowers of the Swiss countryside, the vivid petals peeking open to smile at them coyly. The school hummed with excited whispers of their romance, and Ann became the affectionate envy of every other girl, for it seemed that she had truly found the love story she had always wished-for, ever since she was a little girl, and her mother had told her she was not pretty enough to ever find true happiness.

However, unbeknownst to Ann, the charming Edward harboured a dark secret. His affections were not stirred by love but were goaded by a more sinister motive. In the dimly lit corners of the school grounds, he would converse with a mysterious stranger, a man with a shadowed face, discussing a plan that would ultimately shatter Ann's world. It was one evening when she was hidden behind shelves of leather-bound books, Ann could hear voices floating up from beneath an open window, and leaning closer, she listened as Edward spoke of an impending fortune that would come his way.

‘She believes every word, the stupid child. Once we marry, her father will bestow a generous dowry that I will seize at once, and when he dies, I will have the lot,’ Edward sneered, his manner a repugnant undertone that raked against their uplifting surroundings.

‘And will it be enough to pay off your debts?’ his confidant asked with a hoarse voice that was lined with whisky.

‘Yes, and more!’ Edward replied with scorn. ‘I will be as rich as Croesus!’

‘And what of the girl?’ questioned his friend, a loathsome jeer strumming his husky throat.

‘I do not care!’ scoffed Edward without remorse. ‘She will be of no further use to me. I will leave her in her drab little Milton, that dreary smog-ridden backwater and I will go to the continent, to civilisation, and amuse myself with drink, cards and women, then I will never have to see her plain face again.’

The two men shared a mocking, sickly laugh that echoed in the courtyard, amplifying their malice.

Ann's breath mingled with the cold wind of the night and caught sharply in her chest as it sought to choke her. No! It could not be! The man she had given her heart to, the one who had promised her devotion as timeless as the snow-capped peaks, was nothing more than a charlatan. His intentions were as cold as the Swiss air, and the reality of his deceit seeped into her very soul, a once fiery passion that had crumbled into ice.

The days that followed were a blur for Ann. The vibrant colours of the landscape turned muted, mirroring the despair within. She struggled to maintain appearances, attending her lessons with a desolate spirit, her sparkling eyes of days gone by now dulled by the dusk of betrayal.

Word of Ann's heartbreak spread through the school like wildfire. The sympathetic glances and hushed chattering that followed her every move became a constant reminder of the tenderness she had lost and the bitter sting of humiliation that would forever plague her. She bore the scratches of her experiences, marked by the trials that had shaped her. Her youth was tainted, her innocence scarred.

In the loneliness of her room, Ann wrote letters to her father, her pen becoming the vessel of her pain as she attempted to make sense of her crushed faith in the legitimacy of love that lay in Edward's wake. However, she could not adequately express her sorrow, nor could she bear to confide her indefensible foolishness, and so, Ann, a formerly forthcoming, effervescent essence, dwindled into silence, a subdued figurine who hardly ever spoke, and she retreated further and further into herself.

The final day at the finishing school arrived, marked by tearful farewells and promises of everlasting friendship. Ann, however, stood apart, a solitary figure on the balcony, gazing at the mountains that had witnessed the unravelling of her dreams. As the school gates closed behind her, Ann carried the burden of her wearied heart back to England, believing with inconsolable finality that her hopes for happiness were blighted, her future disfigured, and her heart, eternally broken.

The steam engine hissed as it chugged across the country, carrying Ann back to Milton, the town of her birth. Standing on the platform of the busy railway station of Outwood, the smoke billowing from the factories in the background, her gloved hands clutched the edges of her travelling cloak as she prayed that this next chapter of her life would be kinder than the last. Her resolve was firm, remembering the promise she had made her mother, that one day she would return as a triumphant beauty, a daughter she could finally be proud of, a member of the esteemed cotton merchant class, taking up her rightful place as a leading lady of Darkshire.

As a child, Ann’s father had not been the banker of prominence he was now, so she had grown up watching the grandeur of the city’s emerging elite from a distance. Their elegant houses and opulent lifestyles fuelled her aspirations. She vowed to elevate herself, to be crowned the diamond of Milton society. And, in her mind, there was no one more fitting to share that life with than John Thornton, the handsome mill master. Unlike his peers, he was young, energetic, strong, and intelligent. What was more, Ann admired him greatly, and there was something in the assurance of his dependable nature that made her believe that he would be a faithful husband, and perhaps, one day, her wounds would heal. Thus, with scarcely a moment's pause, Ann promptly turned her attentiveness towards capturing the attention, and, in time, affections, of John Thornton.

Nevertheless, life has a way of taking us by the hand and leading us down unexpected and unfamiliar paths, and Ann's vision of her providence took a surprising turn. While she had firmly believed that she was qualified in every way to be the perfect bride for him, what with being native to Milton, accomplished, attractive and reserved, she quickly found that his love was not only elusive but lay in an entirely different direction, for he fell in love with another.
In the aftermath of this second rejection, Ann could admit that she was consumed by feelings of resentment. Nonetheless, she chose to confront this emotional turmoil head-on. With a remarkable effort at resilience, she made a conscious decision to release the shackles of hatred, and, instead, embraced the empowering choice to forge ahead on a course of self-discovery and renewal.

And so, a year passed, and Ann found herself preparing for her wedding day. The man awaiting her at the altar was not a cotton master, and he was hardly what one would call prosperous or influential, but he embodied a genuine fondness that had grown between them. His name was Charles, a modest solicitor with a considerate heart that made her indifferent to his lack of status and wealth. Indeed, the initial disappointment of straying from her childhood ambitions had given way to a deeper understanding of true companionship.

As Ann walked down the aisle, the silk of her wedding gown rustling softly, she saw familiar faces in the congregation, the whole of the town having come to share in her day. Among them were John Thornton and his wife, Margaret. Ann's heart skipped a beat when she noticed them amongst the gathering, the sea of fine dresses and starched suits, but she steadied herself, unwilling to let old feelings resurface. Ann could not deny the fleeting pang of nostalgia that gripped her. She remembered the days when she imagined herself in Margaret's place, the lady of the mill owner's heart and home.

Yet, as Ann continued her graceful descent towards Charles, she felt a warm glow of peace, trusting that this was all part of her story. The ceremony proceeded, and as the vows were exchanged, Ann and Charles looked into each other's eyes with devout adoration. The congregation erupted into applause when they were pronounced husband and wife. The newlyweds shared a tender kiss, sealing the promise of a life together.

In the months that followed, Ann settled into married life with Charles. Their home, though not as grand as those of the cotton masters, reverberated with laughter, as well as the sincere thrum of mutual respect and friendship. Charles proved to be a loving and devoted husband, a man who cherished her for the person she was rather than the ideal image he could mould her into. Occasionally, Ann would catch glimpses of John and Margaret during social events in Milton from afar, their lives continuing on parallel tracks as they lived the pages of their own distinct narratives.

Then, one afternoon, as Ann strolled through Milton's bustling market square with Charles, she noticed John approaching with Margaret at his side. The couples exchanged genial greetings and glad tidings, and Ann could not help but reflect on the twists of fate that had brought them all to this point. As the conversation flowed, Ann felt a sense of closure. The dreams of her youth had transformed into a reality far richer than she could have imagined. She looked at John and Margaret, her heart full of gratitude for the role they unknowingly played in her journey, and, in all honesty, she could say she wished them well.

THE END

Chapter Text

THE FLOWERS AND THE FANFIC FANATIC

(Parodies and Other Such Poppycock)

It was an unassuming sunny morning when John Thornton strolled down the street to stretch his legs and go in search of his morning fruit fix. It was shaping up to be a glorious day; the sky was blue, the birds were singing, and best of all, John felt content in the knowledge that back at home, waiting for him in the cocoon of his warm bed, was his new wife, the love of his life.

Smirking to himself with self-satisfied congratulations, John thought about how lucky he was. He and Margaret had only been married a few weeks, but what a wonderful month it had been, and for the life of him, he could hardly remember his existence before her, and do you know what? He didn’t want to try.

It had been a delectable honeymoon period full of frisky touches, fond glances, and a whole of incredible fuc −wait! That’s none of your business, ya nosey so-and-so!

Yes, John was happy, nauseatingly happy, and he swore in his heart there and then that he would spend every day of the rest of his life showing his darling girl just how much he loved her.

As he walked into the shop, John’s attention was filched by a lively display teasing him from the corner of his eye, the hue of vibrancy made all the brighter by the bursts of sunshine which streamed in through the glass windows. Whirling around, John grinned to see a presentation of vivid flowers, a cluster of luscious buds all standing proud with their green stems and heads of silky petals. Nodding decisively, John made a beeline for the vases, since he knew of a certain someone with the sweetest of hearts who would adore them, and so, he now made it his mission to pick her the most lovely bunch he could lay his hands on.

Stopping and stooping over the constellation of blue, red, white, pink, orange, purple – okay, we would be here all day if he described them all, John scrutinised what was on offer, deliberating over which arrangement would put the biggest smile on his beautiful Margaret’s face. With his eyes scanning the rows, he hummed and hawed, until at last, he clicked his fingers in eureka.

‘Ah-ha!’ he cried in triumph.

Carefully picking up a bouquet so as not to damage a single blossom, John beamed as he gazed upon a colourful and cheerful assortment of yellow roses, some dark, some pale, but each a fragrant reminder of the woman he worshipped, and to her, they would be a thoughtful token of her home, those picturesque fields and forests of Helstone.  

Whistling away to himself, John turned to go and pay for his fortuitous find, when all of a sudden, he near enough jumped out of his skin in fright.

‘Oh good God!’ came a flabbergasted shout as John clutched at his heart in stunned shock, that organ near enough bursting out his chest in traumatised surprise.

Looking up in dismay, John saw the most unwelcome sight he could imagine, and that was the presence of none other than that damned woman, that nonsensical nutjob of a fan who insisted on writing about him….The Scribbler.

John grimaced.

Good grief!

Taking hold of his senses, John took a step back and adopted a stable stance, the muscles in his legs twitching beneath his trousers in case he needed to vamoose and make a run for it.

The woman, who was surprisingly short in stature, stared up at him, her eyes wide in wonder. ‘Hello John,’ she said, her voice dripping with sickly and sycophantic admiration.

John gulped.

‘Hello Caroline,’ he replied reluctantly, his pitch embarrassedly high, because let’s face it, the man was scared out of his wits.

For a while, she just stood there, grinning with unnerving excitement, and an uncomfortable John was unsure of what to do or say. He would have excused himself and made his urgent escape, really he would, but dang it, she had managed to corner him against the wall, and so unless he was prepared to shove her out of the way, something the gentleman in him was not keen to do, John was trapped between a rock and a hard place.

‘What have you got there?’ she asked at last, gesturing to the flowers in his hand and blushing like a giddy schoolgirl.

John gawked at the compilation of yellow in his care, and his grip tightened instinctively. Maybe if he brandished them like a sword of jagged stalks, then he could fight off her infatuated attentions and run for the hills. But oh dear, the master could just not bring himself to do that to Margaret’s flowers, so that getaway plan was out the window…if only he was too.

‘They are flowers,’ he explained, before scowling at himself for sounding like such a stupid twit. ‘They are for…Margaret,’ he admitted, wary of what the fanatical writer would say in response to this. She knew that he had married Margaret, of course, she did, all his devotees knew, but still, he was not sure how she had taken the news of his nuptials.

John grumbled. He should be grateful really, since without her scribbling, and that of other fanfic authors, his existence would not be so vivacious or varied. Gaskell had done a grand job in founding and nurturing him, and yes, the dearly departed lady would forever be his creator, his true birth mother, if you will. But still, there was something about having his story rewritten and reshaped time and time again that gave John that extra oomph, almost like every new-fangled mention of his name only served to strengthen and secure his lifeforce.

Peering back at his conversational companion, John felt a pang of empathy. Caroline was not a bad egg, not really, she was just… all right, fine, she was crazy! She had been writing about him and Margaret for a while now, and goodness knows why she had chosen them out of all the fictional couples out there to tip-tap-type away about. And again, yes, he really should be flattered, but you see, there was just something about the way she wrote about him, something which made him uneasy.

She liked him, that was obvious. But whether she loved him…?

However, on hearing for whom the generous gift was intended, Caroline’s awe-struck countenance flopped into a frown. ‘Oh,’ she nipped, ‘how lovely,’ she conceded petulantly, her nose wrinkled into a disapproving sneer.

With a sulky sniff, she turned, making ready to leave, and John heaved a weighty sigh of relief, his broad shoulders sagging. But then all of a sudden, she veered back around, and with her eyes glinting in mischievous menace, they flitted to the flowers. ‘May I see them?’ she asked with serene sugariness, her eyelashes fluttering flirtatiously.

John blinked.

‘All right,’ he agreed, his tone suspicious as he handed them over carefully.

Taking them from him, Caroline’s fingers fondled the soft folds, a tranquil smile painted across her face, and for a moment, John thought she was not so mad or bad after all, and he felt himself begin to settle down.

But then – OH NOOOOO!!!!!!

Out of the blue, Caroline suddenly shrieked like a banshee, and whilst throwing the biggest hissy fit of a temper tantrum that John had ever seen, she proceeded to lose the plot. Plucking at the roses like a wild animal rips at its kill, she tore them to shreds, a tragic shower of wilting golden petals cascading to the floor. Lifting her feet into the air, she stomped down on the remains of her victim with her heeled boots until it was no more than a mound of yellowy mush.

‘I hope she likes them,’ she laughed sarcastically, hysterically, the woman as mad as a box of frogs.

Lifting her head and cackling like a witch, Caroline backed away. ‘Bye, bye, John,’ she waved gleefully, blowing him a kiss. ‘I am off to write about you,’ she winked, and with that, she sauntered off, not a care in the world, none the wiser to the fact that she had just behaved like a lovesick lunatic. Left alone, John was aghast, his jaw nearly smacking off the floor as he stared after her in stupefied horror.

John was just pulling himself together when a shop worker wandered over to him. Thrusting out a fresh bouquet of yellow roses, ones that were even larger and lovelier than the last lot, she shook her bleached blonde head knowingly. Don’t worry, pet, we had one of them lot in here the other day throwing a barney over that Darcy bloke. Nutters, the lot of them!' she concluded sagely, before skulking off to tell a little boy to stop trying to scan his bottom on the cash register.

John was speechless. 

Well, one thing was for sure…fan-fiction folk were away with the fairies.

The End

Chapter Text

STOCKINGS

(A Marriage of Inconvenience)

In the heart of Milton, a city shrouded in a cloak of smog, and where the ceaseless hum of incessant industry rumbled through narrow ginnels like the belly of a great beast, there lived John Thornton and Margaret Hale. Only, she was no longer a Hale, not really, for she too was a Thornton, not that anyone would know it to look at this particular husband and wife. 

The couple, if a couple is what one can call two disconnected people, dwelled in a marriage built on the foundations of necessity, an agreement forged by circumstance rather than the fires of passion, contrived from the ashes of convenience. 

Their marriage was a facade, a shelter against the storm of scandal that had threatened Margaret's good name after the incident at Outwood Station. Rumour and intrigue had sprouted as the weeks followed and the Hale's had been duly disgraced, this once modest family who nobody noticed now on the spiteful tongue of every gossip for miles.

Within this tempest of tittle-tattle, John Thornton, the stern and stoic cotton merchant, had been unable to bear hearing the woman he secretly still loved condemned with such scorn. He knew not whether the charges laid at her door with true or false, whether she was guilty or innocent, all he knew was that he felt an instinctive need to defend her. Therefore, he had stepped forward and volunteered to rescue her reputation without hesitation and without any sense of mourning for what this would mean for his own standing in the city. John had therefore told his sister, who had promptly told her servant, who had quickly told the grocer, and so on, until everyone in town knew of it, that he was the man Miss Hale had been seen embracing on the station platform late at night and quite alone. At first, nobody had been able to credit it, but then again, John Thornton was honest to a fault, so he must have been telling the truth, and given that he was honourable to a fault too, that would explain why he had chosen to bind himself to the woman he had unwisely become entangled with. 

With this ensuing appendix to their hopeless love story, John often wondered whether he could cope with this indenture, for he could no more bear the light of Margaret’s probable indifference than he could the harshness of the daylight, but he soon found that he could not live without her, so wed her, he would.

In the aftermath of this lie, John had taken on the role of Margaret's protector, safeguarding her from the cruel slurs of society. He concealed his heart's desires behind a wall of obligation, for she must never know how he truly felt. He could not stomach being rejected a second time. The hurt and humiliation would be too great for any man, even one as abiding as he, to shoulder. Margaret, on the other hand, felt nothing but gratitude, her heart clinging to an unprofessed ache for the man who had sacrificed his happiness for hers. She wanted to be a good wife. She wanted to show him that, while he may not have truly wanted her in his life, she would be a blessing that lifted his spirits. The only problem was that she had no idea of where to begin winning over the man who was already her husband, just as he had no idea of how to woe the woman who was already his wife.

Their situation endured an inevitable gloom, yet, still, within the caverns of their hearts, a resilient flame flickered bold and bright. A flame of unspoken words, stolen glances, and the echoing cadence of emotions that dared not speak their name. Loneliness, love and longing were engraved in invisible ink upon the contract of their union. All around them, the tall chimneys of the many factories that stretched high into the skyline cast shadows on their lives as they navigated the complex and often clumsy waltz of their strange association. 

As the months passed following their wedding day, winter inevitably rolled in over the Darkshire hills. Solitude, an unwelcome companion, was a third member of their marriage. The vast expanse of the misunderstandings between them seemed wider than the span of the universe, a space where yearning stretched its tendrils across the long dining room table to where they both sat in silence night after night. Nonetheless, as the evenings turned cold and dark, their home was a refuge, a sanctuary where the resonances of their desires ghosted the halls, and they each held close to their separate yet shared dreams, dreams that were too fragile to be spoken, like delicate snowflakes that melt upon contact with the hint of warmth. 

When December arrived, it cast a magical aura upon the world and with it came a semblance of hope. A thin layer of frost painted the city in glistening white, softening the fringes of the harsh industrial landscape. Christmas Eve draped the city in an ethereal radiance, the icy air biting at the edges of their souls.

On that very night, John and Margaret, each in their isolation, felt a child-like excitement envelop them, and, unknown to one another, they soon began to make their own, secretive plans to bestow upon the other as a token of affection, a gesture wrapped in the custom of generations. The hour was late when they both sat on the floors of their dispersed bed chambers and busied themselves with brown paper, string and ribbons, a fond smile entertaining their countenance, all before reaching for their feet and dragging off one sock each.

Draped in the obscurity of their intentions, they both tiptoed along the corridor just as the clock was about to strike midnight, the blinking shudder of two single candles casting shadows that danced closer and closer like coupled spirits. Then, suddenly, as they were preoccupied with their private thoughts, they collided in the dimness, a gasp escaping Margaret's lips and a muttered grumble erupting from John's.

"What are you doing out here?" came John's voice, a gruff question tinged with suspicion that cut through the darkness.

Margaret, startled, her small toe aching from being stepped on, replied in a cross whisper, "I could ask you the same question."

It was then, in the joint bewilderment of their clandestine missions, that the truth slowly emerged as their eyes grew accustomed to the faint light. The realisation dawned upon them like the first light of day, gentle and illuminating. They stood in the passageway, barefoot and clad in no more than their sightings, two souls entangled in the enigma of shared secrets, begging to break free. In hushed whispers, they unravelled the mystery, only to discover that their actions mirrored each other's. They had both planned to leave a stocking at the end of their spouse’s bed, their own knitted socks filled with trinkets of affection, a tradition passed down by both their grandparents when they were young, a tradition they clung to in the hopes of weaving a fibre of connection between them, something more profound than mere responsibility.

Their eyes met, and as a mutual amusement swayed between them, the tension of the moment dissolved into combined laughter.

He spoke with slow deliberation—

"It seems we have the same idea, wife," John confessed, a rare smile gracing his lips.

Margaret, too, chuckled sweetly. "So it does, husband," she concurred. "Perhaps we are not so very different, at heart," she suggested with a blush and droop of her eyes to the floor.

He nodded. "Shall we...shall we open them together?" he invited with a trembling shyness.

"Oh, yes please," Margaret replied, her head jutting up and nodding keenly.

They were about to decide on what to and where to go, the parlour seeming the most appropriate place, but on seeing Margaret shiver in her nightdress, John offered her to come to his room and bask in the warmth of the fire. At first, she was surprised, taken aback by this offer of intimacy, even if it simply meant being in the same room alone at night, but she soon agreed without hesitation.

With an unuttered agreement, they walked side-by-side to the master bedroom, stockings in hand, the weight of unexpressed emotions palpable. The room, tenderly caressed by the glow of candlelight, became a haven for the unsaid, a canvas upon which the poetry of their hearts unfolded.

Sitting on the end of her husband’s bed, as if it was the most natural place in all the world for her to be, the wife unwrapped a delicate pair of earrings that matched her blue evening dress and a set of cotton gloves woven at the mill. In turn, John traced the lines of a thick scarf that would warm her in the winter chill and a book of poems written by a man from Milton who had raised himself from nothing to become a widely respected writer. As they surveyed their thoughtful gifts, they timidly glanced at each other, and for a fleeting second, the barriers between them crumbled. The room, which glinted restlessly by the light of the lively fire, seemed to hold its breath as if savouring the sensitive bonding of two twinned hearts.

As appreciation and warmth swirled about them, they found themselves on the precipice of vulnerability, unsure of what to say or do, utterly lost for guidance on how to adequately express how they felt. In the quivering twinkle of love’s awakening, Margaret's eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and John, strong to the last, found his heart tethered to hers in a faithful promise that no man or hardship could sever.

"Thank you," Margaret murmured, her voice a graceful melody that delighted his ears. He knew what she meant, and that that she was thanking him for so much more than what he had given her tonight, but thanking him for giving her his home, his hand and his heart.

John, his gaze unwavering, reached out to stroke her cheek, his fingers tingling as her eyelashes trembled to feel his touch, and huskily  breathed, "No, thank you."

She had nothing to be thankful for, after all. She had agreed to marry him and had been true to her word in every way, every day. John knew he cared not for riches or power, for everything he wanted, everything he needed, was right before him.

"Do you feel at home here?" he asked hopefully, praying that she could, one day, feel content, even proud, to live her life by his side.

Margaret nodded slowly, a glistening tear trickling down and splashing his hand.

“I have a notion," Margaret spoke in a voice that trembled with unvoiced emotions, "that his heart is turned towards home already.”

In that instant, John could not help himself. He leaned forward and pulled her to him in a passionate hold, her arms reaching out to encircle him in turn. And there they sat, for longer than they could say, entwined in an ardent embrace.

In the hushed awe of the moment, they both wordlessly moved up the bed, lifted the sheets, and crawled beneath, their toes sweeping to rub their stockings that also rested together. The night deepened, and the chill of winter settled over the city like a quiet benediction, but in their marital bed, the coldness of duty melted into the warmth of shared peace. They need not talk tonight, they would talk in the morning, this Christmas miracle expressing everything that needed to be said for now. In the humble exchange of gifts, they discovered the depth of their interwoven history – offerings that were a testament to understanding, of conversations that had transpired a hundred times over, if only they had paid attention. With an unspoken accord, they nestled into the covers, the space between them narrowing until their souls touched in the intimate poetry. The bed, once a chasm of loneliness, became a sanctuary for two hearts yearning to beat as one. In the tender darkness, they lay side by side, a silent acknowledgement passing between them.

As the clock ticked away the hours of Christmas Eve, the city of Milton slept, unaware of the romance blossoming within its heart. The world outside thundered with a hunger for self-interest, but within the cocoon of their marriage, John Thornton and Margaret Thornton discovered the essence of something more meaningful: love returned.

His arms were around her; each hand held the other. He looked down into her eyes, and there was a quizzical light in them, and a laughter—a pale, watery gleam of mirth.

With a tender embrace, they succumbed to the pull of slumber, the starkness of the night softened by the warmth of their interlaced bodies. As they drifted into dreams, a new chapter unfolded, the first pages of a love story written in the placid prose of their hearts.

And so, in the serenity of this Christmas night, love unfolded its wings, soaring above the smog-laden city and fluttering all the way to the Milton moon.

Chapter Text

Notes: I’ve used some phrases from the BBC mini-series.

What Happens Now?
(Previously published under the name Miss Incognita)
(Before We Were Us)

Margaret weaved her way through the crowds of the great Exhibition, taking in all the sights and sounds. She was lost in a dream world when her attention was caught by the sound of a familiar voice in the distance. Letting herself be drawn towards it, she saw a figure surpassing all those around them, and not because he was the tallest of them all, but because he was the most handsome too.

She stood back and quietly listened in the wings while he finished his speech and answered questions. It never failed to surprise her how clever he was. He was an articulate man who knew what he was talking about, and it was not that Margaret had ever assumed that he would be otherwise, it still astonished her to think that he was quite possibly the most clever man she had ever met.

A man asked him whether there was any hope of bringing an end to strikes, and it was then that he looked up, and with his sharp eyes cutting through the crowd and Mr Thornton spotted her. Then he spoke to her, or that is, about her.

“Miss Hale knows the depths we men in Milton have fallen to. How we only strive to drive our workers into the ground.”

Where Margaret had shied away in the first instance, she now looked back at him with anger. How dare he do this? How dare he play out the private conflict that was going in between them in public and amongst strangers who knew nothing of the facts?

Jutting her chin high as it would go, Margaret regarded him coolly and prepared to retaliate.

“I do not think that,” she refuted, “ as Mr Thornton would tell you if he would know me at all.” She had been sure to leave a pause at the end of her sentence to add potency to her point, and then she turned slowly, her enraged gaze lingering.

But he followed her with heavy footsteps full of haste.

“I presumed to know you once before, but was mistaken.”

Margaret wanted to reply with something quick-witted, but her tongue failed her. But it mattered not for they were interrupted by some unwanted additions, most notably, Henry.

The exchange that followed was swift and painful. Her aunt had been indifferent. Henry, rude. He had attempted to undermine Mr Thornton, to make him feel unimportant. He wanted him to feel like he was nothing to them and Margaret half suspected that Henry also wanted to make Mr Thornton believe that he was and would remain inconsequential to her.

If she had been angry before then it was nothing compared to now.

Mr Thornton has left as quickly as he came, and once he did, she had been sure to put Henry in his place. She informed him just how progressive Mr Thornton was and with a stern tone, she hoped she also told him that she would not tolerate any mistreatment of him, not while she was around.

Full of indignation, Margaret marched off, and it was as she was making her way towards the doors to get some fresh air that she saw him, Mr Thornton, standing still, looking lost. She watched him for a while and when he did not move, she went to him.

“Mr Thornton?” she interrupted. “I thought you were going home?”

He sighed and looked uncomfortable to have been found out by her. “I just said that,” he admitted. “I had so wanted to,” his head twisted round to look at where Henry still stood in the distance, “it does not matter now,” he finished as a brooding shadow moved across his face.

Margaret could not claim to understand him, but bolstering her courage, she decided it was time they had a talk.

“Mr Thornton,” she launched, “I have been giving it some thought and I think we should start again.”

“Start again?”

“Yes, start again. I think we should begin over and make the effort to get to know the real Margaret and the real…John,” she flushed. “That way, we can give each other a chance.”

Mr Thornton did not know what to say but he was intrigued by the look of want on her face and it gave him a hope he had never dared to cling to before. 

“Very well, Miss Hale, but I just have one question,” he said, leaning in towards her with a smouldering smile that he could not repress to find her doing the same: “What happens now?”

The End

Chapter Text

A PINCH

(The Thornton Tales)

Margaret sat on her bed and stared ahead, as if in another world.

She did not blink. She did not move. She simply sat serenely still.

Margaret felt like she was in a dream. She even looked like she was in a dream, swathed as she was in her white nightgown and white bedsheets.

With her head slowly moving from side to side, she tilted her chin and then bowed it, regarding her features from every angle. 

'You look very serious,' came a low voice, one that was teasingly sombre to match her own severe expression.

Margaret allowed herself a small, self-conscious smile to have been discovered in this brooding attitude.

'I thought you married me because I was serious,' she said to her husband, reminding him of how, when she had asked him why the most eligible bachelor in all of Milton had not wanted instead to marry one of the fine ladies of the town, he had replied, 'Because men of sense do not want to marry silly wives.'

John Thornton set himself down on the bed, and draping his arm around Margaret's shoulder, he settled beside his wife.

He too looked at the mirror and was bewildered to see the way she continued to stare at herself with a strange, and perhaps, even, a critical eye.

'Can you see something I cannot?' he asked, whispering into her ear, trying to uncover whether she had any hidden warts or wrinkles on her face, but all he could see was the gentle rise and fall of the prettiest complexion he had ever seen.

Margaret blushed under his ardent inspection and rubbed her head against his shoulder.

'No,' she said plainly. 'I am what I am. I am what you see,' she told him, for Margaret was, if nothing else, entirely herself.

It had always been so, ever since the day she had gained any semblance of self-awareness, Margaret had been nobody but what her own character and conscience decreed, and this was, even more so, the case now that she was Mrs Thornton, this name suiting her perfectly. 

Yes, since he had slipped that golden band on her finger, binding one to another through the sacred bond of a symbolic circle, Margaret had never felt more like Margaret.

'Then what are you looking at?' he wondered aloud, curiosity getting the better of this cat.

At this, Margaret turned her head and peered up at him, and John furrowed his eyebrows to find that she was analysing him with the same intense interest. 

Lifting a finger, Margaret traced the lines of his face, gently skimming the long shaft of his nose, the velvety smoothness of his lips and the defined sculpture that was his jaw.

'I am just thinking,' said she with quiet gravity, 'that I do not always recognise myself in the mirror,' she disclosed. ‘And as for you…,’ she trailed off, her eyes searching for that scowl he used to wear, only to find it was gone, and in its place, he wore a smile that was so warm, it melted her heart like butter on toast, ‘you too are entirely different.’

If John's eyebrows had been knitted before, they now unravelled in surprise.

'Is that so?' he said. 'Well, then, wife, I think you had better explain, because while I'm no fool, it seems I am not nearly clever enough to follow your meaning.'

Returning her gaze to the mirror, Margaret shuffled so that she was crouching on her knees, and this let her head be at the same height as her husband's excessively handsome one, her brown ringlets cascading down her back and ticking the bare skin of his arms.

'I just sometimes cannot quite believe it,' she described, pressing her face against his, wishing to be as close to him as physically possible. 'I cannot believe that we are really here. Together. Married. As one.'

John grinned. 'Well you had better believe it because it is true' he murmured into the nook of her neck, taking her in his arms and pulling them both down onto the bed so that she lay on top of him.  

'There is no denying it, Mrs Thornton,' he went on. 'You are my wife, like it or not, and I am your husband, for better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, and no matter how much my infernal sister annoys you, you are stuck with me, like it or lump it,' he jested and Margaret laughed.

'Yes,' she replied, nibbling her lips playfully. 'And as terribly taxing as it is to be your wife, husband,' she smirked, 'that is not quite what I meant. No, what I meant is, I just cannot believe that after everything we went through, after all we said and did to each other, and after being torn apart so far and for so long, we managed to find our way back to each other.'

The truth was that Margaret could not help but wonder: what if?

What if Mr Bell had not left her his fortune? What if the mill had thrived and John had not needed her financial assistance? What if she had not had the courage to come to him? What if he had been too proud to accept her help? And what if...Margaret felt her soul shudder as a dark shadow of what might have been crept through her mind…what if one or both of them had married somebody else?

It did not bear thinking about. Such thoughts sought to cast their bleakness over her soul and eclipse the joy she shielded within.

She shivered, and on sensing her distress, John held her tight and rolled her over so that she lay under him, and he covered her with his body so that she might feel safe in the shelter of his embrace.

As he felt her small frame tremor beneath his own, John’s mischievous manner disappeared and his face was overhauled by a much more earnest expression.

'Can you not?' he asked seriously, his voice thick with emotion. 'Because I can,' he professed, and Margaret could hear the worry that he was trying hard to hide, that fear that even after all these months of blissful harmony, she was still not as in love with him as he was with her. 

There was a hush, a hollowness of silence in which all that could be heard was her deafening hesitancy.

John’s heart beat faster.

'I do,' she said at last, 'it is only...I sometimes need to pinch myself.'

John sat up abruptly and stared at her. 'Pinch yourself?!'

'Yes,’ Margaret nodded, ‘for you see, I do not feel I deserve to be this happy. It must be wrong. I feel like I have stolen all the happiness from the world, as my own heart is bursting with it, overwhelmed as I am with joy to have made a life here with my John,’ she defended, her palm reaching to rest upon his chest.

‘That is why I was looking in the mirror,’ she said, no longer feeling the need to look back at it, for everything she needed to see was right before her.

‘I feel so content, so wonderfully complete. I have never felt more myself, only, I do not always recognise this woman. She is not the girl I grew up with, the woman I saw in the mirror every morning in Helstone, London and Crampton. She has changed. She is...everything she never dared hope she could be. I so want to make her proud,' she admitted.

John lifted his hand to caress his wife's cheek.

'And you will, Margaret, by just being yourself, trust me' he reassured her. 'By being the brave, bold and beautiful woman you are, my love.'

She smiled back at him, but then her gaze seemed to pass right through him, as if she were looking behind him, into the past.

'We are not the same, are we?’ she murmured pensively. ‘We are not the same two people who met each other three years ago?'

John snorted, all the worry of moments before having left him.

'No, we are not, thank God!’ he acknowledged with more than a mite of gratitude. ‘We have both changed, for the better… and for each other,’ John breathed, his breath ragged with longing as his lips brushed the delicate petals of her own.

'I suppose that Margaret just cannot believe how happy I am, that is all,’ she replied, her body quivering as she felt it respond to him.

'Can I tell you a secret?' he requested.

'Please do.'

'Nor can that John,’ he confessed.

It was true. If anyone had told him three years ago that he would meet and marry a woman as indescribable as Margaret, he would have laughed and called them mad.

But here he was. Here she was. Here they were.

Sometimes, just sometimes, our reality is more divine than our dreams.

‘But this John does. So how about this, my darling: How about, when either of us doubts ourselves, doubts our right to be so very madly, deeply, perfectly in love, we give each other just a little pinch?' he suggested, his finger and thumb gently clinching her wrist.

After watching him for a moment, Margaret lifted herself onto her elbows, and kissing him with the soft and slow passion of lovers who know they have their whole lives ahead of them to be together, she whispered: 'Then I will be pinching myself every day for the rest of my life, dear heart, because I will never stop loving you and never stop loving us.'

The End

Chapter Text

BOUNCE BACK

(The Thornton Tales)

John Thornton awoke to the soft light of grey dawn filtering through the curtains, a gentle autumn breeze tapping at the window and bidding him to rise. He stirred. He knew not what sort of day it would be, but he knew who would see it through with him, whether good or bad.
Beside him, Margaret lay in peaceful slumber. Even now, he sometimes thought of the many mornings before her, when his bed had felt vast and desolate—a cold, empty place that mirrored the loneliness of his heart, though he hadn’t fully realised it until he met her and desired her with every fibre of his being. His existence before Margaret not only seemed like another lifetime ago, but like another John altogether. He was not the same man now. He had been unmarried for thirty years and married for twenty. Yet now, he could not imagine waking without her by his side—her warmth and reassurance had become as vital to him as the dawn itself. The thought of facing the day alone had long since become unthinkable.

He turned slightly, careful not to disturb her, his gaze softening as it rested on her sleeping face. In the early morning light, she looked like something out of a dream, her features touched by a serenity that seemed timeless. Her chestnut hair spilt across the pillow in a cascade of curls, still thick and untamed, though now woven with strands of white that gleamed like spun cotton. These silver threads reminded him of the raw cotton he worked with daily—delicate to the touch, yet possessing an inner strength and purity that endured, despite the wear of time. The silver strands had crept in gradually over the recent months, and now, like snow dusting a winter landscape, they lent her beauty a quiet, dignified grace, accentuating her innate wisdom.

As John’s fingers softly played with Margaret’s curls, he was struck by how closely they had once mirrored her spirit. In those early days of their acquaintance, her emotions had been tightly coiled, winding inward just as her hair did, making it near impossible for him to unravel her true feelings. Margaret had kept herself carefully closed off, unwilling to let him near her heart, her defences as tightly wound as the unruly curls that resisted being tamed. Each time he felt he had made progress, she retreated—guarded, elusive—springing back into the safety of her reserve. Yet, even in those moments, he had sensed a quiet beauty beneath her guardedness, a hidden grace that revealed itself to those patient enough to understand its intricate design.

Now, as he gently straightened a curl, watching it spring back into place, he smiled at how time had gradually revealed the depth of her character. Like her hair, Margaret had grown into something straightforward and true—her heart open, her strength enduring. She had allowed him to breach those early barriers, and yet, even after all these years, she remained vibrant and steadfast, always returning to the woman he had first loved. No matter what twists and turns life brought them, Margaret, like her curls, always returned to her truest form—honest, resilient, and impossibly beautiful.

A shadow passed over his heart then, a familiar heaviness pressing down. Life was not always so beautiful. The Thornton family had faced trials of late. His mother—his rock, his guide through his early years—was fading. He had watched helplessly as the strength in her body diminished, her once indomitable spirit faltering. She had been the constant in his life, the one who steered him through every storm, and now that light was dimming. Yet, as his fingers slipped through Margaret’s hair, he felt again the steadiness of his wife’s presence. She had become his anchor, the one to whom he could turn when his strength wavered, the calm when his temper flared, the insight when his values were tested, and his cornerstone when the world seemed too heavy to carry.

Letting the curl slip from his grasp, John felt a bittersweet pang in his chest, but it was tempered by the certainty of what they had built together. Life, like Margaret’s hair, would always twist and tangle, throwing obstacles in their path, never revealing how long or far the fall might be. But just as surely, life would return to its natural shape, finding its way back to balance and peace. He knew, without question, that whatever trials lay ahead, they would face them as they always had—together. They would always bounce back into place. For twenty years they had embraced and braced life side by side, and for however many more were granted to them, they would continue—steadfast, like the cotton-white strands woven through her hair, enduring the passage of time and all that it brought.

Chapter Text

ALONE! AT LAST!

(The Thornton Tales)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The End

Chapter Text

THE CHRISTMAS CHERRY

(The Thornton Tales)

(Clean Version)

Margaret heaved a sigh as she found herself down on her hands and knees crawling beneath the Christmas tree.

It was the third time that day.

And she had a niggling feeling that it would not be the last.

‘Oh!’ she grumbled, her hair getting twisted in yet another branch, its prickly fingers combing through her tresses and yanking at the strands, causing her scalp to wince.

This was certainly not how she had hoped to spend her Christmas Day, as she had much more pressing matters to attend to, such as priming the household for lunch and playing the role of serene hostess. What was more, she was not convinced that the Lord would approve of her scurrying around the ground like a mouse, for if she were to be on her knees at all, surely it was more reverent on this blessed day to kneel in pious prayer. However, the Lord was not in a position to judge, for even though he had taken the weight of the world’s sins on his shoulders, he knew nothing about the trials and tribulations of having four Thornton rascals to contend with.

Margaret had been forced to scramble around like this because her children had developed a rather maddening tendency of hiding odds and ends under the tree. In their delightful innocence, they had enthusiastically taken to the concept of placing items beneath the grand pine, as was tradition. All the same, unfortunately for their poor mother, their zeal for the ritual had extended well beyond the giving of presents. Indeed, they now hid everything they could get their mischievous little hands-on, from toys, to food, to shoes, to their grandma’s sewing, to the cook’s rolling pin, all the way to their father’s important mill documents. By the time Margaret had retrieved all the filched objects from their treasure trove of accumulated knickknacks, her magpie children had hidden just about everything imaginable. She half expected to find twelve drummers drumming, seven swans a-swimming, five gold rings, two turtle doves, and more than one partridge along with its infamous pear tree.

And now, much to her distress, they had concealed the bracelet John had given her last year, a gift that she cherished more than any of her worldly possessions and was not willing to lose, hence her most inelegant position on all fours.

Margaret had been fond of the modest bangle that she had formerly worn, and she still was, but now it sat in a box on top of her wardrobe, well out of harm’s way. It had been her grandmother’s and she used to love it when the old lady included it in her ensemble, so on the woman’s demise, it had been bestowed upon Margaret as a special bequest. Margaret had not worn it always, but she had tended to put it on when she felt she needed the moral certitude and strength of character that had been innate to her favourite grandmama. That is why she had decided to wear it that time Mr Thornton had first come to tea at the Hale house. It was because Margaret somehow instinctively knew that she needed courage and conviction to be around the man that she did not yet understand, but a man nonetheless, who made her heart beat in a way it never had before. In her naivety, she had not known it that night, but even then, her heart had already begun to stir for him, waking into life, spreading its wings, and readying to fall utterly and completely in love with John Thornton.

Nevertheless, a few years ago, Fanny’s daughter, Gabriella, had found it when she was teetering about the house and had quite carelessly banged it so hard and so frequently off various surfaces, that it had been dented and damaged beyond repair. Margaret had not been cross with the child, but secretly, her heart had broken, for she had so loved the wristlet that held many sentimental memories of a family long gone. However, her disappointment had been nothing in comparison to John’s, as her husband was particularly fond of the trinket, for it contained many happy reminiscences for him, ones of a charming young woman pouring him tea, while the mesmerised master watched with fascination.

It was a month later on Christmas Eve, that John had found his wife and restlessly ushered her into his study. There, he had nervously presented her with a small box adorned with silken ribbons of red and green. He had watched anxiously as she had unfastened it, his eyes flitting between hers and the package. When Margaret opened it, she was not sure what she had been expecting, but what she found made her heart halt and her soul flutter. In that instant, she could have wept with appreciation, for it was the loveliest gift she had ever received in all her twenty-four years.

It was a delicate bracelet, the most beautiful ornament she had ever seen. It was interwoven with gold and silver metal, the two materials winding around each other in a secure embrace, and she could easily guess whom this intimate intertwining was intended to symbolise. The bangle was embedded with a row of discreet gemstones, each a dazzling rainbow that glinted brilliantly in the light. Each one represented a month in the year and each precious stone stood as a proud emblem for a member of their beloved family. Diamond for Margaret’s birthday. Ruby for John’s. Garnet for Maria’s. Amethyst for Richard and Daniel’s. And Tanzanite for Nicholas. She could see that the amulets had been arranged in such a way that more could be added in the future, in the happy event that God granted them the gift of more babies, which of course, he did. One day, the bracelet would contain sapphire for Elizabeth, opal for Fred and Hannie, and emerald for George. Eight jewels for eight tiny and ardently treasured Thorntons.

Still, there was more, for in the centre, there rested a bigger stone which was encircled by the others, proudly watching over the rest. It was aquamarine for March; the month John and Margaret had wed, the month their relationship, their union, and their sacred bond had been blessed by a holy trinity of spiritual, legal and romantic sanctification. It was from this enduring rock that the joy and hope of all others were born.

Margaret was not a materialistic sort of woman and she owned very few adornments. Still, this was something quite exquisite and the little girl in her felt giddy at the sight of such a pretty thing. Her husband knew that she was not one for ostentatious baubles, so he rarely bought her anything, instead preferring to show his love in other ways, more meaningful ways, with his words of affirmation, his time, his acts of service, his physical touch, and his unconditional acceptance and admiration of her independent spirit. All the same, Margaret knew that this offering must have cost him a small fortune, but its worth did not depend on its worldly price, but rather its infinite value was bound up in the labour of love that had gone into its design. It was a token of a marriage, one forged not of gold or silver, but of loyalty, laughter, and love everlasting.

Turning the fine item over in her hands, her eyes fell upon the elegant inscription, which read:

‘To M, with all my love, from J. There it goes, again!’

Margaret had felt tears trickling down her cheeks and at first, John had panicked, worrying that his dear wife did not like it, that he had somehow upset her. He had taken her by the shoulders, wiped her tears away, and kissed her forehead, muttering that he had known that he would get it all wrong. But she had shaken her head and enveloped her arms around him, nestling herself against his broad chest. She had sobbed into his shirt and told him how much she loved it and, more importantly, how much she loved him. They had stood there like that for some time, him whispering soothing words of reassurance in her ear and stroking her hair. At long last, he had asked if he could place it on her arm, which she agreed to, and with a schoolboy grin, he had slid it over her wrist and down to her elbow. John had lifted the limb and with glorious gentleness, he had trailed a line of soft kisses from her fingertips all the way to her shoulder, his moist lips anointing her with his devotion. With a shy smile, he had suggested that they go and have some tea and laughing in turn, Margaret promised to thank him properly by preparing it, so that her husband could sit back and watch with enthralment as his gift slid up and down his enchanting wife’s arm. Needless to say, he drank more tea that day than any man had ever consumed tea before.

As Margaret continued her search, she reached out and patted around the floor, her mission rendered challenging by the immense volume of her skirts, which seemed to billow around her like a balloon. Eventually, her palm fell on something that had been concealed beneath a parcel wrapped in brown paper and indigo thread. ‘Ah-ha,’ she exclaimed. Uncovering it, she victoriously lifted her bracelet into the air and beamed with triumph at her discovery. ‘Got you!’ she said with a satisfied hum, her hand retaining a tight grasp around her trophy.

However, at that moment, she was interrupted by the noise of a gruff cough behind her. It was the reverberation of someone announcing their presence and she knew exactly who it was, for she would recognise that deep timbre anywhere. It was the first sound she heard when she woke up every morning and the last sound she heard before she went to sleep every night. 

Margaret startled and hit her head on a bough. ‘Ouch!’ she yelped, massaging her crown.

She struggled to her feet, but in the process, she tripped on her extensive skirts and her sleeves caught on various twigs, making her escape anything but graceful. When she eventually emerged, she was scruffy, dishevelled, and riotously unkempt. Her gown was covered in pine needles, her hair had a branch of holly poking out of it, and her face was smeared with flecks of green, but how that had happened, she was not quite sure.

As the mistress of the house stood looking like an undignified ragamuffin, she found herself facing a rather stern-looking man, one who was annoyingly immaculate. That is, he was not stern really, but he was so stunned by the scene before him, that he stood stock-still, watching her with a stony expression of inquisitiveness. Still, it was not long before a poorly disguised smirk began to creep across his serious face and his eyes twinkled good-humouredly. With an expression of astonished amusement, the man let his gaze rake over Margaret, taking in her unruly appearance from head to toe. Frowning, she had the distinct feeling that he was mocking her, no doubt roaring with laughter on the inside. Margaret cleared her throat, raised her chin into the air imperiously, and began to dust herself off, her hands rearranging her hair and straightening her skirts.

‘Dare I ask?’ he said at last, his rich burr laced with mirth.

‘No, you do not!’ she replied haughtily, attempting to wrench the holly from her locks. ‘Oh!’ she flinched as it got stuck. However, the more she tugged, the more knotted it became, and she found herself in a tangle with flora, a tussle that she was not winning. ‘Oww!’

John chuckled heartily and walked over to his wife. He lifted his hand and started to gradually ease the stem from her hair, tutting at the jagged edges that seemed to have wound themselves around an array of russet ringlets.

‘It suits you, you know,’ he teased, before finally extraditing the offending twig. He took his palm and slapped her down, ridding her of her excess foliage, so that she no longer looked like a woodland nymph. ‘You know, you are so covered in nature, perhaps we should dispense with the tree and hang the decorations on you instead,’ he suggested candidly. ‘You may not be quite so green, but you are just as bonnie.’

‘Behave yourself, Mr Thornton,’ she cautioned coyly, a faint smile coiling her lips, ‘Or else there will be no figgy pudding for you, my boy,’ she warned with a playful pout.

John gasped theatrically and then leaned down to kiss her so very softly, his lips melting into her own. ‘Well then, I shall be on my very best behaviour, Nutmeg,’ he promised, his mouth skimming her neck and his tongue lightly licking her with the briefest of strokes, sending a delectable tingle down her spine.

Margaret chuckled when he called her by that name, for it was a private joke between husband and wife. It had all started on their first Christmas together six years ago. At this point, John had already begun to call her Meg more often than he called her Margaret, so she had become quite accustomed to the affectionate abbreviation. Nevertheless, on that Christmas Eve, they had retired to bed, and after her husband’s frisky mouth had wandered across her body, he had stopped, furrowed his brow, and licked her most deliberately. He had then paused, thought, and then done it again, his tongue swirling in his mouth as he analysed the flavour of his wife’s skin.

‘Do you taste of…nutmeg?’ he asked in bewilderment.

Margaret had scoffed at first, deeming him as mad as a hatter. But then, she had guffawed and replied: ‘Oh yes, I suppose I do. I was baking baskets of festive provisions for the workers today and I used a variety of seasonings. I spilt a bottle of nutmeg all over myself and must not have cleaned it off properly.’

John had grinned, rolled on top of her and groaned with gratification. ‘I like it,’ he had decreed huskily. ‘My Meg, my scrumptious Nutmeg, you’re just too delicious not to eat!’ he had growled in her ear, before devouring every last morsel of her, his tongue attentive in its lapping.

Margaret wandered over to the window and gazed out at the glistening scene before her, the snow glazing the yard in a coat of ice, the snowflakes sparkling like scattered shards of glass. She smiled at the sight that welcomed her, for it was enough to make her maternal heart burst with happiness. Outside, were her four children, all playing merrily in the snow that cosseted the mill grounds in a cove of white. As they ran, hopped, and skipped, Margaret felt her spirit sing, for it was the most divine sight in all the world, to see her babes cheerful, contented, confident, and carefree. She wished she could have been out there with them, but she still had some of their presents to sort, and she had found that this task was much better managed when they were distracted and out of the way.

Maria was five years old, her chestnut curls cascading down her back, her rosy cheeks reddened by the nippy air. She fell back against the snow and extended her arms and legs rapidly, her friction creating a snow angel. Margaret could see a rather larger angel near to the little girl’s and guessed that this belonged to John, as he had not long come indoors from joining his children in some festive frivolity.

The twins, Richard and Daniel, were now four, one the spitting image of John and the other taking more after their mother. They were chasing about like hooligans and hooting as they crushed the snow together with their gloved hands into balls, then throwing them at each other, the other ducking and diving to avoid the onslaught. Margaret wondered if John had joined in with this horseplay, for if he had, the poor man would have been besieged by the ambush of the boys, who would have relished the idea of hurling frosty catapults at their papa. There was no question that the lads idolised him, but then again, they were little scamps who still enjoyed aggravating their old man.

Nicholas had just turned one, not even two weeks ago. With the help of Dixon who held his arms, he was wading through the snow, his strides wobbly as he was not quite walking yet, but his parents waited with anticipation, as they sensed that his first independent steps would be any day now.

The family dog, Ruff, was bounding about between them all, his loud barks, wagging tail, and lolling tongue a sign of his elation at all the fun. His black coat was a striking contrast to the snow, which he spun around in and tried to gnaw, but he soon sneezed at the coldness of it and decided to stick with chewing his bones from Cook, his favourite person in all the world, not least because she constantly smelt of food. Still, it seemed that he was not too sure of the snowmen, as he kept yapping at them, but after a few sniffs, he soon welcomed them into the fold and frolicked around them blithely.

As she watched this blissful spectacle, Margaret felt her husband come up behind her and wrap his arms around his wife, squeezing her snugly, his chin resting on the top of her head.

‘God, I love them!’ he muttered as he too gazed contentedly at his brood. ‘When are we having another?’ he asked, his arms tightening around her waist, his nose nuzzled in her hair. ‘I am finding that I am rather fond of our puppies.’

Margaret giggled, for she adored the way her little one’s doting father referred to their bairns as pups, a lark that had all started with Ruff many moons ago.

‘I do not know, John,’ she joshed, her body swaying in his grasp. ‘I shall leave that decision up to my husband, he is the master around here after all, or so I am told,’ she teased flirtatiously.

As John smirked, he let his eyes ramble over his wife, and he stepped back to inspect and appreciate her more thoroughly. She was wearing a vivid red gown, so bright that he could have mistaken her for a strawberry. It was unusually colourful for Margaret, as she generally wore plain or pastel shades, preferring not to draw attention to herself. Then again, he sincerely liked this addition to her wardrobe, as the cheerfulness of the cloth embodied her warm personality and the joyfulness of the season. Besides, it had a most pleasing cut and certainly allowed her husband to admire his wife from every angle.

‘Is this a new dress?’ he queried, surprised, for Margaret was never one to splurge money on herself, not when it could be put to better use serving those less fortunate than her. John always found her charitable nature endearing, for Margaret was as frugal as a miser when it came to her own needs, despite the fact that they were as rich as creases, and she only ever loosened her purse strings when it helped to bring comfort to her family or the poor. That was one of the reasons he had bought her the bracelet, for his beautiful bride hardly had anything that she could truly call her own. And Margaret, his Margaret, deserved beautiful things, but alas, his humble lass never asked for anything.

‘Yes,’ Margaret sighed. ‘Oh, do not mock me, please!’ she begged, hiding her face in her hands. ‘Fanny insisted. We went shopping last month, as you know, and I could not put her off, she kept pestering me to get something new, complaining that my clothes were terribly out of fashion. She even went as far as to say that it was a disgrace for the Master of Marlborough Mill’s wife to be dressed like a bumpkin!’ she griped.

‘Aww, that’s not fair! I like my bumpkin,’ John grinned, his nose caressing the back of her neck.

‘At any rate,’ Margaret went on, ‘Your sister stipulated that she and I were both to get something and, to make it worse, she was desperate for us to both wear the same dress for Christmas day! Can you credit it, John?’ she blustered.

‘We shall be like twins! Although, mine is significantly less frilly and fussy than the pattern she chose for herself, thank goodness. But still, I fear I look like an overgrown cherry!’ she protested, swathing her arms around her waist in mortification, her cheeks turning so red that they complemented the fabric of her garb.

John chuckled and pulled her close. ‘I like it,’ he whispered against her lips, his hot breath making the hairs on her arm stand up.

‘Do you?’ she asked quietly, her voice hesitant. ‘Really?’

‘Aye, I do,’ he confirmed, his tone tinged with a wolfish lilt.

‘I think you look lovely, darling, truly,’ he soothed. ‘I like all your dresses; you always look so damn fine. It is most distracting, I assure you, for how is a man supposed to concentrate on his work when he knows that such a goddess is waiting for him at home?’ he mumbled against her shoulder, his stubble gently scratching her skin, reminding him of the first time he had seen her shoulders uncovered at the dinner party when she had worn that cruel dress that had driven mad with longing. At the time, John had supposed Margaret was simply wearing her finest gown in an effort to mingle with Milton society, but looking back, he had half a feeling that she had known what she was doing. She did not care a fig for what other people thought, so it was not consistent with her nature that Margaret should fret over what they thought of her clothes when it was a character that would always shine. No, it had not been for them. It had been for him. Whether it had been deliberate or unintentional, Margaret Hale had been trying to attract John Thornton. And it had worked. Not only had she caught his eye, but she had also captured his heart.

Still, despite being an honourable man, he could not pretend that love was the only growing emotion he had been experiencing that night. It had taken every ounce of self-control he could muster to subdue his feelings and distract himself by talking to Miss Latimer who had been sitting next to him.

John smirked to himself. He had gone out his way to talk to Miss Latimer, flirt, even, not that he really knew how. He was determined not to look at Margaret. He would not give her the satisfaction. Not after their public fight. Not after she had annihilated his character in front of his peers and his family. And after all that, after being scolded in his own home, at his own table, in front of his own family, all he had wanted to do was stride around the table, grab her hand, lead her away and lock the two of them in a room together until she either fell in love with him or he fell out of love with her.

But now John smiled. Things had changed since then. They had changed. He no longer needed to hold back. He no longer needed to protect his heart. And there was no chance that John Thornton would ever fall out of love with Margaret Thornton. Hell would freeze over first. So he gently coaxed her away from the window and drew her into his firm embrace.

‘I am the luckiest man alive to have such a beautiful wife and I do not know how a grumpy old bear like me came to deserve such a partner in life. You quite take my breath away, still, to this day, and I think you always shall. When I am near you, I feel like the hapless Mr Thornton of days gone by, pining for the love of the beguiling Miss Hale,’ he murmured, his eyes burning into her with a smouldering intensity that made her cheeks flush.

‘But I do like this dress. It is different. It suits you. It is aptly festive, and besides,’ he added, his hand wandering upwards, ‘It is very pleasing on the eye,’ he finished, his fingers skimming her skin.

Margaret giggled. ‘John, behave!’ she chided. ‘Honestly, husband, you are insatiable,’ she tutted. ‘You talk such nonsense! I used to think you were a sensible man, sir, but now I find that my Mr Thornton talks nothing but twaddle.’

‘Can a man not compliment his woman?’ John disputed. ‘Tell me, Meg, can I not take a bite of this cherry?’ he requested, nibbling her ear.

‘Aye, husband,’ she smiled, speaking in his own native tongue, ‘yes he can.’

John grinned, and walking away, he reached for an ornate box that sat high and out of reach of little hands. Lifting the wooden lid, a melody began to play, one that seemed to twinkle, if music can even do such a thing, with the magic of Christmas.

Margaret once again felt tears pricking in the corner of her eye. It was her music box, the one she had been given when she was a child by her grandmother, but it had been broken for many years, gathering dust in its inactivity. Then John had found it amongst his wife’s possessions when she had come to live at the mill house, and on seeing the sadness that came over her to think it would never play again, he had taken it to his office and spent many dedicated hours fixing it, and had put it beside their bed on their first Christmas morn together to wake his wife.

Gazing at her from across the room, John felt a lump clog in his throat. Lord! How he loved her. ‘Merry Christmas, my darling,’ said he, reaching out a hand to her, and with the lightsome tread of love, Margaret ran into his arms and nestled into her husband’s arms.

‘Merry Christmas, my dear,’ she whispered against him, staining his shirt with the happy tears that trickled down her cheeks.

Without uttering another word, the couple began to sway on the spot and entwined in an intimate embrace, they danced as one, their hearts beating together, saying all that needed to be said and more, trusting that this would be a most merry, cherry Christmas.

The End

Chapter Text

GOD BLESS YOU, MA’AM

(The Thornton Tales)

In the tranquil affection of an April evening, Margaret Thornton found herself amidst the calming intimacy and informality of her kitchen, delicately arranging a vase of blossoms upon the weathered wooden table. With a heavy heart, she sought solace in the simple act, finding a gentle upliftment as the flowers whispered their silent reassurance to her grieving spirit.

As a solitary tear traced its path down her cheek, landing softly amidst the beautiful contours of her wrinkled face, Margaret allowed a tender smile to grace her lips. Determined to welcome the light amidst the shadows, she gently swept aside a stray strand of silver hair, her gaze drifting toward the sun-kissed meadows beyond the window, this stretching, green carpet a reminder that nature was sovereign, always making anew from its earth, bringing rebirth to what had been laid to rest in its soil. It was as her eyes scanned this pleasant landscape, this vision of quintessential England, that they fell upon an old tree that she had sat beneath a hundred times over, its trunk and branches offering her shelter in every season of her life, and it struck her as an idyllic spot for what would soon be needed. Yes, that little spot beneath the greenwood tree, would be perfect.

In that moment of vulnerability, Margaret felt the comforting presence of someone dear behind her, a familiar warmth enveloping her soul as a strong hand tenderly brushed away her tears.

‘Would you like me to come with you, my love?’ John's voice was deep and resonant, the depth of his sincere support deeper still.

Leaning into the reassuring headrest of her husband's firm breast, Margaret found solace in his loyal presence. Looking up at him, she was struck by the contrast of his silvery hair, each lock glistening like threads of wisdom, intertwined with the remnants of youth—a few stubborn curls of black defying the passage of time. He was as handsome as ever; her serious, stoic, sensitive pillar of strength. Grateful for his offer of companionship, Margaret benevolently declined, her voice soft yet resolute.

‘No, my darling, thank you,’ she answered. ‘I sense this goodbye should be personal and private, so I shall brave it alone. But I will seek your comfort afterwards, for I know I shall need it.’

Therefore, with renewed determination, Margaret gathered the flowers and left her husband to take up a bat and ball so that he could go and play cricket with his grandchildren in the last gilded hues of the fading sunlight.

Walking through the narrow corridors and angled doorways, Margaret welcomed the sun's gentle caress, its radiant beams weaving patterns of bleached beams through every open window, infusing the air with freshness and painting her porcelain skin with the genial stroke of springtime that spoke of sweet optimism, that hope of things yet to come, that courage of faith in the future.

Margaret adored their cottage, a haven secluded from the clamour of Milton's bustling existence. Within its unperturbed and undisturbed confines, there were no echoes of the ceaseless mill, no spectre of the courthouse, and no pressures of societal expectations. Here, it was just them: the Thornton family, ensconced in the embrace of their private retreat.

Throughout the years, they had frequented this sanctuary, a cherished refuge where their children could revel in the purity of unpolluted air, dance freely in barefooted joy, and harmonise with the rhythms of nature itself.

Each room she passed told its own stories, for they were a repository of cherished memories: laughter ringing out from bygone days of playful games, tears shed in moments of sorrow, and the enduring presence of anticipation and joy, wrapped in the consoling and cheering protection of family and friendship.

Arriving at a particular room, Margaret cautiously peered inside, exhaling a sigh of relief at the sight of life persisting within its confines. In the middle of the room, illuminated by a gentle cascade of sunlight, rested a bed, upon which lay a woman being pulled between this world and the next. The woman's eyes fluttered like fragile wings, opening and closing with an erratic wavering that mirrored the uncertainty of her dwindling breaths. Each inhalation was a laborious reminder of mortality, a solemn acknowledgement that these moments were her last in this mortal realm.

With demonstrative care, Margaret adorned the small table with the vibrant array of sunflowers and wildflowers, their merry shades a testament to life's enduring beauty. Taking her place beside her friend, she clasped her hand, offering whatever relief her presence could provide, their wrinkled fingers joined in fellowship.

The woman sighed jubilantly, ‘Sunflowers: my favourite. Like a sunflower that follows every movement of the sun, so I turn towards you, to follow you, my God.’

There's scarcely anything on this planet that sings the anthem of life quite like the sunflower. Its name, intriguingly, doesn't solely stem from its sun-like appearance, but from its captivating habit of chasing the sun. From dawn's first light to dusk's radiant blush and burn, the sunflower's face faithfully follows the sun's celestial journey across the sky, serving as a radiant beacon for sunshine. Regardless of how feeble the rays may be, these flowers unfailingly seek them out, embodying a remarkable tenacity. It's an act of unflinching admiration and a profound devotion.

‘How are you, Bessie?’ Margaret asked her maid as she gently rearranged her blankets and dabbed her forehead with a cooling cloth.

Bessie’s rosy lips creased upwards. ‘Heartily content,’ she responded with her usual cheer, ‘for I will soon be with the Lord,’ she added with a serene grin, though a hint of melancholy shadowed her expression. ‘Yet, I'll carry a sadness to bid you farewell, ma'am,’ she confessed.

Margaret shook her head. ‘Aye,’ said she, using the dialect of the north that had now become so natural to her. ‘How strange it will be to say goodbye, for we have not been parted these near-fifty years, old friend,’ she said wistfully. ‘But I would not take you away from God, not you, his most faithful servant.’

Margaret fought back the tears, feeling the weight of emotion pressing against her resolve. Bessie—more than just a maid, had been a constant presence in Margaret's life for nearly five decades. Their journey began when Margaret, at twenty-six, crossed paths with the eighteen-year-old Elizabeth. At that time, Margaret was already Mrs John Thornton, navigating the roles of wife, mother, and mistress of the household.

Though Margaret had always endeavoured to be a fair and compassionate employer, it was Bessie's arrival, with her wide-eyed wonder, that ignited a desire within Margaret to bridge the chasm of class difference and forge a bond of true kinship between them.

Bessie's journey began in the gloom of illiteracy, but Margaret served as her beacon of enlightenment. With unwavering patience and dedication, Margaret guided Bessie through the labyrinth of language, imparting the precious gift of literacy. Together, they disentangled the mysteries of letters, encouraging Bessie to not only comprehend them but also to wield them with grace and purpose.

Learning to sign her name marked a pivotal moment of empowerment for Bessie—a tangible symbol of self-expression. Under Margaret's nurturing mentorship, Bessie not only gained the ability to communicate through meaningful scribbles, but she also discovered a newfound sense of identity and independence that afforded her fresh opportunities and a sense of self-worth.

For instance, Bessie's role in the reconstruction of the old town was nothing short of indispensable. In the wake of a devastating Cholera epidemic and the groundbreaking revelations of Mr Snow's research on the interplay of poverty, deprivation, and disease, Mr Thornton had embarked on a mission to revitalise the neglected corners of the city. While he framed the initiative as a rational business move, emphasising the correlation between employee health and productivity, his wife understood the true integrity of his altruism. Indeed, for Margaret recognised that behind her husband’s pragmatic exterior beat a heart brimming with compassion.

At any rate, it had been Bessie herself who had offered her services to the project. Hailing from Princeton as a child, and being intimately familiar with its challenges, she became an invaluable advisor in this ambitious undertaking. Guided by her insights, the mill master and magistrate had been able to spearhead the demolition of dilapidated slum tenements and shacks, replacing them with sturdier, more dignified homes for the citizens of Milton. Many of these structures endured for generations, a lasting tribute to the enduring legacy of their collaborative efforts in uplifting the community for generations to come.

However, no matter how instrumental Bessie was in the development of a new Milton, her true home always seemed to be with Margaret at Marlborough House. Over time, as Dixon settled into retirement from the comfort of her armchair by a crackling fire, Bessie seamlessly transitioned into the role of Margaret's trusted lady’s maid.

But her devotion extended to every member of the family. When Margaret's mother-in-law neared the end, Bessie assumed the role of caregiver with untiring dedication. She spent endless hours at her bedside, reading passages from the Bible, offering comfort as her strength declined. In a touching display of affection, the once formidable matriarch softened in her final days, forging an unexpected attachment to Bessie and bequeathing her prized collection of lace—a poignant testament to the depth of her respect. Indeed, Bessie had been a constant presence throughout the generations, witnessing the miracle of birth from Margaret's children to her great-grandchildren.

Nevertheless, Bessie was so much more than a maid; she was her own woman.

At the age of twenty-two, she had defied tradition by marrying a footman, and she became Mrs Shawn. In response, and in a bold departure from convention, Margaret chose to retain Bessie as an employed, married woman within the household, and the two of them had never once regretted it, their interlaced lives.

Goodness! How far they had come.

Gone was the image of Bessie as a timid mouse, hidden beneath a frilly white cap. In its place had emerged a woman of remarkable courage and strength, her spirit unshackled from the confines of expectation.

‘I want to ask you something,’ said Bessie suddenly.

Margaret turned her soft blue-grey eyes upon her.

‘Why me?’ Bessie asked.

Margaret furrowed her brow.  

‘I mean,’ Bessie went on, her speech strenuous but determined, ‘you have always been unfailingly kind to everyone, but you have conferred upon me a kindness that is beyond words. Why?’

Bessie let out a groan, her limbs aching, though she was too tired to mind. Drawing near, Margaret, lightly draped a shawl around the woman’s shoulders, for her skin grew cold. The shawl, a delicate blend of cream interwoven with intricate threads of brown, red, silver, and gold, had once graced Margaret's youthful shoulders. However, many years prior, she had bestowed it upon Bessie as a gift, and she had treasured it ever since.

As the dusk drew close and the day approached its inevitable conclusion, in that space where words are few and silence speaks volumes, Margaret recalled the simple earnestness of Bessie's final wishes. In her modest will, Bessie had made one request—to be laid to rest wearing the shawl that had been a token of their enduring bond. And so, with reverence, Margaret would honour her maid's simple appeal, ensuring that Bessie departed this world as she had lived in it—wrapped in warmth and adorned with the gossamers of their shared history.

Still, Margaret pondered on the question that had been posed, and, at last, she discovered her answer.

‘Because of her,’ she said in all honesty, her words cryptic. ‘I had a friend once,’ she continued, thinking of Bessie Higgins, ‘who deserved so much more than life gave her. I wished with all my heart then that I could save her, that I could grant her all the happiness and hope that every one of God’s children deserves. But I could not. And so, when I met you, I wanted to make amends. I wanted to use my good fortune of wealth and gladness to enrich the lives of others in whatever humble way I could.’

Bessie smiled at this. ‘In that case,’ said she, ‘I will greet your friend at the pearly gates and tell her all about the life you’ve lived, and I trust that she will be profoundly proud of the woman you have become.’

Margaret sniffed, and gazing out of the window at the sprawling fields surrounding the Thornton's cottage, she observed a heartwarming scene unfolding before her.

In the golden stream of sunset, the laughter of children echoed across the fields and between the brooks and trees, mingling harmoniously with the rustle of the breeze. Here, beneath the vast expanse of the open sky, Margaret's descendants played alongside Bessie's own kin, their mirth and joy binding them together as brethren, spanning the breaches of age and background.

It was a representation of concord and unity, where the boundaries of lineage and social status dissolved, leaving only the pure essence of common childhood delight. As Margaret witnessed this stirring occurrence, she felt a swell of pride and gratitude for the lasting ties that connected their classes.

John always said that he hoped one day the world could be bled of its bitterness, and Margaret prayed for this too. She had seen the changes that had arisen in her lifetime, the progress that had been made. They were crawling, slowly but surely, towards equality, and while she doubted that pure parity would ever exist, she now knew how it was to be achieved.

True equality, Margaret believed, could not be legislated into existence nor achieved through charitable acts alone. Instead, it was cultivated through the everyday actions of ordinary people. Small gestures of empathy and the honest forging of bonds among individuals were the undeniable catalysts for creating a fairer, more compassionate Utopia. In this envisioned paradise, this Heaven on Earth, distinctions between maids and mistresses, masters and men blurred, paving the way for genuine friendships to blossom across societal partitions.

‘You have served me so very well,’ Margaret wept, sensing the end drawing near. ‘I can only hope that I too have served you well in turn.’

Bessie nodded as she drifted off to sleep. ‘You did more than that, Mrs Thornton,’ she assured her, the tight grip of her hand waning. ‘You loved me for who I was and saw me as more than just a maid.’

Margaret quietly fell to her knees beside the bed and kissed her on the cheek, her fingers tenderly stroking the woman’s grey hair, much like a mother does for her darling child.

‘And you loved me for who I was and saw me as more than just a mistress.’

Bessie closed her eyes, and floating away into the peaceful bliss of eternal rest, she whispered: ‘God bless you, Margaret. God bless you, ma’am.’

The End

Chapter Text

A SHELTER FROM THE STORM

(The Thornton Tales)

Margaret awoke with a startle.

It was dark.

She listened.

Nothing.

Stillness.

The storm was over.

She sighed with relief.

It had been a wild and wicked night. The worst gale she had ever known since coming to Milton, a titanic clash of thunder and lightning, a duel of the elements.

The wind had howled. The rain had hammered. A young, thin moon shivered with fright in a dark sky, that is when it was not being dragged about by the nape of its yellow stardust by the squall, its silhouette charging through grey, angry-looking clouds that tore about in the hysteria.

John had dashed out before the storm's full fury descended, bravely locking down every door, gate, and shutter. Margaret had watched from the window anxiously, gladdened when he had returned, though he had been dripping wet, his sturdy frame shuddering, causing her to fuss him into a hot bath.

Still, despite his efforts, a few had managed to loosen, their sporadic banging sending unsettling shudders through the air, beating and banging like a menacing drum.

Indeed, it had been a tumultuous and ominous night, disrupting the entire household. The cries of poor Maria pierced the clamour and only added to the concerto of chaos. Margaret, awakened multiple times by her infant's distress, sprung from her tangle of bedsheets in haste. Rushing to Maria's side, she tenderly gathered her frightened child into her arms, enveloping her in warmth and comfort, soothing her troubled whimpers as only a mother could.

At last, the child would surrender to the pull of sleep, cradled securely in her mother's embrace. Each time, Margaret would gently lower her into her nest of blankets, a solid, handsome crib that her father had made with his own hands, and silently returning to her bed on tip-toe, she crept beneath the covers to huddle beside her husband.

Throughout the night, this repetitive ritual played out, each cycle draining Margaret's reserves until fatigue weighed heavily upon her and her mind began to swim in a sea of exhaustion.

As the night grew old and weary, and the first light of dawn kissed the horizon, a sedative hush settled over the house. Margaret, feeling the tension ease from her weary muscles, released a soft sigh of relief to find peace restored. With a graceful turn, she reached out to enfold her arm around John, only to find his side of the bed vacant. An initial grumble of disappointment escaped her lips, swiftly replaced by a resigned acceptance. Surely, she reasoned, he had slipped away to inspect whether there was any damage to the mill to be dealt with. He was unfailingly diligent, after all. With a sense of reassurance, she settled down, confident in his imminent return.

Sitting up, she yawned and stretched, and glancing over at the crib, the doting mother cast her eyes upon—

The baby!

Where was her baby?

Fighting the jolt of panic that was coursing through her veins, Margaret sprinted frantically to the cradle, and in the inky darkness, she fervently searched every inch of its diminutive confines, her mind besieged by a throng of horrifying scenarios.

She shivered, her brow sweating with a cold terror.

Had her exhaustion muddled her senses and disillusioned her attentiveness, leading to a grievous error? Had her weariness inadvertently endangered her beloved child? The mere thought sent a tremor of dread down her spine that threatened to paralyse her every fibre.

‘Oh, merciful God, no!’ she sobbed into the silence.

Margaret's thoughts spiralled into a flustered frenzy, each possibility more terrifying than the last.

Had she recklessly smothered her infant beneath layers of blankets?

No. She was always so careful.

Had she absent-mindedly placed her elsewhere?

No. She was not that scatterbrained.

Had she unknowingly brought her into bed, risking her safety?

No, none of these dreadful conjectures rang true.

But the fact remained: Maria was not here!

Where could her baby be? A helpless infant, incapable of even the simplest of movements without assistance, could not simply vanish into thin air.

Had—

Margaret’s mouth fell open in realisation.

Yes! She knew what had happened. She knew where her baby was.

With no thought of donning slippers or a dressing gown, Margaret hurried from her bedroom. However, her steps were not frantic. As she moved, the dense fog of fear that had clouded her judgment began to dissipate. With each passing moment, her certainty grew stronger, her belief unshakeable. She knew without a doubt that her child was safe, for she was protected by the safest hands possible.

As Margaret reached the front door, she discovered it unlocked, thus further confirming her suspicions. Stepping outside, she encountered the calmness of the night, a peaceful aftermath following nature’s outburst, its furious release of energy which had now been replaced by an equanimity where the world rests so that it might regain its vigour. Crossing the mill yard, the stone cobbles gently caressed her bare feet, guiding her towards the mill. Upon opening the door, she paused, straining her ears, until she eventually found what she sought.

A voice.

She followed it.

Making her way along the corridors, Margaret navigated the dimness. She would have brought a candle, but they were now allowed in the mill in precaution of fire, its mill master, as she knew, was particularly strict when it came to this rule. But it was no matter, she knew the mill like the back of her hand, every labyrinth of corridor, every mechanism, bale and cart were dear to her, for it was the place where she had first seen him: her future, her fate.

Once more, she trailed the noise, a murmur in the distance directing her steps through the moonlit passageways. With each stride, she felt the gloomy dominance of the night gradually yielding to the soft hues of dawn. Golden tendrils of sunlight began to peek through the towering windows, casting an ethereal glow along her path.

Then, finally, she found them.

There, walking amongst the machines, was a figure, a large figure clutching a smaller figure.

A father cradling his daughter.

Coming to a serene halt, Margaret's ears pricked with keen vigilance as she observed them, swaying slowly in unison within the veiled embrace of the shadows.

‘Bless him,’ she whispered to herself, her soul swelling with gratitude. Surely, he had taken Maria so that she could find respite for an hour or two, his thoughtfulness never failing to touch her deeply.

From afar, she could hear him, and he spoke to his daughter in the most tender of hushed tones, his baritone timbre a gentle melody as Maria lay in peaceful slumber against his shoulder. With affectionate care, he revealed his world to her, the mill, his life's work, an attestation to his diligence, and his dedication towards his family. Every cog and wheel had a story, each echoing his promise to provide for her, to make her proud. And as she dreamed, he assured her of her bold and beautiful destiny, of the legacy she would inherit, not as a master, but as a mistress of the mill, ushering in the next line of Thorntons with principle and purpose. They were caretakers of this place. Citizens of this city. And they had a duty to perform to its people, its values, and its heritage.

Margaret smiled as she rested her head against a wooden beam and watched them with mesmeric absorption. It was a sweet smile of unadulterated contentment. How she loved them both with a heart that was fit to burst. It was the purest sight to behold, this living picture of them together, two hearts of two generations, made whole.

As John rocked their daughter in his arms, he hummed, his voice a lullaby of veneration. With every word, he promised her an enduring haven in his hold, his tune and sentiments forging a shielding cocoon around them both.

“My sweet child, with eyes so bright, In my arms, you'll find your light. Through life's storms, I'll be your guide, By your side, I'll stay, close by.

When thunder roars and skies turn grey, I'll hold you close, chase fears away. With every beat of my heart, you'll know, You're safe with me, wherever we go.

Though life may toss and turn with strife, My love for you will be your guide. With strength and courage, we'll prevail, Together, through every gale.

Oh, my darling, don't you fear, I'll defend you from every tear. In my love, you'll always find, A cover from the raging wind.

So rest your head, my precious one, Until the morning light has come. For in my arms, you'll always find, A refuge from life's storms, my child, divine.”

As unobtrusively as she could, Margaret silently withdrew, unwilling to intrude upon this intimate and sacred bond between father and daughter. At that moment, she felt an overwhelming sense of reassurance wash over her soul. It was a profound knowledge that everything was well and would be well.

For Maria, and any future children she might bring into the world, had been blessed with the most devoted of fathers. He stood as their unwavering pillar of strength, a lighthouse to steer them home in troubled waters. His commitment to their well-being knew no bounds; he would move mountains to ensure their health and happiness.

No matter what storms thundered in their lives, Margaret found solace in knowing that her children would always find sanctuary in the undaunted and unconditional fortress of their father's love—a love that was steadfast, obstinate, and stronger than any tempest life could unleash.

Chapter Text

A Perfect Day For Reading

(The Thornton Tales)

Hi, my name is Dawn. What’s your name?

I nestle into my favourite armchair, the plush cushions enveloping me in comfort. The chair is positioned perfectly by the large bay window, which frames a picturesque view of the South Carolina landscape. Today, however, the vibrant hues of the garden and the fields beyond are muted by a soft, persistent rain. Raindrops patter against the glass, creating a soothing, rhythmic sound that fills the room.

Outside, the scene is a study in serenity. The lush greenery of the garden glistens with moisture, each leaf and blade of grass adorned with tiny, sparkling droplets. The large magnolia tree, its branches heavy with rain, stands proudly at the edge of the lawn. Its broad leaves, dark green and glossy, provide a striking contrast to the soft, grey sky overhead.

Beyond the garden, the fields stretch out in gentle undulations, their rich earth darkened by the rain. Patches of wildflowers, usually a riot of colour, now appear as delicate, blurred spots of pastel, their heads bowed under the weight of the water. In the distance, a line of oak trees marks the boundary of the property, their silhouettes softened by the mist that rises from the ground.

It is a perfect day for reading.

Anyway, why did I invite you here? Oh, yes, it was to talk about my favourite book.

I turn my attention to the well-worn and well-loved book resting on my lap. The Thornton Tales. I run my fingers over the embossed title, feeling a familiar thrill of anticipation. This collection of short stories, passed down through generations, is my link to the past, to the lives of my great-great-great-great grandparents, John and Margaret Thornton.

Ever since I was a little girl, I have been fascinated by the tales of John and Margaret. My love for them grew even more fervent when I discovered Elizabeth Gaskell's North and South. Do you know it? It is a novel that brings the Victorian era to life, blending industrial strife, class struggles, and a romance that transcends societal expectations.

One of the reasons I like it so much is because it remains timeless. It has everything: love, money worries, family, inequality, work problems, failure, death, growing up – everything! There is something for everyone. And every time I read it, at every new age and stage of my life, I learn something new about it, and, in turn, I learn something new about myself.

Knowing that the book was inspired by my ancestors makes it all the more special. I often find myself lost in both the pages of the novel and the scenes of the series adaptation, feeling a deep connection to the characters, as if they were a part of me. Then I realise, they are. They are my family.

The way Gaskell captures the tension between the north and the south of England, the industrial upheaval, and the personal growth of the characters resonates deeply with me. Margaret Hale's journey from the rural south to the dynamic, industrial north parallels the resilience and adaptability that I imagine Margaret Thornton possessed. And John Thornton’s stern yet principled nature, combined with his underlying vulnerability, reminds me of the stories my family has passed down about him.

Watching the series adaptation brings an added layer of intimacy. The actors’ portrayals of John and Margaret feel like a window into the past, allowing me to see my ancestors’ struggles and triumphs come to life. The set designs, costumes, and dialogues are so meticulously crafted that they transport me back to that era, making me feel like an observer in their world. It’s almost as if I’m catching glimpses of my own history, playing out on screen.

I sometimes think about how remarkable it is that these stories, both fictional and historical, have the power to connect us across time. The emotions and challenges faced by John and Margaret are timeless, reflecting the universal human experience. Whether through the written word or a television screen, their legacy continues to inspire and resonate, reminding me of the strength and courage embedded in my family’s past.

Anyway, if you have not read it, you should. And if you have not watched it, then what are you waiting for?

Today, I plan to lose myself in The Thornton Tales once again, a book that someone who knew John and Margaret well wrote to celebrate their life and legacy. I open the book and am greeted by the familiar scent of aged paper and ink. The first story is titled "A New Beginning," detailing John Thornton's arrival in the bustling industrial town of Milton. As I read about his struggles to establish himself and the eventual meeting with Margaret, I can almost see the scenes unfolding before my eyes. Their initial clashes, born from misunderstandings and pride, are vividly brought to life through the words on the page.

Beside me, on a small table, lies a collection of old artefacts. They are my treasures, mementoes of a time long past. There are sepia-toned photographs of John and Margaret, their serious expressions softened by the passage of time. I often wonder if they had ever imagined that their great-great-great-great granddaughter would be gazing at their likenesses, marvelling at the similarities in our features. I trace the outline of Margaret’s face with my finger, noting her unwavering, confident eyes and chestnut hair, and as for John, I see his sharp features and defined cheekbones, traits that I see reflected in my own mirror.

Among the photos are other cherished items: bits of fabric from Margaret's dresses, delicate and worn from years of handling; a dried yellow rose that John had given her on their first anniversary, its petals brittle but still beautiful. These tangible connections to the past make me feel closer to them, as if I could reach across time and touch their lives.

I take a deep breath, savouring the moment, and let my mind wander back to the first time I encountered North and South. I had been a teenager, struggling with my own sense of identity, feeling caught between the modern world and the weight of family history. Gaskell's novel had offered me a glimpse into a world where personal integrity and love could triumph over societal constraints. Watching the series had only deepened my appreciation, each scene a vivid reminder of the strength and resilience embodied by John and Margaret.

As I continue to read, I can't help but wonder how much of The Thornton Tales are true. Are these stories accurate depictions of their lives, or have they been embellished over the years, turning ordinary moments into grand narratives? Does it matter? I ponder this question as I flip through the pages, my eyes lingering on a particularly poignant passage where John and Margaret, after years of struggle, finally find peace and happiness in each other's arms.

Their love story, whether wholly factual or partly fictional, is a testament to their enduring spirits. It is a reminder that their lives, their struggles, their joys, and their love were real. They faced hardships, much like the characters in Gaskell's novel, yet they persevered. Their legacy is not just in the stories but in the very fabric of our family, threaded into our history.

I close the book and look out the window, the rain still gently falling. The Thornton Tales have once again transported me to a different time, connecting me to the people who came before. It is a connection that transcends the boundaries of time and space, a reminder that the past is always with us, shaping our present and guiding our future.

With a sigh of contentment, I place The Thornton Tales back on the table, my fingers brushing against the dried yellow rose. I will never know the full extent of John and Margaret's lives, but through these stories and artefacts, I feel their presence. And that is enough. Their love, their resilience, their journey—they are all a part of me. And as long as I have these tales to read and these mementoes to hold, they will never be forgotten.

So, yeah, that is my favourite book.

I just wanted to tell you about it.

Happy reading, friend!

The End

Chapter Text

Dear Readers,

I hope this story finds you well. Before you read on, I feel it’s important to mention that this is not a happy tale. It is one of sorrow, a reflection of the grief that some of you may have experienced.

While we often imagine John and Margaret’s lives filled with joy, it's important to recognise the harsh realities of 19th-century life. Gaskell’s works were never just about romance—they highlighted the challenges and hardships of her time, some of which, sadly, still resonate today.

This story is dedicated to a fellow North and South fan and dear friend who recently lost her granddaughter. May these words offer you some comfort, dear heart.

With love,

The Scribbler X

Mothers

(The Thornton Tales)

The rain fell softly against the panes of the small attic chamber, tracing solemn paths down the cold glass, like tears from some distant, unseen mourner. The day was steeped in sadness, and the weather seemed almost reverent, as though the skies themselves grieved alongside this desolate home.

Margaret Thornton sat alone by the bedside, her hands trembling ever so slightly as she folded the delicate, nearly new garments with meticulous care, born of both love and despair. The silence in the room pressed heavily upon her, broken only by the occasional muted clatter of horse-drawn carriages passing in the streets below, their persistent rumbling mingling with the soft patter of rain.

Glasgow, in the year of our Lord 1873, loomed busy and bold just beyond the walls—an iron city, veiled in the murky breath of industry. The shipyards hummed with the pulse of labour and life, yet within these loving walls, life had stilled. Grief lingered, thick and tangible, cloaking the room as surely as the smog that wrapped the streets outside.

Her hands stilled over a pair of socks—impossibly small and heartbreakingly soft beneath her fingers. She held them close to her chest, a sigh escaping her lips—deep, heavy, and laden with sorrow no words could convey. These tiny socks, the last vestiges of a brief life, had warmed her granddaughter’s feet in her final moments before slipping quietly from this world. So small, so innocent. The child, born with all the promise of life, had smiled only briefly before her fragile spirit was claimed by the merciless hand of death. One still, terrible night—only four days old—she had let out a cry from her cradle, and then, suddenly, the cry had ceased. She had taken her last breath, cradled in the safety of sleep and silence.

Margaret thought of her beloved daughter, her dear Elizabeth, whose vibrant spirit had soared with the boundless vitality of youth, now broken and bruised, crushed beyond recognition by the cruel hand of fate. Margaret had borne witness to such sorrow many times throughout her life. She had stood beside, or heard of, countless women—her mother, her mother-in-law, Fanny, Mary—each having buried their babes in tiny graves, the weight of their grief too heavy for words, an ache taking root in their wombs. Yet, by some remarkable and mysterious grace, Margaret herself had been spared this particular agony.

There had been moments—fleeting but dreadful—when she had come perilously close to the abyss. Frederick and Hannie might easily have been lost within her womb during that terrible carriage accident when five Thorntons had hung by a thread—three already in the world and two yet unborn. The memory still sent a chill through her veins. And with her last, her darling George, her little man, there had been grave complications at his birth. For a brief and agonising time, both mother and child had seemed poised on the very brink of death, ready to be snatched away by that relentless hand. But they had clung on, both of them, fighting with fierce Thornton determination, and in the end, they had survived.

As a mother, Margaret had known many trials. She had carried her eight children beneath her heart, had borne them into the world, and had watched them grow, all the while fully aware that life, so often cruel and capricious to others, had shown her uncommon mercy. She had never been forced to bury one of her own. And yet, in the quiet moments, when the house was still and her thoughts wandered, she wondered how she might have borne such a loss, had fortune turned against her. There was a part of her—unacknowledged, perhaps—that feared such grief would have broken her utterly, destroyed her beyond repair. Though she knew she would have remained for the sake of her surviving children, to love and care for them, there was another part of her, buried deep, that might have longed to follow the lost child into the grave. To go to that distant place where no mothering hands could reach, where her dear one would be waiting without her. The thought of that lonely, unmothered child haunted her in the darkest hours, even as she gave thanks for the lives that had been spared.

But it was not just mothers who suffered this torture. Her thoughts drifted to the men—the fathers—who so often grieved in the shadows, unnoticed. Men were supposed to be stoic, and not show their feelings, but they felt grief as deeply as women did.

Tom Boucher, Lizzie’s husband, was one such man. Poor Tom. Fourteen years her senior, already shaped by sorrow, having lost both parents as a child. Then his first wife died in childbirth, along with their stillborn son. He had never imagined finding love again and never hoped to build another family. But then Lizzie, radiant with youth, had grown up, and in her, he found a new beginning. Tom, with John’s help, had trained in the shipbuilding industry, and the couple had moved to Glasgow, to the Clyde, where the world’s ships were made. The sound of hammers and steel had seemed a fitting backdrop for the fresh start they had dared to dream. Both bold, innovative, and thinking ahead—this new world had welcomed them into its fold. But now, that dream lay in ruins, desolated by the needless, unpitying loss of their firstborn.

Margaret’s heart ached under the weight of it. Her Lizzie, so full of spark, had always been her father’s child—they were like two peas in a pod. But he was not here. Margaret had travelled ahead to help with the birth and welcome their ninth grandchild, while John, ever busy with the mill, was to follow soon after. Poor John. He had never met his granddaughter. The heartbroken father and grandfather was journeying as swiftly as possible from Milton, driven by the anguish of his beloved daughter. Until he arrived, it was left to Margaret to care for Lizzie alone. Tom was here, of course, but he too was distraught and needed care. Margaret sighed. How could a mother begin to mend such a broken heart? What solace could she offer for grief so vast and all-consuming that it threatened to swallow all joy, all hope?

It was then that Margaret heard the faint sound of footsteps in the hallway. She turned, and there, standing in the doorway, was Lizzie. Her face, usually pink with life, was pale as the cold light of the moon, streaked with the marks of sleepless nights and endless weeping. She looked so small, so fragile, as though the weight of the world had crushed her.

‘Mother,’ Lizzie whispered, her voice thin and broken, barely reaching Margaret’s ears, though it pierced her heart. Lizzie tried to stay strong, but her shoulders shook as fresh sobs overtook her, and her breath came in ragged, uneven gasps.

Margaret rose to her feet, her heart breaking anew at the sight of her child’s despair. She moved swiftly to Lizzie’s side, wrapping her arms around her and guiding her gently to the bed. They sat together, and Margaret held her, rocking her as she had done so many times before, as though Lizzie were a little girl once more. The room filled with their heartache, the walls bearing witness to a pain only a mother could understand.

In the stillness between Lizzie’s sobs, Margaret reached for one of the small socks and pressed it into her daughter’s trembling hand. ‘Take this, my dear,’ she whispered, her voice soft and steady, though her heart quaked within her. ‘I’ll keep the other. We’ll keep her close, always.’

Lizzie clutched the tiny sock to her chest, her tears flowing freely. ‘I never got to know her, Mother,’ she wept, her voice laden with the indescribable heartache of a mother robbed of all she had hoped for.

Margaret’s voice remained soft and soothing, though her own grief throbbed beneath the surface. ‘But you did, my love. You knew her in ways deeper than words. You knew her the moment you felt her grow inside you, the moment you saw her and held her. Just as I did with you. You could feel it in the way only a mother can—the bravery, cleverness, kindness, beauty. All of those things would have blossomed in time, but even in her short days, they were there. And the love between you... that will never go away. It will endure forever. A child, no matter how brief their time on earth, is as precious as any other. She was blessed to have you, even if she could not stay.’

Lizzie’s sobs gradually subsided, though her voice still trembled with renewed anguish. ‘I miss her so much,’ she whispered, her heart breaking all over again.

Margaret pressed her lips gently against her daughter’s hair, holding her closer, her embrace firm with unspoken love. ‘I know, my darling. I know.’ But the truth, buried deep within, was that she did not know—not fully. She had never endured such soul-destroying wretchedness, though her soul quailed at the very thought of it, recoiling from the horror of such an unhealable wound.

‘How am I supposed to live without her?’ Lizzie’s voice quivered, fragile as if it might shatter at any moment. ‘She was a part of me, growing inside me for nine months... and now—now she’s gone. I had her for only four days, and yet I cannot imagine life without her.’

Margaret found no words to soften the depth of that sorrow, no balm to soothe such immeasurable grief. All she could offer was the truth, stark, simple and bittersweet. ‘She will always be your little girl, just as you will always be mine. Not even the distance between heaven and earth can change that. She knew your love, Lizzie, and I know—without doubt—that she loved you, too. Nothing, not even death, can take that from you.’

The room fell silent once more, and slowly, over time, Lizzie’s sobs subsided and she fell asleep in her mother’s arms, just as if she were a babe again. Time marched on, as it always did, but in that moment, Margaret held her daughter close. And though she could not heal the wound left by death, she could offer the only thing that had the power to endure in the face of such devastation—one mother comforting another.

Chapter Text

HOPE SPRINGS ETERNAL

(The Thornton Tales)

The carriage clattered along the hectic streets with its stalls and markets, selling fruit, fish, and jute, its wheels trundling steadily forward as the city spread out around them. Inside, John Thornton sat close beside his wife, Margaret, their hands lightly touching, bare skin pressed together with giddy glides of fingers. The gentle warmth of her palm against his was a comfort, grounding him as they watched the world outside shift and churn. It was a scene of industry, the north's beating energy manifesting in the billowing smoke from countless chimneys, the almost-musical hammering of iron, and the ceaseless toiling of men and women.

But they were not in Milton. No, indeed. While they were creatures from an industrial city, this was a different and distinct landscape all of its own, and they watched it in curious awe. Glasgow. The second city of the empire. The mighty Clyde ran like a vein of life through the heart of it all, its waters glistening beneath the pale, grey sun, reflecting the steel of the shipyards.

Great ships, half-formed and hulking, towered over the docks like metallic monsters, their iron skeletons rising towards the sky as monuments to human endeavour. Even though John hailed from Milton, another industrial powerhouse of England, this—this was grander still, more raw and elemental, as though the very spirit of the north had crystallised here in this city by the river. Perhaps if they had time, they could stroll about The Barrows Green and visit the wondrous sights of the Kelvingrove and the People’s Palace. Glasgow was a magnificent place, and they were both glad that fate had brought them to it, even if they came rarely.

‘More northern still, isn't it?’ John remarked quietly, his deep voice husked with a reverent wonder. His dark eyes gleamed, catching the reflection of the great ship hulls as they passed. ‘We thought we were northerners, Margaret, but I never imagined this.’

‘Do you now class me as a northerner?’ she asked.

He smirked in turn and kissed her cheek. ‘I sometimes think you are more so than me.’

Margaret, her gaze wandering over the gigantic structures and the workers moving like ants in the distance, smiled gently, though there was a familiar impatience in the tilt of her head. ‘I do wish we could hurry!’

Her irritated tone made John chuckle, the deep, rich sound of it vibrating in his chest. ‘Ah, my wife,’ he murmured, ‘always so eager. Nothing can keep you away from your loved ones. No time. Not miles. Not nowt.’

She arched a brow, lips curving into a smile that was both knowing and mischievous. ‘And you, Mr Thornton,’ she said, squeezing his arm, ‘may feign solemnity, but I know well enough that beneath that serious brow, you are as excited as I am. Why, you are as giddy as a child on Christmas morning.’

John’s mouth twitched upward despite himself, the hard lines of his face softening. ‘Perhaps I am,’ he admitted, his voice losing some of its usual gravity. ‘After all, today is a grand day, my darling.’

‘Aye,’ she whispered, her keenness giving way to the warm glow of anticipation. Her eyes sparkled, filled with a love so deep it made her heartache. ‘A grand day, indeed, my dear.’

As the carriage finally slowed, John climbed down first, unable to wait, his boots thudding against the cobbles as he extended his hand to help Margaret descend. She took it, her skirts rustling softly as they rushed towards the door. John rapped firmly, his eagerness a loud boom.

For a moment, there was no response, but then the door opened, and yet, there was nobody there. They frowned, and they looked around. Then, from below, a sound—soft, almost like birdsong—reached their ears.

‘Gada... Gama…’

John and Margaret glanced at each other, brows furrowed in bewilderment before they both looked down in unison. At their feet, standing on unsteady legs and beaming up at them with wide, joyful eyes, was a tiny girl, her face alight with inspiring wonder.

‘Hope!’ Margaret gasped, her heart leaping at the sight. She dropped to her knees, arms outstretched, her breath hitching in her throat as the child toddled towards her, arms reaching out for her grandmother.

Margaret swept her up in an embrace, holding the little girl close, her gurgling giggles bright and bubbling with unrestrained glee. John knelt beside them, his large hand resting gently on the girl’s back, marvelling at the softness of her dark curls, the roundness of her cheeks, the brilliance in her eyes.

‘She’s grown so much since we last saw her,’ he said, delighting in his twelfth grandchild.

‘Yes,’ Margaret whispered, pressing her lips to Hope’s hair that smelt of lavender and flour. Her heart swelled with love, so full she thought it might burst. ‘And now there is even more of her to love.’

At that moment, the door behind them creaked open, and there, standing just beyond the threshold, were Lizzie and Tom, the child’s parents. Lizzie’s face glowed with happiness, her cheeks flushed with health, her eyes shining with the contentment of a life well-lived. Tom stood beside her, his hand resting protectively on her shoulder, his expression one of doting devotion. After all the sorrow, the losses that had nearly broken him—his parents, his first wife, and two of his children—he had finally found his place in the world. Surrounded by love, secure in the knowledge that this beloved family would not be taken from him.

‘You’ve met the welcoming committee, I see,’ Lizzie said, greeting her parents.

Margaret rose and kissed her daughter’s cheek, her voice trembling with affection. ‘It is so good to see you, my dove,’ she whispered, taking a steadying breath as she wiped her cheeks. ‘And even better to see you so happy.’
John stood, stepping forward to clasp Tom’s hand firmly. ‘You have done well, Tom,’ he said, his tone full of genuine warmth. ‘Very well indeed.’

Tom’s eyes glistened as he returned the firm handshake. ‘I could not have done it without you—or Nicholas,’ he said, his gaze shifting to the older man who had just entered the room.

Nicholas Higgins, rough-hewn and broad-shouldered as ever, stood in the doorway, his weathered face softened by a rare and earnest smile. The years of hardship and toil had scraped deep lines into his skin, but today, those lines seemed to speak only of pride.

John turned to him, embracing him heartily. ‘You have much to be proud of, Nicholas,’ he acknowledged warmly. ‘This young man, his family—they are a credit to you.’

Nicholas nodded, his eyes misting over as he looked at Tom. ‘Aye. As they are to you.’ Nicholas may have given Tom a home and a father figure when he was orphaned, but it was the master who had seemed to it that he learned his letters and numbers so that he held as much as much chance and as much right to make his mark in the world as any man.

‘Little did we think a master and a union leader would ever share a factory floor, let alone common ground,’ smirked John, remembering the day he had taken Nicholas on, and the day he had gifted him a generous portion of shares for all his years of loyalty, ‘but by God! I never thought we would share a grandchild.’

Margaret, with little Hope still nestled in her arms, watched the scene unfold with a heart full to bursting. Lizzie returned to her side, resting a gentle hand on her mother’s arm. ‘We are happy, Mother,’ she promised, her words full of peace. ‘Truly happy. Because now,’ she said, gazing down at her enchanting daughter, ‘we have hope.’

In the days that followed, they were never alone. Family members of the Thornton, Boucher and Higgins families arrived from all corners of the country. Laughter flowed freely, filling every nook and cranny, as generations mingled—young and old, wealthy and humble, from the north, midlands, and south—all distinctions irrelevant. In those moments, they were not separate, but a single, united family.

In that small house on a typical Glasgow street, surrounded by those they cherished most, the hearth was rosy and roaring with the hospitality of laughter and love. As for little Hope, the bright light of days and decades to come, she babbled happily amongst them, her innocence a reminder of all that was still good in the world. She was their hope for the future—a future that would be long and blessed, filled with life.

And as they held her close, they knew, with certainty, that hope—indeed—sprang eternal.

Chapter Text

WHILE WE CAN

(The Thornton Tales)

The fire in John Thornton’s study had dimmed to a peaceful, orange smoulder, draping shadows that flickered lazily across the room's rich wooden panels. Outside, the world was still, enveloped in the quiet of the night, but within, John felt the familiar pull of exhaustion from the long day. He stifled a wide yawn, running his hand through his thick, black hair, now lightly streaked with grey at the temples—a subtle reminder of the years spent in the relentless grind of industry, labour, and life. Though he was only thirty-four, there were moments when the strain of his responsibilities made him feel as though he had borne the burdens of ten lifetimes. The mill, with all its demands, pressed heavily upon him, yet tonight, more than ever, he yearned for the solace of his bed and the comfort of his beloved Margaret’s presence beside him.

He was certain she had gone to bed, their son already fast asleep in his nursery, but as he passed the doorway of his study, his gaze caught the soft outline of a figure. Peering in, he saw the outline of a person curled up, their head peeking around above a shawl, making them look like a chestnut-coloured cat. There, illuminated by the warm embers, lay Margaret. The sight of her—so serene, so quietly beautiful—stilled his steps. Her brunette hair, thick and coiled, fell in soft curls around her pale face, catching the light in a way that made it glow like burnished copper. Her lashes quivered, and her full lips, slightly parted, moved with the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest.

A book lay in her lap, The History of Cotton Manufacturing, a subject she had grown passionate about, though it had slipped from her fingers, the pages perilously close to falling. John approached with a swelling tenderness in his heart, the deep, unwavering love he had felt for her since their fraught early acquaintance still burning strong. How far they had come—how much they had endured together. Even now, with their second child growing inside her, Margaret carried herself with an unrivalled strength that never ceased to amaze him, though he could sense her weariness. Their lively son, full of boundless energy, had claimed much of her attention.

He moved stealthily, taking the book from her hands before it could fall, and setting it on the table. His eyes lingered on her form, so delicate yet strong, the gentle curve of her abdomen a constant reminder of the new life they were soon to welcome. With a tenderness that came as second nature, he reached for the blanket arranged over the armchair. The wool was soft and warm, and as he covered her with it, his fingers brushed against her skin—cool to the touch but comforted by the heat of the fire.

As he bent closer, his gaze fell on the faint scar at her temple, partially hidden beneath a stray lock of hair. He carefully smoothed it back, his thumb grazing the old mark. How long ago it seemed now, that terrible day when she had been hurt, right there outside his window. The memory had faded, but the scar remained—a reminder of their trials, their triumphs, and how, even then, fate had bound them together.

Margaret stirred beneath his touch, her lips parting in a soft murmur, though she did not wake. John knelt beside her, leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead, and then, unable to resist, to her lips— trembling with ardour but filled with the love that words could not fully express. To his delight, she responded instinctively, her hand rising to cup his face, as he had done to her at the train station in all his pent-up passion, drawing him closer, though her eyes remained closed.

He chuckled softly, his breath warm against her skin. ‘Time for bed?’ he advised, his voice hushed and intimate, as if the night itself might listen.

She nodded, still half-dreaming, her eyelids fluttering but not opening fully.

With the ease of a man accustomed to holding her close, John scooped her into his arms. She nestled against him willingly, her head resting in the familiar hollow of his shoulder. Despite her pregnancy, she fit perfectly against him, as she always had. He rose effortlessly, carrying her up the stairs with long, measured strides, the warmth of her body seeping into his own as they moved through the sleeping house.

As they ascended, he smiled to himself, his lips brushing her ear. ‘You know, I won’t be able to do this forever,’ he said, though there was a teasing note in his tone that made them both giggle.

Margaret, her cheek pressed against his neck, let out a drowsy laugh of her own. ‘I know,’ she accepted. ‘That is why I will enjoy it while I can.’

Forty-five years had passed in what felt like the brief flicker of a candle. But what bright and beautiful years they had been.

The study remained much the same, its heavy bookshelves lined with volumes collected over decades, the fire still crackling with the familiar warmth of home. Yet, the air had changed. Time had slowed the pace of the household, replacing the vigour of youth with the quiet reflection of age. John, his once-black hair now entirely silver, stood in the doorway of the study, his tall frame slightly bent with the weight of years. His face, deeply lined with the experience of a life fully lived, still held the same strength and resolve, though his step was no longer as sure as it had been.

Something called him to the room before bed, as if old habits were too powerful to ignore. And there, on the same couch, he found Margaret, much as he had all those years ago. Her silver hair fanned out across the pillow, a soft halo framing her face. The beauty that had once captivated him remained, though it was now tempered by the passage of time. Her skin, though lined, still held a softness he adored, and her lips—pale, yet still curved in that familiar way—murmured softly in sleep.

Her breathing was punctuated by uneven wheezes, a lingering sign of the persistent cough that had troubled her for months. Her once-strong legs, now weakened by time, had grown unsteady, and she had stumbled more than once of late, each fall leaving her with painful injuries to her knee and hip.

John stood over her for a moment, his heart heavy but full of love. How many times had he gazed at her in wonder, in awe of the woman who had shared his life for so many years? And even now, in her frailty, she was still the centre of his world.

He bent down, pressing a tender kiss to her lips, as he had done so many times before. Though asleep, Margaret responded with a familiar smile, her hand finding his cheek in a way that made his heart swell with an emotion he could never quite put into words.

‘Time for bed?’ he asked again, his voice tender, touched by the wisdom of time.

She opened her eyes, just for a moment, and nodded, though when she tried to rise, her strength failed her. With a sigh, she sank back into the couch, her frailty more apparent than ever.

Without hesitation, John gathered her into his arms. She was so light now, so fragile, and though he was still strong, the years had begun to take their toll. His back strained with the effort, his limbs ached, but he did not mind. She was in his arms, where she belonged, and that was all that mattered.

‘No,’ she protested weakly. ‘I am too heavy. You are too old.'

'Less of that,' he mocked puckishly. But she was right, and yet he did not mind. ‘I’ll admit, it’s harder now to carry you, but I will gladly do it for as long as I can. It has been my life’s pleasure and privilege, ever since I first held you in my arms on that fateful day.’

Margaret smiled, the wrinkles on her face creasing. ‘I know, my love. You have carried me with such strength and faithfulness, I do not know how I can ever thank you.’

He held back a tear. ‘As you have carried me in turn, my love.’

Holding her close, he ascended the stairs with deliberate care, feeling the familiar ache in his spine. A soft sigh escaped his lips. “You know, I won’t be able to do this forever,” he murmured, the words laced with a quiet understanding. They both knew—while their love felt timeless, their bodies were not.

Margaret wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers threading through his silver hair. She pressed her face into the curve of his shoulder, her breath soft against his skin. ‘I know,’ she whispered. ‘That is why we will cherish it, while we can.’

Chapter Text

GOOD MORNING, WORLD

(The Thornton Tales)

As the sleepy morning light filtered through the nursery’s curtains, Richard and Daniel Thornton felt it reach them like a soft caress, warm and comforting as a mother’s hand. It played across their chubby cheeks, bringing with it a faint glow that seemed to whisper, wake up, little ones. Richard stirred first, his tiny fists rising up from the blanket, his arms stretching with a delightful wobble. He blinked, his small brow creasing in a look of utter concentration as if trying to puzzle out this glowing new day. Daniel, a little slower, squirmed beside him, his own eyelids fluttering open, revealing a gawk that was wide and curious, his fingers splaying and curling as if to greet the world with a wave.

Their breaths rose and fell together, soft and steady, as they lay side by side, finding an easy comfort in one another’s presence. Even at this tender age, they somehow knew they belonged together—two tiny halves of the same whole, an unbreakable pair. They could feel the soft tickle of their blankets around them and the slight roughness of the sheet beneath them, grounding them, anchoring them to this budding morning. The faint, familiar scent of one another was a shield that made them feel safe in this vast world that lay beyond their understanding.

Suddenly, both babies’ attention turned to a new, distant sound, a low, steady thrum coming from somewhere far beyond the nursery walls. Richard’s tiny head turned slightly, eyes widening as if in awe, listening to the deep murmur that rose and fell like a lullaby. Little did they know, it was the sound of their father’s cotton mill, with its great machines spinning and clattering to life as they wove fine threads of fabric. Yet, to these two, it was a mystery, a soothing hum that filled their tiny chests with a curious sense of comfort, as if the house itself were alive and breathing, keeping them cradled and secure.

The twins felt their small limbs tingling with contentment, a sensation of warmth seeping into their little fingers and toes as they lay close, revelling in each new feeling. Richard reached out, his fingers seeking Daniel’s in that instinctive way of his, and Daniel’s chubby hand met his, grasping with a firm grip that seemed to say, There you are, brother. In their little world, this connection was nothing short of a miracle—a bond, a silent promise that whatever the day held, they would face it together.

Just then, as if drawn to their sons by some quiet, invisible call, two beloved faces appeared above them, each bathed in a light that felt like warmth itself. Their mother leaned in first, her brown curls framing her face in a way that seemed to glow, as though she were some ethereal presence sent just for them. Her eyes, shining with tenderness, held a kindness that could calm any fear, a gaze that rocked them as lovingly as her arms. Her smile—a soft, gentle curve that only they ever saw quite this way—seemed to wrap around their small hearts, assuring them that they were safe and adored beyond measure. She murmured something in her sweet, musical voice, a melody they knew as surely as they knew the beating of their own hearts. Though her words were yet a mystery, their warmth brought a rush of joy so pure it filled them like sunlight fills a quiet morning.

She was their world, their everything—the first face they ever knew, the first heartbeat they ever felt. Her love was a force that held them both steady and soft, a presence that would never leave them. To look upon her was to feel the essence of home and peace, a sweetness that ran deeper than any sadness a babe may know, a love unbroken and unbreakable.

Beside her, their father’s strong face came into view, marked with the wisdom and strength of a man who had battled against the world but now found his sanctuary here, in this small nursery. His gaze, steady and sure, softened as it lingered upon his sons, his pride unmistakable in the lines that crinkled at the corners of his eyes. Though his features were resolute and commanding, they softened for his boys alone. With careful grace, he reached down, his large hand brushing over their delicate heads, a touch as light as a summer breeze yet filled with power. His hand, so capable and steady, felt like a fortress around them, an unyielding guard against the mysteries of the world that lay beyond their cradle.

To little Richard, who peered up at him in wonder, this hand meant protection, even if he did not yet know the word. It was a warmth that promised he would never be alone. And to Daniel, who turned back to his mother with a smile that made his tiny cheeks dimple, she was a source of boundless joy, as if to say, Yes, Mama, I am here, and I know you are with me.

In that sacred moment, the twins lay nestled between these two pillars of love, feeling the magic of their parents’ devotion wrap around them like a soft cocoon. They breathed it in as they would the morning air, the love so strong it felt as though it became part of them. In their small, wordless way, Richard and Daniel felt their parents’ love reaching every fibre of their being, settling into their hearts with a warmth that would carry them forward all their days.

As they lay there, a quiet joy stirred within them—a certainty that this world was good and kind, a place they could explore with wonder and trust, held safe by the watchful eyes of those who loved them most. The graceful light from the window seemed to shine just for them, wrapping them in its soft glow, while the soothing sounds of the world—the mill’s hum, the rustle of leaves beyond the nursery window, their mother’s lilting voice—created a harmony that welcomed them to a new day.

In this pure, wordless joy, Richard and Daniel felt the essence of belonging, of love that needed no explanation. They greeted the day with hearts wide open, safe in the unbreakable embrace of their family.

Good morning, world, they seemed to say, as their bright eyes met their parents’ adoring eyes. You love us, as we love you. And with that, the two of them settled back into their cradle, content and comfortable, ready to greet whatever wonders awaited them, swaddled in the tender love of their mother and father.

Chapter Text

THE WOOLLEN HAND OF FRIENDSHIP

(The Thornton Tales)

In the shadow of the mill, where the wheels rumble low,

She stands at the window, watching the snow

Fall soft on the ground, like a white-clad prayer,

And sees the workers with faces worn bare.

Her heart aches for them, for the lives they’ve led,

The hunger, the cold, the hard work they’ve shed.

Her hands, so soft, have never known such strain,

Yet here, in her wealth, she feels the sting of their pain.

She walks through the halls of her warm, lit home,

Feeling the comfort in every room she roams,

The fire crackling, the scent of sweet bread,

Yet guilt lingers heavy, a knot in her head.

For what use is abundance when others have none?

What worth is a feast when so many are undone?

She looks at her hands, and she knows in her heart

That this Christmas, she must play a different part.

So she gathers her wool, spun soft and fine,

And begins to weave, each stitch a sign.

A gift, not of gold or silken thread,

But something to warm them, to lift them instead.

A scarf for each worker, a mitten for all,

A woollen hand stretched out, no matter how small.

Her fingers work quickly, with love in her fibre,

A simple reminder of the kindness that lives inside her.

When the workers come in from the cold, dark day,

She greets them with gifts, and sends them on their way,

Each one a token, a soft, humble treat,

A gesture of kindness, a moment so sweet.

And in that moment, a bond is made,

Between masters and men, women and workers, no lines to invade.

For in giving with heart, and seeing the need,

She’s bridged the divide with her simple deed.

And though it’s just wool, and just warmth in the night,

It carries a message, so pure, so right.

That this Christmas, with love, they are not apart,

But united in humanity, each warm heart to heart.

Margaret Thornton sat cross-legged on her husband's study floor, her nimble hands working with deft precision as she wrapped the Christmas parcels before her. Each one was swathed in smooth, seamless paper, the edges perfectly aligned. Ribbons of deep crimson and rich gold were tied with loving attention, festooning the most delightful packages for her many loved ones. Margaret hummed a gentle tune as she worked, her spirit light and content. She was quite alone, but Margaret did not mind the rare moment of peaceful solitude, especially when her days were spent surrounded by her darling children or those at the school and hospital. She relished the companionship of the cheery fire which crackled merrily in the hearth, conveying a soft glow across the room that gleamed in the glass of the window. The occasional pop of the fire added a playful note to the otherwise still atmosphere, broken only by the soft rustling of paper.

Yes, Margaret was perfectly happy in her own little world.

It was then that the shrill whistle of the mill, punctuating the evening with its familiar call, shattered her concentration. Margaret’s attention turned towards the window, her eyes seeking the pale light of the lamps that illuminated the courtyard.

Amidst the bustling throng of carts and bales, Margaret's regard fell upon them—the weary workers making their way home after a long day's toil at the looms and packhouses. Clad in a patchwork of brown and grey garments, they shuffled through the thickening snow, their frayed coats pulled tightly about them in a vain attempt to ward off the biting chill of the evening air. Each step seemed laboured, their faces drawn and weathered, the cold nipping at any patch of exposed skin, urging them into huddled groups. Their postures were hunched against the relentless frost, shoulders rounded, and heads bowed in steely resignation to the hardship of midwinter.

The steady pace of their steps, as they progressed in one solemn procession, formed a somewhat poetic harmony that resonated with Margaret. A few of the workers, catching sight of her at the window, raised their hands in mute greeting, their pinched, pink faces glowing with the anticipation of rest. Margaret returned their gestures with a soft, though faint, smile, her usual warmth softened by an uncharacteristic glumness. For reasons she could not quite name, her customary cheer eluded her this evening.

Margaret’s thoughts turned to the presents she had arranged so thoughtfully for her family—treasures she knew would be received with joy. But did they truly need anything? She knew the answer. Indeed, the more she thought about it, the more she felt an uncomfortable niggle at the idea of their unjustified opulence. Even the grand feast she and Cook had planned for days seemed indulgent when compared to the simple fare the workers would likely have. The disparity between their lives weighed heavily on her heart. Though her husband, John, always assured her that their workers were well taken care of—earning the highest wages in Milton—Margaret could not shake the feeling that they ought to do more to bridge that inequality.

Feeling her conscience perturbed, Margaret’s gaze returned to the window once again, her spirit heavy with a dejected sort of sentimentality which she could not easily dismiss. While she had come to think of this cloistered mill yard as the centre of her world, tonight she found that the scene outside her window seemed so far removed, so wretchedly disjointed, from the world she knew within the haven of her home.

Her house, resplendent with the finest comforts of Christmas, was a refuge of warmth and luxury. The tables were laden with an exquisite array of food—succulent roasts, golden-brown and tender; rich plum puddings, their aroma filling the air, and fragrant cakes adorned with sugared almonds and bright red berries. Crystal goblets sparkled with wine, while silver trays of candied fruits and nuts glistened like gems.

In sharp contrast, the humble homes of the workers stood far from such abundance. There, warmth was a fickle luxury, and sustenance was often meagre, eked out by the barest of means. Their damp walls barely kept the chill at bay, and Christmas, if celebrated, was a modest affair. For some, it might consist of scant portions of meat and a handful of withered vegetables, scarcely enough to fill the belly. For others, their banquet would be little more than a simple repast of bread and broth, shared amongst those fortunate enough to have it. The workers' homes were far removed from the sumptuous comfort Margaret had come to take for granted, and yet, as she gazed out the window, she could not help but feel the onus of that disparity.

Leaving her post by the window, Margaret walked slowly through her home, and she eyed everything carefully as if seeing it for the first time. The large rooms. The comfortable furniture. The expensive ornaments.

When she reached the drawing-room she found a thriving fire ablaze in the hearth, its warmth enveloping the entire house, while the Christmas tree stood as a radiant centrepiece, a shining light that welcomed everyone to the heart of the home. At the top, a star gleamed brightly, representing the birth of Christ—the King of Kings, the Prince of Peace, the Wonderful Counsellor. As she looked at the tree, Margaret felt the profound message of that holy night, knowing that the babe in the manger, the Lord of all, would wish her to look out with herself and share the gift of charity with her brethren.

Margaret scolded herself inwardly as she sat down at her dining table. When had she, Margaret Thornton, née Hale, become so detached? She had once confronted and chastised the master of this very mill, the man who would become her husband, for his indifference to the suffering of others. Indeed! She had once pestered and punished him before his peers at this very table for what she considered to be his insufferable apathy. Yet here she was, nearly thirty years later, unable to fully recognise and sympathise with the insatiable need that surrounded her. Margaret scoffed! How had she grown so distant from the cause that had once burned so brightly in her heart? She resolved that this would not do. No, this would not do at all.

It was at that moment that Richard, Margaret’s eldest son, entered the room. At first, he had believed himself alone and, with a stealthy sneak, had placed his bundle of gifts—paper and string—on the table, preparing to wrap the items he had just purchased for his wife. However, as he turned, he saw his mother sitting at the end of the table, lost in thought. Pausing in his task, he stood tall, regarded her with a thoughtful expression for an interval, and then moved to sit beside her.

‘Mother?’ he said, causing her to start slightly. ‘What is the matter?’

She smiled, reaching out to pat his hand in a reassuring gesture.

‘It is nothing, my boy,’ she replied, speaking as her husband would. ‘I was merely reflecting on the great contrast between our lives and the lives of our workers. We have so much, yet I cannot help but feel sorrow for them. They work tirelessly and receive so little. It seems dreadfully unfair when compared to the blessings we enjoy.’

Richard met her gaze with understanding. He had long grown accustomed to his mother’s profound attentiveness for others, a benevolence that knew no bounds.

‘You are always thinking of others,’ he remarked in his thick northern droll. ‘Is there ever a time when you do not carry the weight of the world on your shoulders?’ he asked with a fond smile, one that blended love with a hint of wry amusement. ‘I wonder how one heart can bear it all.’

Margaret smiled faintly, a warmth blossoming within her chest. ‘I suppose not. But tonight, it feels especially heavy.’

‘That is because you have the heart of a saint.’

Margaret smiled again, her gaze softening as she studied her son. Dear Richard. In so many ways, he was the very image of his father. Both were clever, both had a serious nature, yet each bore an undercurrent of mischief that only those they trusted could ever see. Neither man could suffer fools or falsehoods, and both held themselves to the highest of standards. Richard resembled John not only in character but in appearance too—tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair that curled just so, and features that were sharp and strong. His smile was John's, wide and unguarded, yet when he scowled, it was as if John were staring back at her from across the table. It was at that moment, as she watched him, that Margaret had a thought. Richard was now twenty-eight, the same age John had been when they first met. It was the same age he had been when she had confronted him, in this very room, at this very table, for his apparent indifference to the plight of others. And now, she wondered what John Thornton’s son, at the same age, would think of her current qualms.

She took a deep breath and explained her concerns. As she spoke, Richard listened patiently with his usual sage expression, his brow furrowed in concentration. When she had finished, she looked at him expectantly and asked, ‘So, do you think we ought to do more for those who work so closely with us? So fastidiously and faithfully for us? To those to whom we owe the privileged life we lead?’

Richard paused, his eyes sharpening and he pondered, the cogs in his astute mind turning like those in the mill. Finally, when he spoke, his voice was measured and composed.

‘I appreciate your concern, Mother. It is only natural. I should hope that anyone with a conscience would care for such things,’ he began, his words sincere, though tinged with a touch of reasoned restraint, as if he spoke as a philosopher rather than a philanthropist. ‘However, you are forgetting that the workers are among the highest paid in the entire county. Their wages are nearly double those of many others, and we have done all within our means to lighten their burdens. They are well looked after, in ways most others are not.’

He went on to remind her of the pension fund the Thorntons had established for their elderly workers—those who had given their best years to the mills but were no longer able to work. It was a fund the like of which Milton had never seen before, a provision that ensured these workers could live with dignity in their later years.

Margaret listened quietly, absorbing his words, but there was still a part of her that was unconvinced. She knew that the workers were treated better than many, but it was not just a matter of wages or annuities—it was about something deeper, a sense of duty to those whose labour made her family’s fortune possible.

As Richard spoke of his parent’s legacy, of the responsibility the Thornton family had always taken for those who worked for them, Margaret could not help but feel a twinge of unease. It had always been their way to take care of those who had built the foundation of their success. To set an example of Christian charity that was sincere rather than for show. But what more could be done? How could she reconcile the abundance of her life with the struggles of those who worked beneath them?

‘I know you are right. It is just that I wish there was something more I could do for them this Christmas,’ she emphasised, though what she had in mind, Margaret could not yet lay her finger on. ‘It has been a difficult year for the country. War. Famine. Strikes. People need something to lift their spirits, to be reminded that their skills and sacrifices are acknowledged and appreciated.’

‘Do not worry so, Mother,’ Richard quickly reassured her. ‘Every Boxing Day, we provide for them all—a grand meal, a feast of plenty, enough to sustain them well into the New Year. They are cared for, just as you wish. We do more than most, Mother. You do more than any other mill master’s wife or mill owner—since it has always been instilled in us by Father that you, Mother, are the true owner—more than anyone else in all of England, I am sure of it.’

Margaret nodded slowly, yet her thoughts remained distant, clouded with unease. The words Richard spoke, practical and grounded in fact, did little to assuage the feeling that had taken root deep within her—a feeling that her actions, no matter how generous, still fell short of what was truly needed.

‘I know. I know that in my mind. But my heart does not feel at peace.’

Richard sighed, a sound tinged with both acceptance and resignation. Like his father, he sometimes had to admit that Margaret Thornton’s sense of compassion was too vast to ever be truly contented.

‘I must tend to business at the mill, but I know that in time, you will find peace,’ he said tenderly, his hands resting briefly on her shoulders. He stood to leave, but not before placing a soft kiss on her forehead. ‘Do not let it trouble you tonight, Mother. Enjoy what you have. Do not question it. Do not shame it. Simply enjoy it. We work hard too, remember.’

Margaret watched Richard leave, his footsteps gradually fading down the hallway, but her thoughts remained unsettled, a relentless perturbance. She knew, in her mind, that Richard was right—her family had done more for their workers than most, and they were undeniably fortunate. Yet, the stark contrast between their lives and those of the workers still lingered, a constant undercurrent of disquiet. The mill, the workers, her family—everything seemed closely connected and yet so immeasurably disconnected.

As she sat in the stillness of the room, Margaret wondered if there was more that could be done—something beyond providing a feast or earnings. Was there a greater responsibility, one that surpassed mere survival, that could restore dignity to those who worked so hard? These questions circled in her mind as the fire crackled softly, but there were no answers—only the feeling that, despite all they had given, it would never be enough.

The following morning, as Margaret sat in the drawing room, her thoughts once again turned to the workers—the men and women who spent day after day in the Thornton mill. Despite the warmth of the fire crackling in the hearth, a coldness lingered within her, a sense of discomfort she could not shake. As she had drifted off to sleep the night before, she had been struck by the thought that, while she had more than enough money to afford the material donations her son had spoken of, these could never truly express the depth of her gratitude. Gifts of funds or food alone, no matter how thoughtful, could make the recipients feel valued, but not necessarily seen. She longed to do something more personal, something that would show her workers how truly thankful she was for their steadfast service.

At any rate, as Margaret busied herself with preparations for the family’s Christmas gathering, the familiar sound of the mill whistle reached her ears, and almost without thinking, she rose from her chair and moved toward the window, as if drawn by a spell.

Outside, the snow fell relentlessly, blanketing the world in a thick layer of white. The workers trudged home, their breath rising in small clouds as their boots cut through the snow, leaving behind a trail of footprints in the pristine drifts. Margaret, though wrapped in warmth by the fire, could not shake the coldness of their reality, and she found herself hoping—though with little expectation—that they all had substantial boots to shield their feet from the biting chill.

The winter had been nothing short of brutal. It was the kind of chill that cut to the bone, more cruel and relentless than any she had ever known. With coal and wood in dangerously short supply, the townsfolk fought a losing battle against the savage northern frost that clung to the streets, creeping into homes and hearts alike. John had paid a king’s ransom for fuel for their fires, but alas, not everyone had such resources.

Then, her gaze fell upon her husband winding his way through them. As always, he stood out amongst them. Tall, handsome, impressive, masterful. As she watched him fondly, she spied the blue scarf wrapped snugly around John’s neck as he strode across the yard, his figure solid and reassuring against the whiteness of the snow. The scarf—knitted by Margaret herself many years ago—seemed to beckon her to a notion urging her to consider it more closely.

Oh!

A sudden thought blossomed in her mind, simple yet profound. It was the very gesture she had been searching for—a personal and meaningful act that would speak volumes without the need for lavish gifts that might offend the proud self-worth of the people of Milton. She could do more than offer a festive meal or a fleeting indulgence. The workers, she realised, desperately needed warmth, something tangible to shield them from the coming winter—a gift of comfort that would show her appreciation in a way nothing else could.

She sprang into action at once, calling upon the women of the house—her daughters, daughters-in-law, and the other women under her care. Together, they would use every spare moment in the coming days to knit and crochet with whatever wool they could find. Margaret moved with purpose, her heart ignited by the sense of urgency and determination this task brought.

The evenings flew by in a whirl of activity, the rhythmic clicking of needles creating a steady harmony as the family worked side by side. Margaret’s heart swelled with pride and gratitude for the efforts of those she loved. She knew these gifts, though modest, would carry a significance that no extravagant gesture could match.

When Christmas Eve arrived, crisp and cold, it signified the final day of work before the well-earned festive rest. As the familiar whistle shrieked through the evening air, Margaret and the women of the family stood at the mill gates, arms laden with bundles of scarves, gloves, and mittens—each one carefully stitched with the workers' initials.

As the workers began to spill out of the mill and make their way home, they halted in their tracks, astonished by the sight before them. The cold air seemed to still be around them as they took in the unexpected offering.

Taken aback yet deeply moved, they accepted the gifts with gratitude, tiered eyes brightening with pleasure and appreciation. At that moment, a wave of peace washed over Margaret. Her self-reproach, which had burdened her spirit for days, began to surely lift, replaced by a secure certainty. This, she realised, was the true spirit of Christmas—simple, unadorned, yet honestly heartfelt.

It reminded her of when she had made John that scarf, years ago, when she had been Miss Hale—poor in wealth but rich in love. Now, all these years later, she was still fundamentally the same person. She had no desire to buy affection with expensive presents. Instead, she longed to give something far more personal—something that came from the heart.

She did not wish to compare herself to Christ, but standing there, she was struck by the contrast between the birth the world had expected—the pomp and grandeur that royalty commands—and the humble reality of His arrival. Born in a manger, wrapped in simplicity, surrounded by hay and animals, the King of Kings entered the world in the beauty and brilliance of humility, unencumbered by material wealth, of which he had no want or need.

In that private reflection, Margaret understood. She had offered what she could, with no expectation other than to show love in its purest form. She knew that, in this, He would approve—because the true essence of giving lies not in riches, but in the meekness of the heart and the love it seeks to share.

Later that evening, as Margaret sat on the floor of her bedchamber by the fire, her fingers sore and stiff from days of tireless knitting, a sense of contentment enveloped her. As she yawned, John, who had been away most of that day on business, quietly opened the door. His solemn face relaxed, and upon seeing his wife look so soft and serene, an affectionate smile spread across his features.

‘You remind me of my scarf,’ he said, rousing her from her sleepy state, though the melodic cadence of his deep voice only made her wish to melt into his arms. ‘Your warmth wraps around us all.’

Margaret smiled, her heart full, and she welcomed him with open, eager arms.

‘I hear you have been knitting again,’ he said knowingly, removing his coat and shoes before sweeping her into his embrace.

Margaret laughed.

‘Your scarf, my dear,’ she replied as he settled beside her and she gently removed his cravat, ‘was an olive branch—a symbol of love between two sparring souls. These gifts, however, were a woollen hand of friendship, extended to those who work beside us every day, to whom we owe everything.’

Chapter Text

WEDNESDAYS

(The Thornton Tales)

John Thornton sat at his desk, his hands resting on the knobbly surface of the wood, the texture familiar beneath his fingers, since this desk had been his faithful assistant now for fifteen years. With a cloth dabbed in polish, he traced the grain with a subtle, absent-minded motion, a calm, invisible rope that linked him to the world he had so carefully built. The office around him, bathed in the tender, ochre light of late morning, breathed in harmony with him. It was like his own little sphere, one which was structured, logical, productive, and anything else he cared for.  It had been his war room during the many years of labour, where countless hours had been spent in the construction of the future he now inhabited. The shelves and drawers were laden with ledgers and papers that held meaning known only to him—an organised record of a life shaped by triumph, misfortune, and ultimately, triumph again.

He had long been seen as a creature of habit, and while others might have said it with a chuckle, there was always a twinge of exasperation in their tones. He ate the same breakfast every day without fail. He bought the same brand of shoes whenever his old ones wore out. Every evening, he allowed himself exactly forty minutes of reading—thirty was too short, an hour too self-indulgent. His hair was trimmed to a precise length, never a fraction longer or shorter than the last cut. And when it came to his tea, just a splash of lemon—nothing more. People often smirked at his quirks, but John had grown to wear his reputation for fastidiousness with pride.

For a man who had weathered so much upheaval in his life, he had come to find relief in his rituals. Outside of these four walls, the world was unpredictable, volatile—a place of constant demands and endless pressure. But within the comfort of his routines, there was a steadiness. Whether it was the route he walked to his club, or the hat he wore to church, these small, seemingly insignificant acts gave him a sense of control. In a world that often seemed intent on pulling him in a thousand different directions, these habits supported and sustained him. They became his refuge, a way to reconnect with himself when everything else felt uncertain.

Time, to him, was the rarest and most precious currency—more valuable than gold or diamonds—and he spent it with the care of a man drawing the last of his savings. Thoughtful, cautious, never wasting a second on the frivolous or fleeting. Yes, certain habits had inevitably slipped away with the years—marriage, children, the ever-growing demands of life had a way of reshaping even the most steadfast routines—but at the core of him, that need for consistency, and through it, dependability, which had made him who he was, remained unchanged.

And that brings us to the heart of it: at six minutes to twelve, true to his nature, John Thornton was, as always, about to take lunch.

Lunch had become a consecrated ritual for John in this new chapter of his life, one where he actually cared to enjoy it. It was an unassuming gesture, yet one that encapsulated all he held dear. Six days a week, the working hours blurred together, the hum of the mill surrounding him like a distant, monotonous burr, a siren song that called out to the tradesman and businessman inside him.

Despite the long hours, he made it a priority to carve out an hour each day for his loved ones. Mondays were sacred to Margaret—precious moments when they could briefly escape the pressures of their lives. If the weather was fine and his schedule allowed, they would often take a walk to the town green or along the river. On rainy days, they would spread a blanket on his office floor and have an indoor picnic. And when she was pregnant and confined to bed, he would always be there, even if she was asleep, savouring the company of his wife and their soon-to-arrive bundle of joy.

Tuesdays were far less agreeable, for he was obliged to endure the bustling and frequently rowdy meetings at the gentlemen’s club. It was a den of immorality, a smoke-filled chamber were he was forced to listen to the incessant grumbles and gripes of self-important, self-interested men, each more concerned with advancing their own fortunes than any notion of common good. Their greed, insufferable arrogance, and endless posturing had grown as distasteful to him as the bitter brew of burnt coffee the club served—its acrid taste lingering long after the meeting had adjourned, much like the men themselves.

Thursdays were reserved for his mother, a time spent in her wise and calming presence, much like his bachelor days. They would converse softly while she sewed, and he would share the happenings at the mill. She, ever the attentive listener, would occasionally offer her advice, for though Margaret was now his chief confidant and counsellor, John remained profoundly grateful for all his mother had done for him, her love and guidance shaping him into the man he had become.

Fridays were dedicated to his sons—Richard, Daniel, Nicholas, Frederick, and George—a day when the house buzzed with the lively noise of their play, their energy spilling into every nook and cranny of Marlborough House. Though he was meant to join them for lunch, he often found they had finished their meals in record time, eager to dive into their favourite games—whether it was chasing him through the halls, with them as valiant knights and him as the fearsome dragon, or a boisterous round of "king of the castle," where they scrambled over him in an attempt to claim the throne. His hearty laughter mingled with theirs, creating a joyful uproar. His boys were a handful, but he would not change a hair on their heads. At times they would work together to overpower him, sending their giant father crashing to the ground as they climbed on his back and pulled at his legs, and while he once feigned defeat, it was becoming harder to keep up, as they were truly gaining the upper hand, since his lads were growing in both number and strength. Even little George, who had just turned one, would totter over on his pudgy legs and arms, tickling his father as he lay sprawled on the floor, the young boy gurgling and giggling with delight at being part of his brothers' mischief. Yes, John cherished his boys. They filled him with boundless pride, and he could only hope they felt the same about him.

Ah, but Wednesday—

The door opened abruptly and Williams, his foreman, stood in the doorway, his face drawn with a fractious frown which twitched the corners of his moustache, a facial feature his children often surmised must be a mouse that slept atop his lip.

‘Master,’ he said, ‘those new customers have been in touch, the ones coming from Bournemouth, the ones who want us to provide all the cotton for their seaside hotels. They wish to lunch in town before the meeting this afternoon. They insist upon your company.’

The master sighed softly, the sound apologetic but resigned. ‘Ah, but it is Wednesday,’ he replied, as if this fact should have been obvious, his voice steady, carrying the unruffled authority of a man who understood the value of his time and the importance of his commitments.

Williams blinked, taken aback. ‘What does that matter, sir? Surely, you can miss it just once?’

John’s gaze was unwavering, his eyes dark and unyielding. There was no trace of doubt in them, no hesitation. ‘It matters, as well you know. Today is a standing appointment,’ he reminded him sharply. ‘And I shan’t miss it, not if Marlborough Mills were to supply cotton for all the hotels in Britain.’

Williams faltered and murmured his understanding and backed away, closing the door gently behind him in resignation. John allowed himself a tranquil smile, a small flicker of satisfaction warming his chest. ‘And I would not miss it for the world,’ he whispered to himself.

Straightening his cravat and dusting off his jacket, John stepped into the mill, a tall, dark figure moving through the swirling clouds of white. John navigated the maze of whirring gears and burring spindles with practiced ease, a path he could walk blindfolded if need be, for he knew it better than the lines that traced the back of his hand. The trickling, splintering light from the windows framed him sharply against the hustle and bustle of the mill, a steady, stoic presence amidst the bustle that exists in the belly of an industrial beast. This was truly his world, and he would not change it for all the fortune known to man. However, right now, for the next hour, he would gladly leave it all behind and enter another world, one much lovelier than this.

Upon arriving home, John was met by the comforting rhythm of life in the Thornton household. He entered the parlour, pressing a brief kiss to Margaret’s hand and another to his mother’s cheek. Then, as if summoned by the very sound of his footsteps, his young sons came rushing in like a whirlwind. They dashed around him, and he gave each of them a pat on the head or shoulder, promising he would play lions and tigers with them later. But, after a moment, he bid them farewell and left the parlour. As much as he cherished encounters, during this hour, his time was not theirs.

After all, this was Wednesday. Wednesdays were different. Wednesdays were special. Wednesdays were dedicated to something and someone else.

Today, as he made his way upstairs, John’s feet carried him instinctively towards his destination, and finally, he found himself before a slanted door at the end of a corridor at the back of the house. Smiling, he knocked, patiently awaited permission to enter, and quietly opened the door.

The nursery door creaked open, and there they were—a picture of warmth and tenderness, like something out of a dream. Three little girls, their brown and golden curls tumbling around round, angelic faces, sat at a small wooden table, pretending to pour tea from a tiny pot into dainty porcelain cups.

Upon spotting him, the girls looked up, their messy hair tied in crooked bows, patches of dirt dotting their dresses from hours spent playing outdoors. Missing teeth peeked through their wide, beaming grins as they squealed in unison, ‘Papa! You’re here! You’ve come for our dolly’s tea party!’

Yes, thought he, Wednesdays were special.

It was the one day he prized above all others. Yes, he loved to spend time with all his family, but with his little girls, he felt all the sweetness in the world was before him. The one hour when the world could wait, when papers could remain unsigned, when meetings could be postponed, and the business of life could wait, if only for a brief hour. For on Wednesdays, his daughters—Maria, Elizabeth, and Hannie—awaited him in the nursery, arms laden with scones, jam, and porcelain cups, their faces radiant with the thrill of a ritual that belonged solely to them.

To an outsider, it might have seemed a trivial thing, a minor pleasure in a life already brimming with responsibility. But to John, it was indispensable—a respite in time, a peaceful oasis amidst the demands that tugged him in every direction. A rare chance to revel in the simple, untainted affection of his daughters, a reminder of what truly mattered. Indeed, Wednesday was the crown jewel in his week, the day that no outside obligation could pry him from.

As he joined the party, he carefully lowered himself into a tiny chair beside the even tinier table, his long legs stretching out awkwardly beneath him. The chair creaked in protest, groaning under his weight, its spindly arms too lithe to accommodate him. But he paid it no mind, adjusting his posture with a small chuckle, content to be part of their little world, no matter the discomfort.

Looking around him, he was met by three pairs of big blue eyes that regarded him with awe, as if he was the most wonderful thing they had ever beheld. Their faces were sweet reflections of their mother, Margaret—each one bearing a sentimental copy of her smile and eyes. Maria, the eldest, had long brown curls, keen eyes, a straight nose, a rounded face, and she held herself with the dignity of someone much older than her years, just like her mother. Elizabeth, next in line, had her grandmother’s sharper features—a firm jawline, eyes that seemed to take everything in, thoughtful and full of questions. Her gaze was so intense at times it seemed she understood the world in a way only the very old or very wise could. And then there was Hannie, the youngest, who was only four. She went about the place busily, as industrious as her parents. With golden hair, she had a cherubic face, curious eyes, and that irresistible, innocent joy of a child discovering the world for the first time.

The light filtered through the windows, dancing across their faces and casting delicate shadows that made the entire scene shimmer with an ethereal beauty. The nursery, bathed in the warm glow of midday sun, felt like a sanctuary of childhood dreams. In the corners, wooden rocking horses stood proudly, their edges worn from years of eager play. The varnish, though faded by time, still caught the light, gleaming as though they had just been crafted. Neatly arranged in rows, the dolls sat with an almost regal air, their meticulously hand-sewn dresses pristine, the fine lace and ribbon work bore witness to the care of their makers. Their faces, painted with gentle brushstrokes, wore serene expressions, the rosy cheeks and dark, soulful eyes lending them a lifelike quality. On shelves, robust tin soldiers stood at attention, and beside them, a wooden train set sprawled across the floor, its cars lined up as if waiting for an adventure. A small set of brass animals, polished to a gleam, rested on a nearby shelf, their forms frozen, as if ready to pounce. Looking about him, John nodded. Yes, the room felt alive with the history of toys that had been played with, loved, and carefully preserved through the years. It was a haven of childhood, something he had never known.

Maria then cleared her throat. ‘Would you care for some tea, Pa?’ she asked, holding up a cracked teapot.

‘And something for your rumbling tum, Father?’ Elizabeth added, gesturing to a plate with a rainbow of fruits and hot crumpets, the butter dribbling into its pores.

John assented, and with the poise of experienced hostesses, the girls set to work, their movements measured and suffused with an innocent pride, as if they were bestowing upon him a treasure of the rarest kind. The cups in their tiny hands appeared fragile, so delicate it seemed they might break with the faintest tremor, yet they held them with unwavering steadiness, each pour and motion performed as though they were offering not merely tea, but a part of their very hearts. The invisible tea flowed in arcs of grace, and every gesture, no matter how small, was carried out with the utmost care, as if each was a small act of devotion.

Maria’s eyes sparkled as she handed him his cup, her fingers light as though she were passing him something of immeasurable value, and as her small bracelet shifted on her arm, he was reminded of the first time he had taken tea with her mother, many moons ago.

Elizabeth’s laughter was like music—light and lively, the sound of childhood glee spilling freely from her rosy lips, her voice ringing with an infectious energy. Along with her sisters, she sat a doll on her knee and tended it to it with all the natural care of their own dear mother as she straightened its dress, brushed its hair, and whispered comforting words to her baby.

Even Hannie, the youngest, stirred her invisible tea with intense concentration, her tiny face scrunched in solemn thought as if she were performing some serious undertaking. She held her cup with both hands, her little brow furrowed in the seriousness of the task at hand, and yet when she looked up at her father, her face broke into a smile so wholesome, John had no choice but to lean over and kiss her dimpled cheek.

For the next hour, John sat amongst them, his heart swelling with an emotion so overpowering, that it caught him off guard. How simple, how utterly pure their love was—untouched by the world outside, unburdened by anything other than this perfect moment. The dolls, the rocking horses, the soft murmur of their voices—they all spoke of a love so honest and unassuming, a love that was entirely theirs to give. He longed to stay here, in this world of childhood simplicity, where nothing but joy and laughter seemed to matter, and time moved at a different pace, more patient, more kind. He realised then that this, this was the truest form of happiness—the kind felt by children who had not yet learned the ways of the world, whose love was untouched by the complexities of life, and while he knew his girls would grow to be wise, capable women, he hoped they would always retain their artlessness.

Once their imaginary tea party had come to an end, along with the more tangible refreshments, the girls huddled together, their voices dropping to hushed whispers as they cast furtive glances toward him, stifling giggles.

‘What’s this?’ he asked, his tone mockingly stern. ‘Don’t tell me you’re plotting against your old Dada?’ he asked, smiling to remember what they called him when they were babes learning to talk.

The girls shook their heads, their curls bouncing merrily with the movement, and then, with a burst of energy, they raced to a cupboard on the far side of the room. Moving with exaggerated secrecy, they retrieved something from within, though they kept it hidden behind their backs. When they returned, forming a tight circle around him, Hannie, ever the boldest, was the first to speak.

‘We have a present for you, Mr Pa!’ she declared, her eyes sparkling with mischief and delight.

John could not guess what it was, but then Hannie handed him a small doll. John thought nothing of it at first, but then something caught his attention and he stared at it. Oh! It was a tiny, almost perfect replica of himself. The small yet tall figure, dressed in a woollen suit with a little cravat, had dark, almost black hair—pieces of Thornton’s own hair, carefully saved after his last trim, sewn into the doll’s head. The craftsmanship was simple but unmistakably tender, a humble creation that testified to the depth of his daughters' love. The doll's button eyes gleamed, and for a fleeting moment, John saw his own reflection in them, as if the eyes were windows to his soul. In that moment, he thanked God for the thousandth time for the precious gift of fatherhood.

‘For me?’ he asked, his voice softer than he intended, a touch of wonder in it that even surprised him.

‘Yes, we made it for you, Pa,’ Maria explained, ‘so you can have your own doll at our Wednesday tea parties.’

John continued to look at it, his eyes pricking with tears, and for a moment, his daughters thought they had done wrong.

‘Do you like it, Pa?’ Elizabeth asked hesitantly.

Sniffling, John dropped to his knees, his arms opening wide. With gentle hands, he pulled his three girls close, kissing each of them in turn, his heart full to bursting.

‘I love it,’ he said, ‘and I love you,’

‘And we love you! Our great, big brown bear!’ they sang in unison, their faces alight with the joy of giving. Their laughter, bright and unburdened, was a gift in itself—refreshing, unclouded, and full of a mirth that only children could offer.

Leaning back, John’s chest tightened as he cradled the tiny figure in his hands. The doll’s stitched features were unsophisticated, yet infused with an undeniable tenderness—a delicate mirror of their love. The suit was slightly misaligned at the seams, the cravat askew, and one of the button eyes was slightly larger than the other, giving the doll a charmingly flawed, endearing appearance. A small patch on the back, where the fabric had been hastily stitched, lent the doll a sense of authenticity. Its hair, though thoroughly procured for accuracy, had a slight unevenness, some strands longer than others, but that only added to its unique character, as though it had been cherished long before it was ever gifted. In every little imperfection, John saw not flaw, but evidence of the pure, unguarded affection his daughters had poured into it. To him, the doll was flawless.

‘Thank you,’ he whispered, his deep voice trembling with a love so vast it felt impossible to contain, yet he had no desire to do so. He kissed each of their foreheads, his lips lingering on their soft skin, feeling the warmth of their love and the pulse of their beautiful little lives against the weathered touch of his own. ‘I must go now, little ones,’ he murmured reluctantly, since he hated leaving them. ‘But I will be back soon.’

Maria, clutching his hand with all the fervour of her small heart, looked up at him with wide, trusting eyes. Her little lips trembled with the effort of holding back all the feelings too large for her tiny chest to express. Her voice, soft and plaintive, held a yearning that only a child could feel for the one they loved most, the kind of longing that made her words seem to float on the air, full of a love that had yet to be fully understood. ‘Don’t go, Papa,’ she whispered, her voice catching just enough to reveal the depth of her wish.

‘Yes, don’t go. Please,’ Elizabeth begged, her words shuddering, for they contained all the sorrow of a child who could not quite grasp the passage of time or that grown-ups had the tragic fate of leading dull lives outside of the nursery.

John chuckled. What in God’s name had he done to deserve such treasures? It was all Margaret’s doing, he was sure of it. They took after her entirely when it came to their natures, even if they did look half like him.

‘I have to, my loves,’ he said sadly, ‘but I’ll be back before the stars are high in the sky.’

‘And will you tell us stories?’ Elizabeth asked. ‘Ones with castles made of cotton and horses with wings?’

‘And the princesses?’ Hannie pleaded, tugging at his trouser leg. ‘The princesses who are just like us.’

John smiled. ‘Aye, my lovely doves, I promise I shall,’ he vowed, shaking their hands one-by-one, binding himself in a gentleman’s agreement.  He kissed each of them gently again, feeling the glossy brush of their hair against his lips, the familiar and comforting warmth of their love enveloping him.

As he stepped away, a pang of longing thudded in his chest. He could feel the tug of duty pulling him back to his office, but in his heart, he knew that everything he worked for—everything he had ever strived for—was right here, in this room, in these moments, with them. His family, his home, his heart—they were the centre of his world, the compass by which he navigated all else.

For the rest of the day, the hours slipped away in the usual whirl of contracts, decisions, and appointments. But as the sun yawned and settled down to slumber, John finally returned home. He found the parlour empty, so with hands in his pockets, he padded up the stairs, Ruff, the faithful family dog, following at his heels.

As for Margaret, she had already tucked their sons into bed, the five of them sprawled in a tangle of limbs and blankets, worn out from a day full of mischief and adventure. She sighed and smiled as she closed the door, the tenderness of maternal love filling her soul. Her boys—how she adored them, each one so full of life and laughter. Hearing the tall-case clock at the bottom of the stairs chime the hour, she wrinkled her nose. Where was John? Her husband was usually home long before now, but never mind, perhaps he had pressing matters to attend to, and had not been at liberty to inform her. However, she did not fret too much over this. He would come home soon, by and by.

Margaret then made her way down the corridor to check on the girls, but as she approached, her footsteps slowed and eventually halted, her hand resting on the doorframe. There, in the dim light, she paused, her gaze drawn to the sight before her. There, nestled between Maria, Elizabeth, and Hannie, was John—fast asleep, his arms wrapped around them all, their shared breathing gentle and steady in the stillness of the room. Books and dolls lay scattered about them, some clutched tightly, others left forgotten in their hands. As for her husband, he too had a doll nestled in his arms, one that looked just like him, and he embraced it with the same tenderness he held for his daughters.

Margaret pressed a hand to her heart. John, the man who had once faced the world with relentless drive and determination of a businessman had become something far more important. He had become a father, a man whose love now eclipsed all his former desires.

She bent down gently, her fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from his brow, her touch tender with affection. The man who had once pursued wealth and recognition with such relentless fervour had long since abandoned those pursuits. Every sacrifice, every sleepless night, every hour spent chasing those fleeting goals—he had given them all up for this: for them. For this family. For the love that bound them all so closely together.

Lying carefully beside him, being mindful not to disturb Ruff, who slept soundly at the foot of the bed, Margaret was touched by a sense of gladness and gratitude. How fortunate she was to have married a man who, despite his many accomplishments, treasured the joy of fatherhood above all else. A man who, though he had fathered sons, cherished his daughters with a depth of devotion she had never once doubted. She had always known he took his roles seriously. As a master, as a son, as a brother, as a pupil. And now, he was the proudest of papas.

And in that moment, as she lay there, looking over the sleeping scene before her, Margaret realised with a serene smile that the simple Wednesday ritual of scones and tea, shared among them in their warm, loving home, was the truest, most enduring entry John Thornton had ever made in his master’s diary. It was an hour spent with his beloved children, enjoying their childhood and reliving the one he never had. Indeed, that hour once a week, may have seemed worthless to some, but to John, it was far more profitable than any worldly success, for tea and scones shared with dolls were worth infinitely more than dining with the richest of kings.

Chapter Text

SNOWFLAKES AND SNOWMEN

(The Thornton Tales)

It was Boxing Day in Milton, and John Thornton and his wife, Margaret, who had been wed but three months, sat together on the floor by the fire, curled up together like two cats, one black, one brown. Outside, a heavy snowfall that had been falling for hours now cloaked the town in a thick carpet of unblemished white. The streets, which had earlier been a throng of merrymakers, now stood desolate and deserted beneath the swirling dance of snowflakes. The wind howled fiercely, its icy breath rattling the windowpanes, as though it longed to invade the warmth within. But inside their snug drawing room, the fire crackled merrily, the golden sparks of firelight skipping and prancing on the walls like fireflies, offering a welcome solace from the wintry world beyond.

John’s mother, Hannah, had left that morning to stay with her daughter, Fanny, for the next few days, with the intent of returning to them for the New Year celebrations. John and Margaret were delighted with this arrangement, as it allowed the couple to enjoy a few carefree days untroubled by guests or obligations. It was to be a Christmas unlike any they had experienced before—without any visitors, without any work, and without any of the grand festivities that usually accompanied the season. They had the house to themselves, an oasis of calm before returning to the busy, bustling life of being a mill master and mistress.

The couple had spent the entire day in tranquil seclusion, their hearts and minds at ease in the peaceful solitude of their effortless togetherness. Most of their servants had gone to join their families for a brief respite, leaving John and Margaret to savour the intimacy of their newlywed sanctuary—a special privilege they were still relishing in and growing accustomed to.

They had risen shockingly late, their morning hours spent lazily intertwined beneath the quilts, basking in the comforting warmth of each other’s embrace as the soft light of the winter sun sneaked through the delicate lace curtains. As the day marched on, they ventured outside, their spirits light as the fine dusting of snow that blanketed the earth in unspoiled white. Hand in hand, they strolled through the frostbitten air, their laughter chiming like church bells in the silence, until they reached a frozen pond, its surface smooth and gleaming like polished silver beneath the pale, wintry sun. With mischief gleaming in their eyes, they donned their skates, initially hesitant, but they soon felt both their confidence and cheerfulness rise. Their skates traced arcs across the ice with wild abandon, their laughter combining with the sharp, invigorating breath of winter, as they spun and glided in carefree glee. Margaret, as light and swift as a snowflake caught on the breeze, darted ahead, her breath puffing out in clouds of frost, while John, ever eager to keep pace, pursued her with his long legs, letting out a hearty laugh that reverberated across the frozen expanse.

Their frisky, flirtatious energy soon erupted into a snowball skirmish. Racing after each other, they hurled their icy projectiles with deft precision. Behind snowdrifts and trees, they took cover, their cheeks flushed with the excitement of the chase, their eyes alight with the joy of their blithe mischief. The world around them was a swirl of white, their laughter and shouts of merriment ringing out like the sweetest music. Breathless and exhausted, they tumbled into the soft snow, their faces pink with pleasure. With light-hearted sighs, the weight of their daily lives dissolved, melting away into nothingness. Each day, they had consistently donned the roles of Mr and Mrs Thornton, Masters and Mistresses of Marlborough Mills. But today, they were free to simply be John and Margaret.

After their spirited frolic in the snow, they returned to the warmth of their home and retired again to bed to keep warm, burrowing beneath the blankets as they whispered sweet words to one another. Later, when hunger coaxed them from the cocoon of their marital bed, they dined on cold meats, rich cheeses, and freshly baked biscuits—a humble yet delicious feast. Now, as the fire fizzed and popped blissfully in the hearth, they sat together in perfect harmony, each absorbed in the new volumes of Dickens novels they had exchanged on Christmas Day, the two of them so alike in their tastes. The night outside lay serene and still, the snow continuing to fall persistently, but within the protected confines of their home, they were content to be alone, with no mill workers or schoolchildren around to steal their attention from one another. They both privately hoped that soon they would be blessed with a child, and, in the years to come, more little Thorntons would fill their home. Their family would soon be filled with an abundance of life, but, for now, they were content to be as they were.

As the darkness deepened, Margaret nestled into her husband. Her delicate fingers traced the rim of her champagne glass, the faintest smile on her lips, as they basked in the serenity of their sequestered haven. All around them, the house was still—save for the occasional gust of wind that sighed against the walls—leaving the couple to enjoy the evening in perfect seclusion.

However, it was not long before John, ever the practical man, stood and began diligently rearranging the decorations with his usual care. A string of holly, its red berries gleaming in the firelight, draped across the mantel, and the tree, though simple, stood adorned with delicate glass baubles and velvet ribbons. With fastidious fingers, he ensured these were all neat and symmetrical to the last inch. Margaret, watching him from the heap of pillows they had scattered on the floor, sat finishing her embroidered gift for her mother-in-law. Glancing up at him after every stitch, she found herself grinning at the sight of his single-minded attention to detail. She had grown accustomed to this side of him, his methodical ways that contrasted so strongly with her more spontaneous nature. Over these early months of their marriage, Margaret had learned to appreciate John’s need for order since it was his way of retaining control after a life filled with so much upheaval and uncertainty. Indeed, Margaret admired John’s thoroughness in every endeavour, no matter how significant or trivial, yet, she could not help but tease him about it now and again, for she adored seeing the stern mill master’s scowl turn into a sly, satisfying smirk.

‘Must you ensure every last bow is perfectly placed?’ she teased, her eyes twinkling with amusement. She leaned back against a plump cushion, her needlework resting in her lap. She breathed freely, glad to be rid of her corset, a restricting garment that she had tossed aside the moment they returned to their refuge. ‘You would tidy the very stars if they were within your reach, I daresay.’

John paused in his task, turning to her with a raised eyebrow and a shrewd smile. ‘A new year approaches, Mrs Thornton. One cannot start it without a clear and organised mind,’ he replied strictly, his voice steady and assured, as always, though there was more than a hint of mirth tickling his deep tones. ‘There is no such thing as too much order, my dear.’

‘If you say so,’ she pestered, barely suppressing a giggle.

‘You have your traditions,’ he retorted, nodding toward the linens she methodically rearranged each December—ensuring they were fresh and repaired, ready for the new year. ‘And I have mine,’ he added, referring to the way he reviewed every book in his care, both personal and professional, making certain everything was in perfect order before the first of January.

Margaret’s soft chuckle slipped from her rosy lips, her gaze true and tender. Rising, she glided toward him, her eyes sparkling with a mischievous gleam that never failed to captivate him. In that instant, John realised that the woman he had married was everything he had envisioned—and yet, nothing like the Miss Hale he had once known. She was still intelligent, sensible, modest, and possessed a thousand other virtues, but with him, she was also unrestrained, her spirit independent and free. In public, she remained composed and reserved, but in their quieter moments, she radiated warmth and affection. It was this exquisite fusion of gravity and grace, of sobriety and sweetness, that made him fall ever more deeply in love with her each passing day.

‘Oh, dear,’ she said, her tone tickled by an impish excitability, ‘how dull our traditions are,’ she lamented.

He leaned down to kiss her forehead while he made sure there were an even number of greeting cards on either side of the gold-leafed clock on the mantel. He grumbled to see that some ludicrous person had placed eight on one side and twelve on the other.

‘Well,’ said he, knowing when his clever wife had a plan brewing, ‘and what do you plan to do about it, madam?’

Margaret reached up on her tip-toes to kiss his bristled cheek. ‘Well, since you ask, sir, I think it is time for us to create a new tradition—one that is less about prudence and more about fun.’

John’s interest was piqued, though a small trace of wariness coloured his expression. ‘And what might this new tradition entail?’ he asked, his lips curling in a half-smile.

Margaret’s grin widened as she took his hand, guiding him toward the corner of the room where a basket of odds and ends and bits and bobs lay in disarray. ‘I propose,’ she began, ‘that we build a snowman.’

John looked at her in surprise, a puzzled frown creasing his brow as he glanced from Margaret to the ferocious blizzard outside. ‘A snowman? But it is far too fierce to go out of doors!’ he protested, pointing to the heavy grey sky which now spat down a constant torrent of flint-like shards of snow. ‘I might be a robust man, my love, weathered by our northern climate, but even I do not wish to be turned into an icicle,’ he resisted with a theatrical shudder, shaking his head at the thought.

Margaret’s laughter bubbled at his misunderstanding. ‘Not that kind of snowman, my love,’ she joshed, her hand resting against his masculine breast in that way which still made him quake with the thrill of it. ‘I propose we create one of our own—using only what we have here in the house.’ She gestured toward the room, her eyes flashing with anticipation at the idea of turning their cosy space into a winter wonderland with the simplest of objects. ‘In fact,’ she upheld, ‘we should make two: one of each other.’

John hesitated for a trice, unsure of this unorthodox idea, but then, with good-natured resignation, he allowed himself to be drawn into the spirit of her suggestion. The challenge intrigued him, and though it was far from his usual methodical approach, he could not resist her. After all, he would do anything to make his darling wife happy.

As for Margaret, her motives for the plan ran deeper than he could ever imagine. She loved John with a passionate, protective tenderness, but there was more to it than that. Beneath her affection, there was a quiet sorrow for the years John had sacrificed to both restore and then secure the fortunes and good name of his family. She admired the tireless dedication he poured into his work, but she could never forget how the untimely death of his father had stolen his youth. Forced to bear the weight of manhood far too early, he had missed out on the carefree joys and light-hearted pleasures that should have marked his younger years.

It was for this reason that Margaret longed to see her John indulge in those innocent, childlike moments he had never fully experienced. But there was more to it still. A secret fluttered within her, an inspiring suspicion that she might be with child. The thought filled her with hope, for she knew that by the next Christmas, they would be parents. And she resolved that when that time came, they would embrace parenthood not only with love and care but with the same exuberance and good humour she longed to share with him now. The world could wait for the responsibilities ahead. For today, she wanted them to simply be happy, to reclaim the joy and wonder of their youth together.

The game began uncertainly. At first, John’s approach was cautious and systematic, as he searched for objects that might serve as the foundation for his creation. He reached for a porcelain teapot, intending to use it as the head, and selected a pair of neatly folded towels along with some firewood, which he hoped could be shaped into arms. He was able to discover a crumpled cloth of brown fabric in his mother’s sewing table that ideally matched his wife’s brunette curls.

Nevertheless, Margaret, ever imaginative and instinctive, was already several steps ahead. She had taken a bright red scarf from the basket and draped it around a stout candlestick, fashioning it as the snowman’s neck. A broomstick was added with a flourish to one side, inventively labelled as his magical staff. Running from the room, she returned promptly with one of John’s top hats and placed it firmly on her new friend’s head, along with one of his mill ledgers which she carefully placed in his hands made of balled socks.

John watched as Margaret continued her impromptu design. She placed a tomato before the candlestick, declaring it the snowman’s nose, and tied a matching ribbon around the broomstick to serve as a makeshift pocket handkerchief to please Milton’s fine society. There was no regularity to her concept, nor any attempt to impose a conventional shape or size. Yet, despite the apparent disarray, it was undeniably charming—an embodiment of the uncontrived spirit of the woman who had so wonderfully brightened his life.

‘Excellent work, Mr Thornton,’ Margaret praised in a mock Darkshire accent that mimicked his own, her expression affirmative as she stood back to admire the result. Nodding her approval, Margaret regarded the two snow people who stood proudly together. ‘I daresay, these are the most extraordinary snow couple Milton has ever seen.’ She then went to a vase of roses and snapped off a small stem to add to their ensemble, and indicating to the thorns, she said, ‘There, they are part of the family now, a true Mr and Mrs Thornton.’

John, though flustered, smiled at the sight of their whimsical creation. ‘They are rather fine, are they not?’ he conceded, though with a hint of pride in his voice. ‘Though,’ he added, grimacing at his own humble attempt, ‘I think I would rather have you as a wife.’

‘Oh, I do not know,’ Margaret countered, happily rearranging her snowman’s red scarf, ‘I would proudly be seen about town on this gentleman’s arm,’ she decreed, threading her arm through his and giving him a kiss.

They both laughed heartily at this, so much so that their sides began to ache. Once their laughter had subsided, they both stood side by side, their inspection fixed upon the peculiar figures before them, and their conversation naturally drifted to past Christmases. Margaret began, recounting stories of her childhood in London, the streets teeming with well-dressed, fashionable folk, her aunt ever insistent on the strictest adherence to prim and proper perfection. She then spoke of her time in Helstone—a far more homely affair. With a wistful smile, she remembered her dearly departed parents and the warmth that had pervaded their home, despite the fleeting nature of their family’s income and social position.

In contrast, John's voice was steady and measured as he shared his own memories. He rarely spoke of his life before his father's death, but when he allowed himself to lower his guard, he would occasionally open up to Margaret, trusting her with fragments of a past he often kept locked away. His wife could see how it was a cathartic release—a long-suppressed outpouring of bittersweet remembrances. He spoke of his father’s buoyant and optimistic nature, how he would fill the house to bursting with presents and all manner of extravagant surprises. But then, all too soon, his father had died. John’s tone grew quieter as he recalled the more sombre Christmases that followed in Milton. For many years, he had toiled and saved, struggling to restore his family’s wealth and repay their debts, setting aside what little he could so that his mother and sister might enjoy some semblance of the Christmas they deserved. Later, as the Master of Marlborough Mills, his Christmases had become solitary affairs—save for dinner with his mother and sister. He would spend the remainder of the season absorbed in his work, the world beyond his study seeming distant and unattainable.

But now, he was married. Now, Christmas would never be the same again. It would be wholesome and hopeful, something to look forward to. Margaret too felt relief flower in her heart. No more would she be shunted here and there, to feel like a misplaced ornament. Now she would have a permanent home and family, a sense of belonging, and would be secure in the knowledge that she was where she was meant to be.

In these sedate reflections, they acknowledged the depth of their growth together, how their contrasting backgrounds had been welded to complement one another in the life they had built—and the one they would continue to shape. Through their distinct experiences, they saw that they had not only created a home, but a solid partnership rooted in love and a sincere respect for both their similarities and differences. It was a true union of north and south, a bond strengthened through both joy and hardship, a love that exceeded the divides of their pasts, paving the way for a brighter future.

As the clock’s hands drew closer to midnight, John and Margaret found themselves standing beneath the mistletoe, a delicious silence settling between them. The snow outside had calmed and drifted down sleepily, its soft touch transforming the world into a crystalline dream. The town, swathed in white, held the night in a trance. With gazes that burned for one another, the young Mr and Mrs Thornton looked at each other, the treasured other half of the hearts—their eyes filled with a depth of adoration beyond the reach of words—and in that sacred space, with only the tender flutter of their breaths, they drew closer. Without a single utterance, their lips met—wet, lingering, a kiss brimming with vows, a kiss that spoke of everything they had become and all they would one day be.

Without ceremony, John dug into the pocket of his coat and retrieved a small, carefully wrapped package. With a shy smile, he handed it to Margaret. ‘Happy Christmas, my dear.’

Margaret unwrapped the gift, revealing a drawing he had created from memory—a portrait of her parents, rendered with such exquisite accuracy that, for a minute, she could almost hear their voices in the faithful strokes of his pencil. The gesture was deeply moving, a way for her to preserve the memory of those who had passed but had borne witness to the early days of their relationship. Her fingers hovered over the lines, her eyelashes moistening at the thoughtfulness of the gift. Her heart swelled with gratitude.

‘I have something for you as well,’ Margaret confessed as she reached into the folds of her dress to reveal a petite, hand-carved wooden box.

John opened the box slowly, his breath catching as he uncovered an intricate pocket watch. Its silver face gleamed softly in the candlelight, and the inscription, For the moments we share, was etched into the metal. He immediately recognised the sentiment. He had often spoken of the pocket watch passed down from his father, now growing too fragile and worn to serve its purpose. This was no mere replacement—it was a symbol of new beginnings, a token to mark their combined future.

John held the watch with deep reverence, his chest tightening with emotion. He was speechless for a moment, overcome by the strength of her love and the simple yet significant message behind such a gift.

As the following days came and went, there were no grand celebrations, no raucous revelry. Instead, it was simply the two of them, alone in their home, content, wrapped in the peaceful assurance of their love. As they stood together, staring out at the snow-draped world, they recognised that this unadorned Christmas—without flourish or fuss—was exactly what they desired: a chance to celebrate not merely the season, but the steadfast promise of who and what they intended to be as a united force. This Christmas was their cornerstone.

Yes, they had enjoyed being alone, knowing full well that they would not be alone for long.

And yet, they were not entirely alone, were they? Their gazes turned to the creations behind them, huddled in the parlour, and they both smiled, satisfied that this snow couple, too, were safe and snug in their care. They were part of the family now, and they promised to build them again next year. And, perhaps, they would be able to add another one to their little snow family.

Chapter Text

BENEATH THE SURFACE

(Before We Were Us)

The rain falls in torrents, each droplet striking the pavement with a fierce urgency, as though the city itself is at war with the heavens. From my vantage at the window, I watch it all, captivated by the turmoil of the streets below—damp, dull, and filled with a restless energy that mirrors a turbulence inside me.

Milton. Its heartbeat is as fierce as the storm. How many times have I looked down upon this city and felt its weight press into me, foreign and strange? A part of me wants to turn away, to retreat into the safety of my own thoughts, but I find myself unable to do so. I wonder if I am finally beginning to grasp it—or if I am only becoming more ensnared in its labyrinth of soot and sweat, a labyrinth I fear may consume me completely. Yet, strangely, I feel myself drawn deeper into it, tangled in its contradictions, its fierce, untamed core.

It has been days since Mr Thornton and I last exchanged words. Days since the disagreement that left a bitter taste on my tongue and confusion in my chest. His disdain, his arrogance, his fury—all of it echoes through my mind, as if his words were seared there. ‘You are no better than the rest of them, Miss Hale.’ His voice had been frigid, biting, yet beneath it, something else stirred—a flicker of frustration, perhaps even sorrow, that I could not shake. What was it? Contempt? Disillusionment? Perhaps both. And yet, I am left wondering… what was it that I truly felt in that instant? Resentment? Or a sentiment infinitely deeper and more intricate?

The storm outside mirrors my thoughts, swirling in disarray and ambiguity. I try to quiet the voice that has begun to question everything—my first impressions, my own principles. This is the city that has made me so uneasy, so often at odds with what I believe. Yet, the longer I am here, the more I see beyond the grime and the industry, the more I realise that I have been too hasty in my judgments. Too quick to judge him.

Milton is a city built on blood, sweat, and toil, all of which saturate the wisps of cotton that rise in a slow, mocking flurry. It is a place defined by the constant whirring of machines, cold, indifferent machines, and where the workers—those same workers I once pitied—seem to carry the weight of the world upon their shoulders. In them, I once saw only suffering, a kind of grim endurance that I could not fully understand. But now, as the days pass and I begin to walk these streets more freely, I see something else. I see the power in them, the quiet pride that they hold in their work, in the very sweat that stains their brow. They are not broken. They endure. And the city—like them—keeps surging forward, its menacing skyline rising against the darkening sky, resolute, refusing to bow to the storm.

And Mr Thornton? How often have I misunderstood him? I see him now in a new light, no longer the arrogant, unfeeling mill owner who towers above the rest. I see a man struggling, struggling not just with the world around him, but with himself. Perhaps it is foolish to even think it, but I can almost feel his strain—the weight he carries in his chest, the one that compels him to be the man he is. Proud, yes. Stubborn, unquestionably. But is there more? Beneath that hard exterior, beneath the ire that so often surges in his voice, is there a different man—one who is not so unlike me? Is he simply trying to make his way in a world that has no room for gentleness, a world where every misstep is a blow to his pride?

I wish I could say that I had no compassion for him. That I could stand in this room, distant and untouched by the thought of him, and tell myself I am done with all of it—the arguments, the pride, the misunderstanding. But I cannot. I cannot quite relinquish the glimmer of something within me—a spark of desire that stirs when I think of him, even now, with his eyes narrowed in fury and his words sharp as blades. It is there, and I cannot deny it. It is not just admiration or respect for his strength, for his durable resolve. It is something more—something that I am not yet ready to name, but it swells within me like the storm outside. It is a restlessness, a yearning that I cannot yet understand, a longing to see beneath that tempestuous exterior and know what lies within.

My fingers trace the edge of the windowpane, the cool glass a sharp contrast to the warmth of the room behind me. It’s strange, really, how much I have changed in such a short time. How easily I have allowed myself to be drawn into this city’s rhythm, its noise, its very heartbeat. And how much of that rhythm has found its way into my own chest. I was raised to value tenderness, kindness, patience—the qualities that would win hearts, the ones I believed in so fervently. But here, in Milton, those qualities seem to falter. Here, strength of will seems to hold more weight than softness of heart. How many times have I seen that in Mr Thornton? How many times has he displayed a determination so firm, so immovable, that I felt both frustrated by it and… captivated by it?

I cannot help but ask myself what lies beneath his pride, his harshness. Am I so different from him? Have I not, too, been a creature of pride, of obstinacy? My pride in my upbringing, my father’s ideals, my refusal to accept Milton and all it represents. But now, as I stand here, I wonder if I have been mistaken. Have I been too rigid in my understanding of the world, of people, of him?

The thunder rumbles in the distance, a deep growl that shakes the ground beneath me. The storm is intensifying, stubborn as I am. I know nothing of Mr Thornton’s struggles, nothing of the battles he fights in silence. Perhaps I never will. Perhaps I have already decided that I am not meant to understand him, not meant to be part of his world. But even as that thought takes root, I cannot help but think of the way his voice softened, just for a moment, when he spoke of his parents, one alive, one dead, of the family he has worked so tirelessly to provide for. In that brief instant, I saw something different in him. When his voice cracked, I saw between the cracks, and there, in his core, lay something I had not seen before, something I had not credited in him. Something human.

And I wonder: if I could see him as he truly is, beneath all the layers he wraps himself in, beneath the fury, beneath the pride—would I still feel the same? Or would I be changed, as I am being changed by this city, by its harshness, its demands, its refusal to allow for weakness? What would I see beneath his resolve, behind that gaze that holds me so steadily, so intensely—what is it that lies just beneath the surface?

The rain continues to batter the streets, its sound a steady rhythm in the background. I watch the people below, rushing to and fro, their movements so much like the restless energy inside me—torn between opposing forces, driven forward, yet uncertain of the direction. My heart beats in time with the city’s pulse, caught between two worlds: the one I left behind, and the one I seem to be slipping into, despite my best efforts to resist.

The question remains, swirling in my thoughts. What would I see if I looked closer, if I dared to peel back the layers? Would it be a man worth knowing? Or a man forever beyond my reach?

I cannot contemplate it. And yet, I notice I say cannot often. But perhaps it is that I will not, or that my will does not want to give in and give way to a better understanding of him.

And with that thought, I step away from the window, my mind still filled with his image—his pride, his fury, and perhaps, just beneath it all, something that might be a little softer than I care to admit. The storm rages on outside, as it rages within me. And I am left to wonder how long I can resist the pull of both.

Perhaps one day, I will know. But for now, I am left only with the questions—questions that feel heavier than the rain itself.

Chapter Text

Dear Readers,

Please be advised that this story contains references to the racism and prejudice of the 19th century. These moments, though uncomfortable, are not included lightly. They are presented to reflect the harsh realities of the time—and to challenge them. This story seeks not to dwell in injustice, but to confront it, and to champion dignity, courage, and our enduring fight for equality.

This story is also a parody of a scene from season 2 of ‘The Crown.’

TO DEFY AND DEFEND

(Parodies and Other Such Poppycock)

The newly gas-lit Milton Assembly Rooms stood like a bright lie stitched across the soot-smeared face of the northern town—sugar on ash, satin on skin split open. Its windows glared like manic eyes forced wide in a corpse, blinking false cheer into a sky bruised with smog and sorrow. Beneath them, the chimneys of the mills clawed endlessly upward, grasping at a heaven long since blackened over—a heaven that, if it had ever existed, now turned its face away.

Here was opulence, shining on the surface like oil on water.
And beneath—mud, blood, bone.
The building was an altar.

Inside: music, amusement, artifice. An orchestra of denial. A ballroom full of selfish creatures pretending to be saints.
Outside: the truth. Unwelcome. Uninvited.

Within, the perfume floated—powdered rose water over powdered people. Faces painted into civility, consciences glossed with lavender oil. But under the sweetness, the truth clung like soot—metallic, iron-tanged. The scent of sweat and ash, of breath purchased with broken backs. It threaded through every pressed shirt, settled behind every corseted rib. No cologne could drown it. No scrubbing could erase it.

Margaret Thornton stood near the head of the room, her gown a pool of moonlight spilt across the cold marble floor. She was the epitome of composure—regal, restrained, a lady of propriety draped in the trappings of civility—but the calm upon her face was the stillness of glass, stretched to its breaking point. Her eyes were the cold clarity of winter, sharp and all-seeing, a gaze that did not warm to this hypocrisy, but glared at it.

She had orchestrated this ball not for pleasure, but with the precision of a surgeon—and the steadfast heart of a reformer. Every candle lit, every course laid, every note played by the string quartet had been calculated to draw the reluctant coin from clenched fists. The funds were not sought for personal gain or empty admiration, but for widows burdened with grief, for soot-smeared children whose coughs betrayed the labour of their tender years, for the broken-spined men whose lungs had borne the suffocating cost of industrial progress. This was no mere celebration. It was a campaign of mercy.

Around her, laughter rose like vapour, thin and aimless. Guests flitted from one to another like butterflies, reared in glasshouses, each preening with self-satisfaction, sipping wine with affected delight. They had not come to give. They had come to be seen giving. To adorn their reputations with the veneer of charity as they would adorn themselves with pearls—polished, ostentatious, and ultimately, hollow.

Margaret knew this world—its rituals, its pretensions, its rhythms. She had grown into it as ivy grows upon brick—trained, tempered, tolerated. But she had never truly belonged to it. These balls, these performances of genteel grace—they grated against her very being. She preferred the assurance of ledgers, the roughness of factory floors, the clattering sound of lives being lived with purpose and effort.

Still, she was here. She must be here.

It was her duty. And duty, to Margaret, was sacred.

If she must charm a hundred jewel infested charlatans to secure a single breath for an innocent child, she would do so. If she must smile through the stench of their indifference to pry another shilling from their pockets, so be it. Let them whisper. Let them sneer. She would play the part—as she must—until the moment arrived when something of true consequence was finally spoken.

For someone, at least, had to care enough to tear away the mask of decorum in the name of justice. And tonight, that someone was her.

And yet, no one spoke of it.

No. They spoke of him.

He had come in without ceremony, but not without consequence.
Tall and majestic as a cathedral. Solemn as judgment, silent as a tombstone.
He did not enter the room—he unveiled it.
The temperature dropped. The light seemed to recoil.
He did not command silence. He conjured it.

His skin, the hue of scorched mahogany, caught the lamplight like oil on water—dark, unstill. But it was not his bearing that made their stomachs tighten. It was the truth engraved into his body as scripture. Marks and mutilations—some fresh and pink, others pale and dead—laced his hands like fault lines. Each one a wound that had not forgotten.

Above the collar, half-hidden beneath the delicate farce of a gentleman’s cravat—
A brand. Still raised. Still red.
The empire’s kiss.
A sigil of ownership. A wound that did not bleed, but spoke in silence: This body was never yours. It was theirs.

But he wore it like a crown.
Not in pride. In defiance.
The kind of cold, unblinking defiance that only survives the unspeakable.

His name was Josiah Bell.
Born in bondage. Nursed on blood.
His mother—an enslaved woman, shackled by iron and empire.
His father—a white man who bred children as carelessly as cotton.
Bell had not been born.
He had been catalogued. A line on a ledger.
A heartbeat to be bought and sold. A life to be exhausted and snuffed.

And yet, someone had written him into a different story.
Mr Adam Bell—the elder—eccentric man of Milton had travelled to the Americas once upon a time. When there, he had be sickened by what he saw, and he had felt hopeless, helpless. And within that ugliness, he had found a boy who had touched the strings of his heart. And so, in his usual bold yet sincere way, Mr Bell had named the boy the heir to one of his Milton properties. It was not a bequest of land, or legacy, but to industry: a modest yet flourishing company in Milton that conveyed the cotton goods to their sellers across the country. It was the very veins in the machinery of cotton.

Now, the child was a man, and Adam Bell was dead.
And the man had come to collect.
Not as a supplicant.
Not as a guest.
He came like a tempest from across a sea that remembered every drowning. A graveyard to a million stolen souls.
He came with history on his skin and reckoning in his bones.

And oh, how they whispered.

Like rats beneath rotting floorboards.
Like mould in the walls of a house built too fast, too cruel.
Like guilt, dressed in lace and soaked in gin.
Because some ghosts do not haunt.
They walk.
And some names do not fade.
They arrive.

Tonight, the talk slithered through the ballroom like a serpent in silk—not merely about the outsider who stood among them, uninvited by tradition and unmoved by decorum, but about the dagger he held at Milton’s throat. He had threatened to sell. Or worse, destroy his enterprise, halt the efficient exporting of goods, and let the lifeblood of their fragile economy bleed into the dust. It would ruin them. And so the whispers curled behind fans and wineglasses, pointed with panic, dripping with venom.

‘He will sell it for scraps—just you wait.’
‘He is a vulture .’
‘He will burn it to the ground. Knows nothing of legacy, only hunger.’
‘Commerce? Please. He could not price a pear.’
‘Manners? He chews like a farmhand.’
‘Us? He will never be one of us. Not even in his next life.’

They flinched from him as from a mirror—held too high, too steady, too true.
He was the cost they had stitched into their bodices and breaches, the receipt tucked beneath their rings.
The debt they thought history had paid in full.
He was the truth with a spine.
The invoice with a pulse.
The reckoning in a tailored coat.

Margaret watched them—ladies lacquered in lace, gentlemen powdered in guilt.
They sipped wine from crystal goblets, and yet it was their consciences that trembled.
They tittered like children hiding behind nursery curtains, cowards cloaked in civility.
Simpering beneath chandeliers spun from stolen hours, stolen lives, stolen names.

Not one dared speak to him.
Not one dared look too long.
As if his eyes might tell the story their history books refused to print.
As if agony itself might be contagious.

Margaret felt it rise in her throat like bile.

Sick with it.
Sick with them—with their carefully curated ignorance, their fragile, perfumed delusions.
With their worship of elegance built on the bones of the brutalized.

But worse—worse by far—
She was sick with herself.

For smiling too politely.
For staying seated when she should have stood.
For allowing cruelty to wear a cravat and call itself tradition.
For choosing comfort over courage.
For knowing, and not acting.

Something inside her cracked—not delicately, not like porcelain.
It snapped—like a whip, like a neck, like a lie pulled too tight.

She wanted to drag their pearls through ash.
To drown their laughter in the same sweat that bought their chandeliers.
To rip their wine from their hands and say, This—this is what you drink when others bleed for your peace.
She wanted to stand beside Josiah Bell and say, He is not the ghost in this room. You are.

He did not flinch.
He did not fold.
He stood like a man who had buried fear long ago.

And Margaret—
Margaret had had enough of being silent.
Enough of being safe.
She was done with complicity dressed as courtesy.
She would not applaud the pageantry of polished cruelty.
She would not sit at tables built on broken backs.

She would raise her voice.
She would raise hell if she had to.
Because silence, now, was a kind of violence.
And she would no longer be its accomplice.

But what to do?

And then it came—the thought. Sharp, sudden, flaring like lightning behind her ribs.

She turned and found her husband, John Thornton, iron-made, smoke-fed. A man who knew the value of hands, whether white or black, so long as they built.

She leaned in and whispered something in his ear. He regarded her for a moment, but saw the fire in her eyes. So he nodded and left her side to do her bidding.

He crossed the room not like a man, but a consequence.
He approached Josiah Bell, who stood like a sentinel before a marble column, one carved with cherubs and angels, as if heaven still blessed this place.

But Bell had known hell. Had lived it. And worn it.

They spoke. Few words. None wasted.
Then they both turned to Margaret.

Mr Bell stepped forward.

The room choked. The music stumbled. The dancers froze mid-step, as though turned to salt.

He moved without hesitation. Without apology. With the slow, deliberate tread of a man who had walked through worse than silence.
He bowed.

‘Mrs Thornton,’ he said, his voice whittled from storm and iron. ‘Would you do me the honour?’

She met his gaze.
She did not waver.
Her hand—pale, gloved—rose and slipped into his scarred one. White into black. Flesh into flesh. Truth into truth.

The gasp was louder than the string section.
They took the floor.
One dark, one light. One forged in fire, the other in frost.
Together, they turned like the beginning of a new gravity.
Like stars long kept apart by distance, finally crossing paths.

‘We both know the significance of this moment,’ he murmured.

‘Yes,’ she said, her voice steady but layered with a promise that resonated deeper than the moment itself. She met his eyes, and for a heartbeat, the world beyond them vanished. The murmurs of the crowd, the clinking of glasses, the faint music—it all faded into the background. There was only the feel of his hand in hers, and the undeclared understanding between them.

His fingers brushed lightly against hers before he tightened his grip. Margaret had never held a black man’s hand before. The feeling was unfamiliar, yes, but not as foreign as she might have expected. It reminded her of the first time she had taken John’s hand—how it had felt so strange, almost frightening, that touch. How she had resisted, recoiled, afraid of what it symbolised, afraid of what it would mean. But now, here, her hand in Josiah Bell’s, there was no fear, no hesitation. There was only the recognition that this was simply human. Nothing more, nothing less.

She had once feared John’s touch—feared what it would demand of her, how it might change her world. But now, this touch—Josiah’s hand was nothing like John’s. When they had first touched, there had been electricity. And this was equality, and so she cupped his hand more tenderly, holding it in reassurance. His touch, though different in colour, was as real and as human as any other. The heat of it. The strength. She could feel his suffering in every scar of his skin. The calluses from a life lived under the lash of repression.

Josiah glanced around. Faces like cracked porcelain.

‘And what are the terms?’
‘There are no terms,’ she said, steadily, sincerely. ‘I dance with you freely. With no expectation.’

He regarded her seriously, weighing her up, and looking into her eyes, he saw her soul. An honest, true soul as beautiful as his own mother's, a woman who had been used and abused, and now lay buried in a land that was not her own, marked by a pitiful cross that contradicted all it stood for. But this woman before him, Margaret Thornton, was no victim, no martyr. She had refused to be cast in such a role. She was not broken, nor was she bent. She stood steadfast, a force that disregarded prejudice and disparaged injustice. For all her majestic ways, she championed the oppressed. Where others crumbled, she rose—with a fire that could not be extinguished, a voice that could not be suppressed. And he trusted her. He trusted her word and her goodness.

‘Go on,’ he invited.

‘But if you choose to keep your business in Milton,’ she said gently, ‘it would not just be welcome—it would be right. It’s not only men like my husband who rely on your presence here. It’s the ones without voices in this room. The poor. The overlooked. The honest souls who work until their hands bleed and still go unseen. They need you. We need you.’

He bent closer, his voice rough, dark with history. ‘They see a savage when they look at me. A man who doesn’t belong. One who cannot lead.’

Margaret met his gaze without flinching. The music swelled. Her lips curved, defiant.
‘They thought you couldn’t dance either,’ she said softly. ‘They were wrong—on both counts.’

A carefree laugh escaped him—loud, half-born, like a blade being remembered. ‘They do not think I belong,’ he said bitterly.

‘Neither did I,’ Margaret said. ‘I was an outsider. I disliked Milton. It terrified me. It tormented me.’

‘But they did not grunt at you. Spit at you. Curse at you. Call you an ape.’

Margaret flinched. ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘They did not. And I am more sorry than words can say that you have experienced such ugliness. But I do know what it is like to feel lost. I felt like a foreigner here for a long time, though my skin was as white as theirs. But it grew on me, and I came to see, to value, its worth. And so, I promise that you, too, can find the diamond in the rough. Just give us a chance.’
‘You will not stand alone. You will have friends at Marlborough Mills. You will have us.’

The dance ended. They bowed.
The silence that followed was not empty. It was pregnant.
A silence filled with ghosts and gods and something else rising—a different kind of revolution.

Margaret returned to her guests, but as she passed her husband, she smiled at him, as though sealing a contract signed in breath and belief.

Josiah Bell lingered a moment longer, then crossed the floor to stand beside John Thornton. Together, they watched her—Bell with a gaze full of quiet reverence, as though he were witnessing a miracle.
‘She is… unlike any other,’ he said to the Master of Marlborough Mills, voice hushed with awe, imprinted with a chord older than language.
‘Aye,’ John replied, his eyes shining with pride for his darling girl. ‘Nobody knows that better than I.’

Bell looked out across the ballroom. The painted faces. The frozen masks.
And slowly, like thunder finding its shape, he smiled.

‘And I think all of Milton knows it now.’

And somewhere, far from chandeliers and charity, beyond soot and steeple, in the place where empire sleeps and conscience trembles—

A tremor passed through the ghost of Britain’s pride.
For the first time, it stirred not with triumph—
But with fear.

Because corruption walks with a crown and greed feasts with silver forks,
But even they flinch at the sound of footsteps that do not march to profit.
The ground does not remember wealth.
It remembers blood.

And the stones do not bow to titles.
They weep for the nameless.

For compassion is humble, but it is not weak.
It does not knock—it enters.
It does not ask—it reclaims.
And when it rises, it does not rise alone.
It brings every buried name with it.

And so the empire, once built on backs and silence,
Felt something it had long since forgotten—
The weight of reckoning.
And the breath of justice, warm and human,
At the nape of its neck.

Equality is not about pulling others down—
It is the sacred act of lifting one another up, shoulder to shoulder, eye to eye.
For we are all equal under God. We are all His children, no matter the colour of our skin.

Because discrimination may roar,
But it recoils at resistance.
It shrinks before kindness.
It shudders at the defiance of fellowship.
And it withers—powerless—before those who dare to defend the downtrodden with open hands, and hearts that cannot be shackled, and a compassion that cannot be enslaved.

Chapter Text

NO SALE

(The Thornton Tales)

Marlborough Mills hadn’t belched smoke in years. But even now—two centuries after its founding—it stood like a monument in the middle of Milton, its red-brick walls rising against the pale northern sky.

The old mill had seen empires rise and fall, had outlasted strikes, depressions, and wars. Its bones had been laid down in the early 1800s, humble then—one of many small manufactories springing up across the North. But it was under John Thornton, in the 1850s, that it had become something greater. Something alive.

Now, the steam had gone. So had the grime and soot. The chimneys were still, the windows no longer fogged with cotton dust. Where once the roar of mechanical looms had shaken the walls, there was now a gentler tempo—a subdued, efficient hum of modern machines, powered by solar panels and smart grids. The mill had been modernised, yes, but with care. Its heart remained unchanged.

No child labour. No sweatshop practices. Ethical sourcing. Transparent supply chains. Fair wages. Local partnerships. Marlborough Mills was one of the last independent textile manufacturers in the North, and the only one of its size still family-run.

However, this was possibly about to change.

The family at Marlborough Mills had been mulling over the idea of selling or bringing in an investor for some time now. It wasn’t a decision they arrived at lightly, but it had become a consideration driven by the reality of their situation. The mill, though modernised over the years, still faced the ongoing challenge of keeping its legacy operations afloat in a world increasingly dominated by automation and efficiency. While its reputation for ethical sourcing and fair wages remained intact, the cost of maintaining its ageing infrastructure was ever rising, and the pressure to compete with larger, more automated factories was becoming harder to ignore.

Moreover, with several generations now involved, each member of the Thornton family had their own vision for the future of the business. It wasn’t that they didn’t agree on the essentials; it was just that finding a way to marry those differing goals had grown more complicated as the years passed. The growing divide between tradition and innovation, between keeping things local and expanding globally, had started to take its toll.

And then there was the undeniable truth: the modern business landscape demanded more—more capital, more innovation, more sustainability. Forward-thinking business models and initiatives, especially around sustainability, required investment that the family’s own resources could no longer stretch to support. The idea of an external investor or buyer was beginning to make sense, offering the financial backing needed to push Marlborough Mills into the future, without losing sight of the values that had defined it for generations. It was a difficult pill to swallow, but the family knew that change was coming, whether they were ready for it or not.

That’s why, today, the family had made the difficult and uncertain decision to meet with a potential investor—and, possibly, even entertain the idea of selling.

Inside the former foreman’s office—now the boardroom—the air was unusually tense for a Thursday morning. The room itself was a thoughtful marriage of past and present: floor-to-ceiling windows let in the late-spring light, playing across a long table fashioned from the wooden frame of an original loom. The flagstone floor had been restored rather than replaced, and it still carried with it the faint, ghostly scent of oil and heat and time.

On the far wall, a photograph hung in an oak frame. John Thornton in a dark waistcoat, his brow furrowed slightly in determination, while Margaret stood beside him in soft Victorian lace, her smile gentle and eyes full of affection. His gaze was steady, serious; hers, calm and clear, full of warmth. In their eyes was something more than command—it was unwavering commitment. A love not just for each other, but for the mill they had built together, a love that had endured through time and trials.

Opposite them, seated in tension at the table, were their descendants.

Hannah Thornton, dressed simply yet elegantly in a navy suit with her silver hair swept into a chignon, had been at the helm of Hale and Thornton for thirty years. She wasn’t just the leader of the mill; she was the steady hand that had guided it through decades of change. Hannah had a rare talent for balancing tradition with progress—keeping the mill’s heart intact while adapting it to a rapidly changing world. Under her leadership, the mill had thrived, but it had never been just a business. It was a community. Hannah took the time to know the people who worked there—remembering their names, their families, their stories. Her presence was calm yet authoritative, and it was what held the whole place together.

Then there was Tom, her son, now in his forties, deeply rooted in the mill’s daily grind. He didn’t just sit in an office; he was on the floor, checking in with the workers, jumping in when help was needed, and remembering every birthday. His leadership was hands-on. He knew every machine, every process, and had spent years learning from the ground up—often side by side with the workers. They respected him not just as Hannah’s son but as someone who truly understood what their lives were like. Tom was always the first one in and the last one out, making sure everything ran smoothly. For him, it wasn’t just about business—it was personal. His leadership was built on his family’s values, and he made sure every voice was heard.

Ellie, the youngest, had come back to Milton five years ago after studying sustainability and business in Copenhagen and London. While others saw a tired, outdated factory, she saw opportunity—ways to blend the mill’s rich history with new, sustainable practices. Ellie was passionate about modernising the mill without losing its soul. She believed in ethical production and environmental responsibility but had a deep respect for the traditions that had built the place. Her role wasn’t about changing everything for the sake of it; it was about carrying the Thornton legacy forward into the future. While Tom kept things running smoothly on the ground and Hannah led the charge from above, Ellie had her eye on the big picture—how to make Marlborough Mills a leader in the next era of industry.

And then there was Izzie, the oldest Thornton, who had taken a different route. A respected architect, Izzie had spent years traveling the world, restoring historic buildings. She had always admired Marlborough Mills from a distance, but her work had kept her busy abroad. Recently, though, she’d come back to Milton, eager to apply her expertise to the family business. Izzie was focused on preserving the mill’s historic charm while modernizing its infrastructure, ensuring it could stand the test of time for another hundred years. Her vision was about more than just looks; it was about sustainability—making sure the mill’s bones could endure long into the future. She brought a fresh perspective, one that balanced honouring the past with preparing for what was ahead.

Together, the four of them—each bringing something different to the table—formed the core of Marlborough Mills. They weren’t just keeping a business alive; they were preserving and shaping a legacy, one that would keep evolving with the times while holding onto the values that had made it what it was from the very start.

Across from them sat two representatives from Northline Textiles Industries. Outsiders. Smiling too much. One, a man in his thirties with slick hair and a tight olive-green suit, did most of the talking. His name was Jeremy Shaw, but he’d introduced himself as ‘Jem.’ The other—his junior, or assistant, or possibly just an intern—sat tapping on a tablet with eager fingers, occasionally nodding in silent agreement.

Jem was halfway through a pitch that had lasted thirty-five minutes and already overrun its welcome.

‘…With our AI integration, we’ll streamline your production lines to full automation within six months. Robots handle cutting, packaging, and inspection—fewer errors, lower overheads, faster output. Win-win.’

He clicked to another slide. A bright graphic appeared on the screen behind him, all futuristic fonts and gleaming factory renders. Not a single human figure in sight.

‘And if we move forward with this, we’ll cut your costs by at least 30% in the first year alone. The savings could be reinvested into expansion, taking Marlborough Mills global. Think of the possibilities—a truly modern, automated operation, no more outdated machinery holding you back.’

He swiped to the next slide, showing a sprawling world map with colour-coded regions.

‘With our resources and global network, we can get your product into every major market, faster and more efficiently. The future of manufacturing is here, and it’s automated. You’ll be ahead of the curve.’

Jem’s voice grew more animated as he tapped on his tablet.

‘We’re talking about innovation at a level that will keep you competitive in an increasingly cutthroat industry. This is how you stay relevant. This is the next step.’

‘And what is it you want?’ asked Hannah bluntly, frankness being her nature. ‘To achieve all this? What is your price? Your deal? Your cut in this cutthroat industry?’ she asked with a touch of sarcasm.

Jem grinned. ‘Alright,’ he conceded. ‘I admit that I want to invest, but in truth, I want to buy. This place has potential!’ he said with animation, gesturing around, his creative mind buzzing with ideas. ‘But it needs dragging out of the olden days.’

Hannah scowled at him. ‘Oh? How so?’ she inquired dryly.

Jem flushed a little, but chuckled knowingly. ‘Now, I understand there’s a lot of… sentimentality attached to the place. But look, this mill is stuck in the past. It’s charming, sure, but it’s inefficient. You’re working with legacy systems—and frankly, legacy thinking.’

‘And what does that mean?’ asked Hannah.

Jem smiles, as if trying to be understanding, but the edges of his tone betray a hint of impatience. ‘Look, I get it. This mill has a lot of sentimental value. But at some point, you have to ask yourselves—are you running a business or preserving a museum?’

He gestured casually toward the photograph of John and Margaret. ‘And, well, that’s sweet, really. But who are they to you now? Just a couple of people from the past, right?’

The air went still.

Tom sat forward slightly. His hand tightened on the edge of the table. Ellie didn’t flinch, but her eyes flicked toward her mother.

Izzie stood slowly. Her movement was deliberate, measured. She didn’t speak right away, only walked to the photograph of John and Margaret, heels clicking softly on the stone floor. She raised a hand and rested her fingers against the frame, brushing the wood as though it were something sacred.

‘That,’ she said, voice low but clear, ‘is John Thornton. My great-great-grandfather. And beside him, his wife Margaret. They inherited this mill when it was little more than brick and hardship—and they turned it into something more than a factory. A place where people mattered. Where dignity in work was worth more than profit margins.’

Jem shifted, suddenly unsure whether to smile or apologise. Izzie didn’t give him the chance.

She turned to a cabinet in the corner of the room—walnut, scuffed with age—and opened the drawer. From it, she withdrew a thick, leather-bound book. Its spine was cracked, its corners softened by time. She laid it on the table and opened it.

‘Let me show you what this business really is.’

The pages opened, and the spirits of history whispered their tales.

There were sepia photographs—rows of workers posed in front of the mill, arms linked and dusted with lint, their expressions a mixture of weariness and pride. In the background, the towering brick chimneys of Marlborough Mills loomed, their outlines softened by the haze of another era. A woman in a calico dress clutched a child to her side, while a young man, his hands stained from the day's labour, stood tall at the front, his gaze steady as if he could see into the future. Some of the workers looked tired, others hopeful, but all shared something in their eyes: a determination to build something that would endure.

A wedding invitation, dated 1855, lay alongside the photographs. The delicate script on the card seemed to shimmer despite its age—’ Mr & Mrs Benjamin Hall request the honour of your presence at the marriage of their daughter, Mary, to Mr Thomas Carter, ' followed by a flourish of calligraphy that hinted at lives built with care. The card was bordered with intricate, swirling patterns, now yellowed at the edges but still holding a glimpse of the elegance of a bygone era. Behind it, there was a fine bone china teacup, chipped but unmistakably precious, a gift from a worker to the family, now a relic of kindness.

A yellowed letter from 1915, frayed at the edges and pinned with a wartime postmark, was tucked in the pages next. The letter was handwritten, its ink smudged in places, but the words were clear: ‘Dear Mrs Thornton, I cannot express how grateful I am for the continued support you have given to my wife, Sarah, while I am away. It means more than you know. I pray the war ends soon, so I can return to the mill and work with you all again.’ The soldier’s handwriting was shaky but sincere, and the words carried the weight of sacrifice, loyalty, and a bond that stretched beyond business.

Near that, a stack of neatly folded notes from families who had worked at the mill through the years. Some were formal thank-yous, written on heavy stationery with embossed crests; others were hastily scribbled in pencil on torn scraps of paper, but the sentiment was the same: gratitude. ‘Thank you for always looking after us. For keeping us working. For always knowing our names.’ The words, repeated again and again, carried a weight of continuity and care.

A few pages later, the brittle clippings from newspapers—streaked with the faintest marks of age—spoke of the mill's triumphs and challenges. There were headlines from strikes won and lost, from union negotiations and long-overdue pay raises. But there were also clippings from weddings and births, from retirements and funerals, marking the personal milestones that intertwined with the mill's own timeline. A photograph of a young man shaking hands with John Thornton in front of the mill, smiling proudly in his new suit after his promotion to foreman, caught the light from the window, as if to say the mill was as much about the lives it touched as the fabric it spun.

Next, a series of faded Polaroids from the 1980s—Christmas parties at the mill, workers gathered around the long wooden tables of the breakroom, holding plastic cups of spiced punch, grinning wide under the twinkling fairy lights. There was a small girl wearing a festive jumper, her hands full of glitter and homemade decorations, her face lit up with that joyful innocence only children at Christmas could have. In the background, workers of all ages stood with arms around each other, the warmth of the moment captured in the photo—a brief escape from the hard work that had defined their year.

Scattered throughout, too, were children's drawings—doodles of stick figures in overalls, spinning yarn and smiling, sometimes even with the mill in the background, looking like a great castle to the young artists. One drawing was a heart, painstakingly drawn in crayon, with the words ‘I love Marlborough Mills’ written in bold, proud letters. It was one of many such offerings from the children of workers, who had grown up with the mill as their second home.

And then, there were birthday cards. Dozens of them. Some were handmade, with crinkled edges and squiggly lettering that read ‘Happy Birthday, Uncle Jim!’ or ‘Many Happy Returns, Meg!’ Others were store-bought, embossed with flowers or intricate lace designs, but they were all equally precious. One card, from a mill worker's daughter, had been folded so many times it was almost in two pieces. ‘Dear Daddy, I hope you have the best birthday ever! Thank you for always helping me with my schoolwork and for bringing home those special sweets from the mill. I love you!’ The simple words were a testament to the tenderness that existed alongside the grit and grind of industrial life.

Through all these layers—old photographs, faded cards, weathered paper—there was a thread that connected the past to the present: the workers. The mill was not just a place of work; it was the centre of lives. The faces changed, the years rolled on, but the essence remained. It was a place that had witnessed both joy and sorrow, laughter and loss, where families had been built, nurtured, and sustained. And the Thorntons, from John and Margaret down to Izzie, Tom, and Ellie, had always been there, watching, supporting, ensuring the continuity of their heritage, their legacy, their purpose in the community, not as masters or mistresses of industry, but custodians of commerce in a city.

The mill, in all its changes and modernisation, still held that same spirit: a commitment to those who had helped build it, a promise that the work done within its walls wasn’t just for profit, but for the people who gave their sweat and their time to make it what it was.

Tom pointed to a photograph halfway through the book to a man in a grease-stained boiler suit.

‘Looks just like a worker,’ they shrugged dismissively.

‘No,’ Tom said. ‘That’s my grandfather, the grandson of John and Margaret Thornton.’

‘But he looks like a worker,’ was the irritated reply.

‘Aye,’ said Izzie. ‘Because he was. He started at the bottom. Then he became a foreman, then a director. But he never forgot where he came from. Still worked the floor once a week just to stay close to the people. Knew every name. Every story.’

Ellie turned to Jem, her voice steady but firm.

‘You call our place old and out of date, but we know every brick of this place. It’s in our blood.’

‘You see a building with dated machinery and legacy costs,’ said Tom. ‘We see a community that’s survived generations. This mill isn’t just brick and payroll. It’s weddings and retirements, and christenings. It’s the warm-ups in the breakroom for the footie match, the staff calendar with everyone’s birthday, the biscuit tin that never stays full.’

She paused, closing the book gently. The leather settled with a soft, final thud.

‘You call that the past. We call it responsibility.’

‘So,’ Jem glared. ‘What are you saying?’

Hannah folded her arms. She didn’t need to raise her voice.

‘This mill isn’t for sale. Not today. Not ever.’

There was a silence. Not the uncomfortable kind, but the sort that settled like dust—undeniable, grounding.

The Northline Textiles reps nodded stiffly, packed away their laptops without another word, and left with the careful awkwardness of men who had misread the room too badly to recover.

Outside, the weather had turned. Rain misted softly against the windows and a rainbow painted the distance. But inside, Marlborough Mills continued its work. In the creche downstairs, the children of staff played beneath beams laid down two hundred years ago. On the floor, machines moved steadily under the hands of trained engineers and seamstresses—real people, whose work was woven into every fabric and hammered into every bolt that left the gates.

And in the boardroom, under the calm, knowing gaze of John and Margaret Thornton, three generations of their family sat shoulder to shoulder, the old scrapbook resting between them.

The past had spoken.
And the future had listened.

They had survived for almost two hundred years, and they weren’t about to let go now. The world was changing, yes, but Marlborough Mills was not ready to be swept away by the tide. They would face the future as they always had—together, as a family. They would adapt, innovate, and modernise where needed, but they would do it on their own terms, keeping the heart of the mill, and its community, alive. Two hundred years of history could not be dismissed, and they had no intention of letting the legacy slip away. The mill was their past, their present, and their future—and they would carry it forward as a family, for as long as it took. And when the dust settles, Marlborough Mills will still be standing, with the Thornton name carved into its bones.

Chapter Text

OF BRICKS AND BUTTERCUPS

(The Thornton Tales)

Margaret sat upon the soft, cool lawn of her country cottage, the fresh blades of grass whispering beneath her skirts. A few daisies pressed flat where she had settled, releasing the faint scent of green stems. The cottage, nestled fifteen miles from Milton amidst the low hills and verdant lanes of the countryside, rested among hedgerows and meadows where the hawthorn was already frothing with bloom. Built of mellow stone, mottled with lichen and draped in ivy that swayed gently in the breeze, it looked less constructed than grown from the earth itself, its chimney exhaling a lazy wisp of smoke into the clear sky. The windows, with their rosewood shutters dulled by sun and age, gazed out upon a garden left to its own gentle will—tulips leaning among hollyhocks, bees active in the lavender, and a climbing rose trailing its tender blush across the warm southern wall.
It was not grand, but each inch of it held the warmth of memory. A wedding gift from her beloved John—dear, steadfast John—who had always understood her soul without needing to be told. It was theirs, and it was enough. The walls echoed with laughter and lullabies; the hearthstones had felt their first fire as man and wife.
The lively spring sunshine spread across the land like poured honey, warming the dew-jewelled grass and coaxing the birds into melody. A pair of larks soared overhead. The air brimmed with the scent of blossom, sunlit earth, and the light, meadow-sweet tang of cowslip. A bee buzzed lazily near her elbow, indifferent to her presence. The hush of the morning held a certain brightness, broken only by the wind in the trees and the laughter of children, which floated over the fields like a bell.
The meadow stretched wide before her—a great green coverlet embroidered with bluebells and buttercups. Buttercups gleamed like sovereigns scattered across velvet. Beneath the oak trees, light fell in dapples, and the boughs stood like ancient arms sheltering the games and secrets of youth. One could still see the rope swing from summers past, its seat tilted askew. At the edge of the field, a brook ran giggling over polished stones, its banks soft with forget-me-nots, and ferns brushing the water’s edge with their feathered fingers.
Margaret raised her eyes from her sketchbook, ink still damp from the morning’s scribbles, and watched the scene before her—less a moment than a living painting, full of movement and light.
Her children—each one a wildflower with its own shape and shade—tumbled across the field with the bright chaos of a May storm. Maria, eldest and watchful, moved with graceful purpose, her bonnet askew and her lap full of daisies, occasionally calling out reminders like a young governess. Richard, sleeves rolled and boots soaked through, dashed through the grass in pursuit of an imagined creature. His pockets bulged with acorns and twine. Daniel crouched near the brook, brow furrowed, studying a beetle as though it might reveal a great truth. Nicholas followed, quiet and absorbed, making careful notes in a battered journal and helping George to his feet when he slipped, brushing the mud from his trousers with the seriousness of a tutor.
Elizabeth and Hannie, ever a pair, twirled barefoot through the tall grass, their curls bouncing, their laughter carried on the wind. Crowns of buttercups sat askew on their heads. Their skirts were grass-stained and caught on bramble without a care. Frederick, fearless as ever, had climbed halfway up the low oak and was calling down encouragement to George, who stood wobbling beneath, enraptured by a butterfly that had stolen his attention. His fists were full of dandelions.
And there among them stood John—broad and sturdy as the trees, sleeves rolled to the elbow, shirt unbuttoned at the throat, his coat cast aside on a mossy stone. The man who had once ruled the cotton mills with iron will and clear command lifted children high, chased frogs, and braided flowers with the gentleness of an old shepherd. He tossed Frederick into the air to shrieks of delight, bent to assist Elizabeth with her daisy chain, and allowed Maria to ride astride his back as he splashed through the brook like a great bear. His laughter rang out—deep and golden as the morning.
He, who once spoke the sharp language of machines and led men through clouds of lint and heat, murmured to dandelions and crouched beside the stream to marvel at tadpoles. The ink of contracts had been replaced by the damp smudges of soil and petal on his hands. Margaret watched him and felt her heart stir, full of the same affection she had known the first time he looked at her with understanding in his eyes.
Though her heart had beat to the pulse of Milton’s engines—its forge-bright days, its humming mills, its people who worked not from ease but from resolve—it was here, under these boughs and clouds, that her spirit breathed deeply. The pace slowed; the soul stretched.
The city had been her school and her forge of character. It had sharpened her thoughts and drawn her into a world of striving and ambition, a place where dreams rose on brick chimneys and were hammered into being. The country, on the other hand, was her sanctuary and her song. It was where memory settled, where moments lingered, where thought could stretch its legs in long grass. Where silence was not empty, but full.
One gave shape to life; the other gave it soul.
Her marriage to John had been the meeting of these two lands—his world of iron and her world of earth. He brought her the strength of steel; she brought him the stillness of moss. He had given her the town’s flame; she had answered with the field’s hush. And from that mingling, a finer life had risen—like sun through mist, like flowers climbing through cobblestones.
Frederick, fearless as ever, had climbed halfway up the low oak and was calling down encouragement to George, who stood wobbling beneath, enraptured by a butterfly that had stolen his attention. His fists were full of dandelions, their pale tufts catching the light like drifted cotton—echoes of Milton’s fields not of grain but of thread, spun in air rather than soil.
And there among them stood John—broad and firm as the trees, sleeves rolled to the elbow, shirt unbuttoned at the throat, his coat cast aside on a mossy stone.
Their children were the fruit of that union—raised with iron in their spines and soil beneath their fingernails. They would know how to plant and how to forge, how to dream freely and how to work without complaint. They would hold the quiet wisdom of the hedgerow and the industrious fire of the factory. They would be rooted, and yet unafraid to reach. She saw it in the way Maria consoled, or Frederick dared, or Nicholas noted the names of birds in the margins of his pages.
And with the railway cutting the once-imposing distance down to an afternoon’s jaunt, these two worlds had come to meet in harmony. The old borders had softened. What once demanded days on the road was no more than the span of a few pages in a book.
She turned again to The Thornton Tales—part journal, part story, all hers. A green cloth-bound volume, frayed at the edges, its pages crowded with lines and sketches, like pressed leaves collected from a thousand ordinary days. She chronicled each hour not for posterity but for love: first steps, first petals, the hush of snowfall, the chatter of spring, the poetry of everyday life.
A breeze lifted a loose curl from her neck. The scent of lilac drifted past. A blackbird gave its song from overhead, clear and bright.
She set her pen down and closed her eyes for a moment.
What blessings had been granted her—children born of two worlds, a husband whose hands could both build and cradle, and a life where the forge and the field did not quarrel but sang together.
She looked once more at the meadow, where laughter ran like a river of light.
Yes. This was a tale worth telling.

Chapter Text

HEARTS STRONGER THAN HATE

(The Thornton Tales)

It was a bitter morn in Milton, the soot-laden smog snaking through the narrow streets as Mrs Margaret Thornton made her way to the schoolhouse. The chimneys hiccupped black smoke into the wan sky, and the gas lamps, though still sputtering, flung but a feeble glow against the lingering murk. The children, wrapped in threadbare shawls and mended coats, scampered behind their elders, faces bright despite the leaden heavens and the biting wind that grated at their cheeks like a beggar’s hunger. But in their hearts, the children carried a hidden frost, each step laden with the stress of fears that grumbled and rumbled among the shadows of their school. For within those walls, cruelty walked like a dark companion, its sting too sharp for tender souls. In such a place, where even the sun seemed reluctant to rise, the flame that flickered in a child’s heart became all the more sacred. Yet as Margaret stepped over the threshold of the school, a darker cloud gathered over her spirit. For nearly a week now, she had caught whispers—vile whispers—of cruelty creeping like a rank weed among her pupils. She knew too well: cruelty is the shadow cast when hearts forget they are kin.

Each day, her discerning eyes, sharpened by years of vigilance, uncovered more. Little Nora O'Leary, with her copper hair and lilting Irish voice, sat apart at her bench, her eyes swollen and her small hands twisting a worn kerchief until it frayed to threads. The other children, in their cruel ignorance, had made her the target of jeers—her heritage a wound they thought they could cut deeper with mockery. Samuel Adeyemi, whose father had broken free from the cruel yoke of slavery and come north seeking honest work, bore fresh welts—not from innocent play, but from vicious blows, the purple marks glaring against his dark skin. His complexion, rich as fertile earth, seemed to bear not only the bruises of fists but the archaic scars of mankind's blindness. How many times had he come home with bruises not just upon his body, but upon his spirit—each hurt another stitch in a web of shame, woven by those too weak to see the strength in his eyes? Tommy Briggs, no taller than a milking stool, recoiled at every sharp word, curling inward like a snail at the touch, while Mary Hanley, thin as a willow switch and shod in boots more gap than leather, kept her gaze pinned to the battered floorboards as though fearing they, too, might betray her. The silent suffering that plagued these children—this was the cruelty Margaret could not bear to witness. They had been made to believe they were less than they were, their spirits crushed by the influence of unkind words and bitter taunts. But cruelty only thrives where kindness is absent, and Margaret’s resolve was as unyielding as steel.

Her heart blazed with righteous fire. She was a woman of boundless compassion, aye, but also one tempered in the furnaces of Milton's stern realities. Kindness, she knew, was no softness but steel tempered with mercy. Injustice was the spark that kindled her to the core. Her eyes, usually warm, now burned with a fierce resolve that brooked no defiance. No child in her care would be made to suffer under such tyranny—not while she could stand against it.

When, upon the seventh dawn, she saw Samuel shoved hard against the schoolyard wall and heard the cruel jeers flung at Nora's blood, she knew the hour had struck. She rang the great brass bell with a clang that echoed like judgment and bade the children sit, her voice steady but firm, for when Margaret’s compassion was riled, her righteousness rose to the challenge. The murmurs ceased at once. Even the boldest boys froze beneath her hawk-like glare, sensing the storm now massed above them. For even the fiercest gale must bow before the eye of the tempest.

‘Children,’ she began, her tone low but reaching every dusty corner, ‘I have heard tell of cruelty in this school. I have watched with my own eyes as it festered these past days. Such conduct will not be endured in my classroom, nor shall it find shelter in your hearts.’ Her voice softened but firmed with unwavering resolve. ‘Let it be known that cruelty, no matter how small, shall not be excused. To hurt another is to weaken oneself, and to mock another is to wound one’s own soul. Hearts that delight in such things will never know the peace of a quiet conscience.’ For hearts are like gardens—what you plant there will surely grow. Shall it be thorns, or shall it be roses?

A hush fell, deeper than any snowdrift. Eyes flickered, guilty and uncertain. A cough rasped in the back, quickly stifled.

Margaret squared her shoulders, tall and unyielding against the wavering firelight. ‘I shall tell you a story,’ she said.

She moved before them, her skirts rustling like dry leaves upon the boards. ‘There was a lion, proud and mighty, who ruled over the creatures of the countryside. But in truth, this lion was afraid. He feared the other beasts would see he was aging, his teeth no longer sharp. So he roared and struck out, tormenting the smaller creatures—the hare for her nimble feet, the fox for his red coat, and the mouse for his small size. But the old owl, wise and high in the church steeple, said to them, 'It is not your swiftness, nor your color, nor your size that makes you targets. It is the lion's fear and weakness he seeks to hide.'‘ She paused, her voice steady but gentle, as though wrapping each word in a comforting cloak. ‘Remember, children, cruelty is but cowardice dressed in pride's rags. Those who seek to hurt others are themselves bound by fear.’

‘And so,’ she continued, her gaze sweeping over the room like a soft breeze, ‘the creatures did not flinch, nor did they strike back in kind. Instead, they showed kindness to one another and lent each other strength. They stood firm together, and the lion found he could not break them, no matter how he roared.’ Her eyes rested on Samuel, on Nora, on Tommy, and on Mary. ‘Remember this, children: cruelty preys upon those who stand alone. But kindness binds us, and together we are strong—stronger than the worst cruelty that dares to touch us.’

Her gaze, keen as a falcon's yet softened by compassion, swept over them. She saw Nora's tear-streaked face, Samuel's wary eyes, Tommy's trembling hands, and Mary's downcast stare. She saw them not as weaklings but as tender shoots threatened by frost. And she knew—every sprout, given warmth, could grow into an oak no storm could fell.

‘Children, mark me well: when one seeks to wound another, it is not the fault of the one harmed. Nay, it is the bully who carries fear, envy, and frailty deep within. We must rise above it, for in kindness there is strength and in compassion, true power. Let the wicked find their strength in the might of their hearts, not in the brokenness of others.’ As Proverbs says: 'A soft answer turneth away wrath: but grievous words stir up anger.' And in Romans: 'Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good.'

She clasped her hands, her voice now both gentle and immovable. ‘This school welcomes all—be they from Ireland or distant shores like Africa, tall or slight, rich or poor. Milton is changing, my dears. New folk arrive with new hopes, and it is this mingling that makes our city strong and brimming with promise. Look around you—the mills hum with many hands, and the streets bustle with tongues from many lands. We must hold to one another, for in our differences lies our strength. We rise by lifting others, not by standing upon them.’ ‘A single thread may fray, but bound together, they form a cord strong enough to lift the world.’

Margaret's voice turned firm again, her blue eyes flashing like flint. ‘Let me speak plainly: I will not suffer cruelty within these walls. Not while I draw breath. Each child here is precious in God's sight, and woe to those who forget it. For the worth of a soul lies not in power nor gold, but in how it tends the frailest among us. A heart that causes harm will be heavier than a stone, and its burden will be borne in silence.’

A deeper silence blanketed the room. It settled over the children like a mantle of solemnity. Then, slowly, a hand rose—Samuel's. His voice, soft yet threaded with hope, quivered. ‘Mrs Thornton, may I sit with Nora today?’

Her heart swelled with pride and fierce joy. ‘Yes, Samuel. And Tommy, you might show Mary the new reader, might you not? She has a sharp mind, I reckon, and could well use a friend beside her.’

Tommy’s eyes brightened like lanterns newly lit, and he nodded, a shy smile creeping across his face like dawn breaking on the horizon.

Margaret allowed herself a small smile, though her gaze stayed as steady as the North Star. ‘Let this be the beginning, children. Not just within these walls, but in your hearts. Show one another the kindness you would wish for yourselves, and together you shall grow stronger than any lion’s roar.’ ‘For kindness, once sown, is a seed that outlives the hand that cast it.’

And so the lesson was set, not upon slate but upon souls, and its echoes would stretch far beyond Milton’s soot-darkened streets, carried in the hearts of those young enough—and brave enough—to mend the world. And perhaps, in time, even the chimneys would seem less grim and the skies less grey, as the light within them burned ever brighter.

Chapter Text

Five Years a Scribbler

I wasn’t sure whether to bring biscuits or flowers. Both felt vaguely inadequate. I mean, how does one prepare for something like this? A celebration, a reckoning, a reunion of sorts—with people who, strictly speaking, don’t exist. And yet, to me, they absolutely do.

For five full years now, they’ve taken up space in my head and my heart. I haven't been able to shake them off. They've stuck with me, stubbornly. So here we are, stuck together, me the scribbler, them, the scribblees.

Some of them had already been lingering in the wings—half-shaped, half-whispered—not by my invention, but because they'd long since taken root in the hearts of countless others. They existed before I ever wrote a word: on pages, on screens, in moments that left their mark. I didn’t create them. I just invited them in. I listened.

They already had voices. I just gave them new lines.

So what the heck and hen am I talking about, as we say in Scotland?

Well, today—20th June 2025, five years to the day since I first stumbled into the peculiar, passionate world of fan fiction—I, Caroline (also known in the dustier corners of the internet as TheScribblerCMB).

Writing fan fiction is like stepping into a world someone else first imagined and finding room enough to breathe, to play, to ask what if? It’s part homage, part exploration. These characters—familiar and beloved—begin to shift under your pen. They surprise you. They grow in directions you didn’t expect, but maybe always hoped for. You’re not starting from scratch—you’re continuing a conversation, sometimes with the characters themselves, sometimes with the versions of yourself that first met them.

It's weird and wonderful.

And, today, on my fifth fanfic anniversary, I find myself in a room with the very characters I’ve written about.

It’s surreal. And if I’m honest, a little bit terrifying.

They’re all here. Or the main ones, at least, supplemented by some of their accompanying cast.

I peer around the door, holding my breath and hoping my tuna breath doesn’t give me away.

Oh my gosh! It’s them!

It’s really them! It’s really, really them!

John Thornton and Margaret Hale from North and South—centre stage, of course. Hannah and Fanny Thornton flank them, one all steel, the other silk. Elizabeth Bennet and Mr Darcy—forever iconic, effortlessly magnetic. And yes, Caroline Bingley herself, sitting bolt upright, the very embodiment of disdain. From Sanditon, Charlotte Heywood reads quietly, a book in hand, while the ever-brooding Alexander Colbourne hovers nearby in his rather fine Regency boots (I’m a sucker for a man in Regency boots). And there’s Arthur Parker—my kindred spirit and fellow devotee of toast and crumpets.

They look so different in real life. Up close. So real. Yet so… it’s indescribable.

I feel like Alice—tipped headfirst into a literary Wonderland. Except this Wonderland has corsetry, complex social hierarchies, and dialogue sharpened to a point.

Okay, it’s time.

I knock on the door, hesitantly, my stomach full of butterflies. They all look up at once—a collection of clever, curious eyes fixed on me, sizing me up.

I give a small, awkward wave. ‘Hi,’ I say, a little too high-pitched, and slide into a seat. They continue to stare. ‘So, firstly,’ I begin, trying to sound breezy, ‘I’m a big fan!’ I add brightly, reaching out to shake their hands.

As I take John’s, I laugh nervously. ‘See? I’m leaning Milton ways,’ I joke.

He blinks at me, brow furrowed, that handsome scowl itching under the lines of his firm jaw. I blush and sit down.

Clearing my throat and crossing and uncrossing my legs far too many times, I finally steady myself. ‘Okay,’ I begin, trying to sound composed. ‘My name is Caroline—’

At this, Caroline Bingley lets out a shrill little snort, as if I’ve somehow failed to earn the name. But I press on.

‘Also known as TheScribblerCMB. And I’m here today to catch up with you all about the first five years of me…’ I trail off, palms open, unusually speechless.

I’m supposed to be a writer, but in a moment like this, how am I meant to find the words?

‘Writing our story,’ Darcy replies, and I have to stop myself from staring to wonder whether he looks more like Firth or MacFayden.

I nod, a bit breathless. ‘Right. Exactly. And… thanks, honestly, for agreeing to meet with me. I wanted to say it face-to-face. And, well, to learn from you all.’

I glance round. Arthur’s grinning like he’s just heard a good joke, all fired up as usual and ready to be a good sport. Margaret’s giving me a kind, patient look, like she understands more than I’m saying. Elizabeth’s watching closely, curious but quiet, trying not to show any pride or prejudice. Alexander’s holding back, a little wary, like he’s still taking the measure of me.

My heart’s racing. ‘So, shall we get started? What do you want to talk about?’

There is a pause.

They all look at one another. Who will go first?

‘Five years,’ John says at last, arms folded like a man who’s weathered worse, his brow raised above the hood of his dark eyes. ‘And you made me suffer in nearly every one of them.’

The room ripples with laughter. Even Darcy allows the faintest ghost of a smile—the kind that still seems ready to challenge you to a duel at dawn.

At last! The ice is broken. I’m pretty sure John did it on purpose, and I silently thank him for lending me a hand to get the ball rolling.

I grin. ‘I do have a soft spot for a man in distress—particularly if he’s in love. And let’s not pretend I didn’t give you your dues. You’ve had more romantic declarations than anyone. And the children! Eight of them! We watched it all unfold in Wednesdays, in Hope Springs Eternal, in Like Fathers, Like Sons. They’ve all inherited your brooding charm and that iron sense of right and wrong.’

‘I won’t argue,’ he says, with a wry gleam in his eye. ‘But A Mother’s Final Gift? And The Three Witches of Milton? Really? You made me wait a lifetime for Margaret. I had to wade through nearly 400 pages to kiss the girl,’ he complains, squeezing his wife’s hand and causing Margaret to shyly lean into his shoulder.

God, I think! They are more beautiful together in real life than I could ever have imagined.

‘Some things are worth waiting for,’ I reply honestly. ‘Besides, there’s more Final Gift coming. With a generous amount of kissing, I promise,’ hoping to ease his concerns.

Margaret blushes—the kind of blush that blooms slowly across her cheeks, like spilt watercolour. ‘I must admit, I find myself red as a radish when I read the more… intimate scenes you write.’

‘Me too!’ I laugh, half-horrified, half-proud. ‘I write them and then immediately recoil from my laptop like it’s shown me something indecent.

Margaret giggles with me, and we’re like a couple of schoolgirls.

‘But John—he reads them aloud. With voices,’ Margaret tells me.

‘Aye,’ he confirmed. ‘I contain multitudes,’ he says, utterly deadpan. ‘Apparently, some man who embodied me is a narrator with a rich, chocolatey voice, so I thought I’d give it a go myself. Turns out it’s rather a turn on,’ he divulges, winking at Margaret, who is now redder than ever.

The room dissolves into laughter once more. Even Darcy cracks a broad smile.

Once the laughing subsides, I return to Margaret, more serious now. I am a journalist who interviews people for a living; after all, I should be able to do this. ‘How do you feel I portray you?’ I ask. ‘I find you harder to write—because I want to get you right. Strong, warm, intelligent—but never dull. I just find John so passionate, so accessible. But you’re… more of a dark horse,’ I say, trying to explain myself.

She smiles, her kind, tender smile that could melt the harshest northern snow. ‘I see you trying your best,’ she reassures me.

‘Good, I’m so glad,’ I say. ‘And you—you’re the heart of Margaret’s Mother’s Day, A Black Mouse With a Frilly White Cap, God Bless You Ma’am, Mothers, and To Defy and Defend, Of Bricks and Buttercups—that’s all yours. John can be hot and cold,’ I add carefully, trying not to ruffle any feathers. But then I realise there’s no offending John when Margaret’s being praised.

‘But you, Margaret. You’re amazing. Your strength isn’t loud. It’s in your constant conviction that shapes you. Your staying power.’

She looks at me thoughtfully, head tilted. ‘Thank you,’ she says simply. And I believe her.

They begin to settle, intrigued.

‘Tell us how it all began?’ Arthur suggests, handing around a pack of biscuits. ‘How did you start scribbling about us?’

‘Honestly? By accident,’ I admit. ‘Fanfiction sounded faintly ridiculous to me at first. Like dressing your imagination in someone else’s hand-me-downs. I’d known of it for years but never thought it was for me. Then lockdown happened. Shops closed. Books ran dry. No Kindle. And my best friend—she worked for Royal Mail—was up to her neck in parcels, so I didn’t want to add to the load.’

‘Go on,’ Fanny Thornton nudges, evidently fascinated by the idea of her near-celebrity status, the starch on her dress so impressive I was wondering how she had managed to fit through the door. But this wasn’t the time to get the measuring tape out.

‘For some reason, I searched North and South fanfic. I have no idea why. I just did. I read one. Then ten. And suddenly it was two weeks later and I was entirely swept away. Some stories I adored. Some weren’t my taste. But all of them felt intimate, like holding a stranger’s diary in your hands. And I suddenly thought—if they can do this… maybe I can too.’

‘And?’ Fanny prodded eagerly.

Again, I shrugged. ‘So I did.’

Here, Fanny and her mother exchanged a look.

‘We have thoughts,’ Fanny says, folding her arms with the kind of cool petulance only she can manage.

‘Of course you do,’ I smile. ‘I know I’ve been… let’s say complicated in how I write you both. But I’ve tried to show you as layered, intelligent, deeply emotional women, not just background noise. You’ve had backstories and arcs. Growth. And Fanny—you’re nearly sweet in Two Dancing Doves.’

‘Nearly?’ she huffs. But the corner of her mouth lifts.

‘Oh, fine. You’re lovely. In your own way,’ I compliment, since it is impossible for me not to love her, since she and I share a special bond. ‘But it’s not just you—I play around with the personality of plenty of others too. Henry Lennox, Ann Latimer… sometimes they’re sympathetic, sometimes unbearable. That’s the beauty of fanfic—you get to reshape the clay. But Fanny—you’re a joy to write.’

She actually beams. It’s unnerving.

However, Hannah looks at me sternly. ‘You are not always favourable to me. You make me a bit of a monster in A Mother’s Final Gift,’ she accuses, glaring. ‘You have me sabotage my son’s hopes of happiness. What kind of mother do you take me for?’

‘Ah, true,’ I admit, trying not to quake in my trainers at the sight of this dragon of Marlborough Mills, ‘but in the later chapters, yet to come, you’ll redeem yourself, you have my word,’ I foretell. ‘And you do have some great moments,’ I remind her. ‘In Alone! At Last! you give John and Margaret the space they need to adjust to being new parents and have time together as a couple. And in A Farce in the Family, you and Fanny sneakily engineer John and Margaret getting together.’

John’s head whips around. ‘What?!’ he blusters, clearly surprised by this revelation. But I ignore him—no time for interruptions now.

Elizabeth Bennet lifts an eyebrow, curiosity sharpening her gaze. She sits with perfect poise, but there’s a spark of mischief just beneath the surface. ‘And what about Pride and Prejudice?’ she asks. ‘You came to that a little later, as a fanfic writer. What was it that first drew you in?’

I pause, caught off guard for a moment. ‘Well, I’ve always loved Austen,’ I say, as if anyone in their right mind doesn’t love her. ‘Her books were read to me when I was a little girl. And like any self-respecting romantic, I’ve watched the 1995 adaptation a billion times.’

Arthur gives me a knowing grin and offers a thumbs-up at the mention of the series.

‘It’s one of my favourites too,’ he admits, filching a crumpet and lathering it with a generous coat of butter before handing it to me.

‘But, as people say,’ I continue, mouth inelegantly full of crumpet, ‘you don’t choose the fanfic—the fanfic chooses you. And for me, it was always North and South. Not my first love. But my main love. That story just got under my skin. Still does. But a friend nudged me to try Pride and Prejudice, and, well… here I am.’

Darcy, ever the observer, sits back in his chair—cool, unreadable, like marble in candlelight. He tilts his head, just slightly. ‘Your take on the story and its themes is unusual,’ he notes. ‘Can you explain that?’

I nod, smiling. ‘Well, it’s been done to death, hasn’t it? The sheer number of variations is incredible, but it can feel like it’s all been said before. So I went off-piste. Gothic. Noir. Fog, madness, and crumbling minds. Someone even recently compared Ashes to Poe. Imagine that. I have been compared to many writers, but never Poe.’

‘I like Poe,’ Alexander mutters to himself, silently counting how many volumes he has in his library.

‘I also explored things Austen never could, not in her time—like, in The West Wing, I explore the life of a sibling with a learning disability.’

‘Why?’ Charlotte asked, clearly interested.

‘It mattered to me,’ I say simply. ‘There’s so much in the English classics that’s either untouched or only glanced at—barely explored at all. Health is one of those things. And what was once labelled madness—well, we can now look at it through a different lens, with more compassion, more understanding.’

I pause, my voice softening. ‘And besides… it gave me someone rather special.’

I’m thinking of Francis Darcy, my own creation. Such a dear soul.

Darcy clears his throat, straightening slightly in his chair. ‘While I struggled with all the angst in your stories,’ he begins, in his usual dry tone, ‘I have enjoyed them. You’ve put Elizabeth and me through hell—but I suppose it was worth it in the end, for the happy endings.’

‘So,’ Alexander says, leaning forward from the shadows of his seat. His gaze is measured, as if he's still deciding what to make of me. ‘What would you say is your style?’ he asks, a keen reader himself.

I turn to face him. He has the subtle presence of a man who sees more than he says—coat dark, eyes darker, like a mug of hot coffee on a rainy day. He may be the creation of modern writers to fill a vacancy in Austen’s last unfinished novel, but he truly fits the role of an Austen hero.

‘I write introspective stuff—slow-burn, layered, heavy on emotion. Not for everyone. But I’ve written plenty of shorter stories too—bite-sized. The Thorn and the Rose, my next book, has 18 stories. The Shores of Sanditon, has 24. Some people like their fiction the way they like their tea. Brief. Strong. Comforting.’

‘And those who say it’s too slow?’ Colbourne asks, dry as a Scottish hillside.

I shrug. ‘Then it’s not for them. And that’s fine. Every reader’s different. And every writer’s different. You just have to find your fit. But Covid taught us that life is short. You never know what’s around the corner. You have to chase the things that bring you joy. And if you write with honesty, your voice will find its people.’

‘You cover some harsh themes,’ Elizabeth points out, her brow slightly furrowed. ‘Some very dark subjects.’

John nods thoughtfully. ‘Hmm. You had me meet a woman of the street when I was but a boy and give her my coat. That’s certainly not sugar rotting fluff.’

Darcy, who has been doodling Pemberley on a scrap of paper, looks up with a sharp, reproachful gaze. ‘And you’ve nearly killed us in the trenches,’ he reproaches, hinting at one of the stories for the new book.

I can’t deny it. ‘It’s true,’ I admit, folding my hands in my lap. I will not apologise for this. ‘I try to have a mix of stories. I do write silly ones too—Marmalade Mischief, Flour, Foes and Flirtation. I like a bit of nonsense now and then. And I’m fond of fluff—lots of kisses and cuddles. Like in A Pinch, The Crooked Cravat, Bright and Beautiful.’

I pause, then let my tone shift into something more tentative, more reflective.

‘But... that’s not what these authors were all about.’

They’re watching me now, all of them. I feel a familiar spark of passion begin to rise—something that always comes when I speak of the writers I admire most.

‘Yes, Austen and Gaskell are remembered for their romances, because their stories are deliciously romantic. But that’s not who they are.’

I stand, pacing slightly, gesturing as I speak now, feeling the need to move as my thoughts gather momentum.

‘These women didn’t just write fluff—and certainly not smut, not in the way it’s written today. They were not so tacky. They tackled harsh realities. North and South, for instance, is one of the most powerful novels I’ve ever read. It wrestles with the ‘Condition of England’ like few others: death, debt, industrial unrest, poverty, gender, class division—it’s all there. And it’s still relevant. These are themes that continue to strike a chord even now, that is why they endure.’

I take a breath and meet their eyes.

‘I feel like I owe it to those authors to carry on that legacy, in whatever small way I can. I am not them. I will never speak for them, but I can continue to carry that torch of truth, if that does not sound too conceited or cheesy. So yes, while I love writing happy endings, I also try to write stories that hold on to hope… even if they explore darker topics. War. Poverty. Prostitution. Child mortality. All the terrible things that plagued their world—and ours too, in different forms.’

I stand tall, not excusing the darkness some of their stories have explored, just explaining.

‘I can write these themes with more freedom now, with modern insight and knowledge. So yes, I write the hard stuff sometimes. And if readers like that? Great. If not, that’s okay too—there’s plenty of fluff and smut out there to float their boat. People will always like what they like. All I can do is write what I feel is right for me,’ I say firmly.

Charlotte nods, eyes bright. ‘We loved The Shores of Sanditon. It felt like coming home. You honoured Sidney in Here I Am and A Price He Was Willing to Pay. That mattered.’

‘It mattered to me too,’ I say. ‘Sidney’s part of your story. Of your journey to understanding your heart. He shouldn’t be erased.’

Alexander smiles faintly. ‘And you gave everyone a moment—Samuel, Susan… The Greatest Title of Them All was a delight. And thank you for giving me and my daughter such a special bond in Dearest Father, that meant a lot to me,’ he says sincerely.

‘I try not to leave anyone behind. You all matter.’

‘Agreed!’ Arthur chimes in, practically bouncing in his seat, his cheer as irrepressible as ever. There’s something boyish about him—bright-eyed, open-hearted, as if the world still surprises him in the best of ways. ‘And thank you for giving me and Harry our chance to be together,’ he says, his voice full of warmth and that joy that cannot be dampened ‘That would’ve been near impossible in Austen’s day—and I know not everyone was keen on that storyline on screen—but still.’

I reach out and pat Arthur’s hand—his fingers warm, always slightly fidgeting, like his joy has nowhere to sit still. ‘It’s the 21st century. Live and let life. And love and let love,’ I say, meeting his eyes with a smile.

‘Is it true you wrote that book when you were ill?’ Elizabeth checked.

‘Yep,’ I say, nodding. ‘Writing got me through the worst of it—when my heart was acting up. I went back to my childhood home to recover. Returning to the sea, to Shetland, kept me anchored. The rhythm of the waves, the salt in the air—it gave me something solid to hold onto.’

I can see Alexander and Charlotte nodding. They know what I mean. They know the sea. They know of its healing powers and properties.

‘And speaking of feeling grounded,’ I go on, wiping a tear from my eye, ‘thank you. Not just for the heroics or the heartbreak, or the moments of high drama, but for being recognisably, gloriously human. You’re the ones we root for, grieve with, and laugh beside. You’re flawed in the best ways—messy, brave, sincere. In a world that spins too fast and is falling apart, you’re the familiar voices we cling to. And for that-for your honesty, your chaos, your courage—we are not alone.’

A hush falls over the room. Not awkward. Just… full.

Charlotte speaks first. ‘It’s strange, isn’t it? To know we’re seen. Read. Watched. Understood or misunderstood.’

‘It can feel… exposing,’ Darcy confesses. ‘As if your soul’s been put under a microscope.’

‘It’s like 1984,’ Alexander surmised, ‘only, not so grim.’

Margaret nods. ‘But it matters. If even one person feels comforted…’

‘It’s worth it,’ Elizabeth finishes.

I nod. ‘Always.’

‘How do you find posting your stories online?’ Fanny asks. ‘Is it fun?’

‘It can be. I’ve met wonderful people. Like-minded, generous, gifted people. Feedback keeps the spark alive, and knowing someone is waiting for the next instalment of a story gives you motivation, that gentle push. All in all, in five years, between my online stuff and my books, I’ve written 120 stories so far. Over a million words—and that’s not counting blogs, articles…’

Caroline Bingley gives an inelegant snort. ‘And yet I’m always the bitter, ageing spinster. You could not have found just one story where I am the heroine!’ she huffs.

I smile sweetly. ‘You’re far too fun to resist. You do have excellent lines.’

She narrows her eyes. But says nothing.

The others are more gracious.

‘And your books?’ Elizabeth asks.

‘Three published. Fourth on the way. It’s not been easy—health problems, a small child, work, real life—but I kept going.’

‘And why do you give all your proceeds to charity?’ Hannah asks, not entirely sure she approves of charity in any circumstance.

I think how to phrase my response. ‘These stories aren’t mine, not really. They started with Austen, with Gaskell, with Davies and Welch. I’m just rearranging furniture in their grand houses. Any success I have feels borrowed, and borrowed things should be returned, or shared. Giving back is how I say thank you.’

There’s a soft murmur of approval. Except for Caroline, who still looks like I’ve ruined her weekend.

‘And the future?’ Charlotte asks.

‘Oh, there’s plenty ahead,’ I say with a knowing smile. ‘Nearly 600 fanfic ideas logged—enough to keep me going for years. Ten original books planned too. I’m freelancing, guest lecturing, working with Bloody Scotland, and this year—I’ll be interviewing Andrew Davies and Deborah Moggach.’

I glance at Darcy. ‘Don’t worry—I’ll ask about the shirt.’

He groans. It’s a touchy subject for him.

‘And us?’ Margaret asks softly, her voice like a thread of silk through the air.

I glance around. They’re all leaning in now—curious as cats, as children waiting for a bedtime story. Eyes bright, expectant. So many faces I’ve come to know better than my own reflection.

‘I can’t wait to see where we go next,’ I say, with a small, sentimental sniff. ‘I have so much more planned—for you, for us.’.

I rise slowly, not quite ready but knowing it’s time. One last look. They’re all still there—so familiar, so heartbreakingly dear. They’ve lived in my head, walked beside me on long afternoons, whispered at midnight, rewritten me as I rewrote them.

‘Thank you,’ I whisper. ‘For letting me scribble your lives. For trusting me with your joys, your griefs, your beautiful, human flaws. You’ve given readers something real. Something that lingers long after the last full stop.’

They smile. Some nod. Caroline rolls her eyes, of course.

I turn to leave, heart full, eyes stinging, marked forever by five years spent with these not-quite-fictional friends.

And as the door closes behind me, I can’t help but wonder—just imagine what the next five might bring.

Chapter Text

PRE-LOVED

(Before We Were Us)

Alone, quite alone, she walked down the wintry streets of her town, her breath forming misty puffs in the chilly Valentine's Day air. Couples strolled hand in hand, their laughter mingling with the soft strains of love songs playing from nearby restaurants and pubs. Everyone seems happy, sickeningly happy, as if all the badness in the world had gone, replaced by giant teddies and heart-shaped boxes of chocolates.

But for her, the day only served as a reminder of her loneliness. She hated this day. The pressure to find someone. The pretence of being head over heels in love. The overt displays of affection. And all those stupid balloons that just sagged into sad saps after a week, reminding everyone that love never really lasted. Good grief! She was getting cynical. Perhaps that was what came from working in a florist shop on the most romantic day of the year. She made a mental note. Next year, she would take the day off and hide under her duvet until the whole charade was over and people started acting normal again.

She continued on her way, quickening her step, but then she passed a pair who were leaning up against a wall and kissing in a way that was surely illegal in public. Screwing up her face and sticking out her tongue in mild disgust, she decided that instead of heading home to put on her fluffy pyjamas, crack open a bottle of wine and tub of ice cream, then settle down to get another February 14^th with Bridget Jones, she would take a little detour.

Before she knew it, she found that her feet were taking her in the familiar direction of the warmth of her favourite bookshop. Its weathered exterior exuded a welcoming charm, promising solace within its walls. With the sigh of one who has had a long and depressing day, she pushed open the creaky door and stepped into the cosy embrace of this little niche of comfort.

The air was thick with the scent of old paper and ink, and the shelves groaned under the weight of countless volumes. Taking her time, she ran her fingers lovingly over the spines, each one a portal to another world, another life. For her, this place was more than just a book-nook; it was a sanctuary, a refuge from the harsh realities of the outside world. Here, she was not alone but surrounded by faithful friends. Elizabeth Bennet. Jo March. Jane Eyre. Anne Shirley. So many special women, ladies with real spunk, who had become very dear to her.

Wandering through to the second-hand section, or pre-loved, as she liked to call it, she suddenly had an idea. Perhaps she could not have the love of a good person today, but she could reconnect with an old flame, a true love, and have herself a romantic date with a man who was perhaps not real, but one who was tall, dark, handsome, not to forget sensitive and a sexy scowler.

Yes, that is what she would do.

Making her way around the aisles, she hunted for her companion, and there, at last, she saw it, her favourite book stood proudly on the shelf, its faded cover bearing the marks of countless readings, the coffee stain on the edge an endearing mark of familiarity. Her heart quickened at the sight, her fingers itching to hold it once more.

But as she reached out to claim it, another hand, a bigger, thicker, stronger hand, beat her to it, and brushed against hers, sending a jolt of electricity through her veins. Startled, she looked up to find herself face to face with a stranger—a man.

Oh! And a rather handsome man, at that.

He appeared stern at first, his lips fixed into a terse line, but perhaps that was all down to his surprise, for his features soon softened into the most irresistibly adorable smile. Her heart fluttered in her chest with a thrilling flurry of butterflies as she looked up at him, since he was much taller than her. His eyes, which were sharp yet soulful in their intense blue hue, met hers, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still.

Their hands lingered for a while, suspended in the space between them, before the man withdrew with an apologetic smile.

‘I'm sorry,’ he said, his voice deep and tender. ‘I didn't mean to startle you.’

She shook her head, a cute, coy smile tugging at the corners of her lips. ‘No, it's fine, honestly,’ she replied, shyly tucking a stray hand of chestnut hair behind her ear, wishing she had bothered to brush her hair before leaving work and wasn’t wearing her giant bobble hat. ‘I was just... lost in thought.’

The man nodded, his gaze lingering on her face in a way that made her breath catch in her throat. ‘It's a great book, isn't it? North and South, it has always held a special place in my heart.’

Her eyes widened like that of startled owls. He didn't exactly strike her as the type to cosy up with romance novels, but who was she to dispute the evidence? A literary kindred spirit had emerged before her. She couldn't help but feel drawn to him, utterly intrigued by her find amongst the dusty old bookshelves.

She nodded. ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘It is wonderful. It has everything. Change. Inequality. Hope. Loss. Redemption. Growing up. There is something in it for everyone. It is so well written, that Gaskell was a genius, and it has this amazing way of staying relevant to every new generation of reader,’ she went on, wishing she wasn’t prattling on so. She bit her tongue. She always did this when she was nervous.

His face broke out into a broad smile. ‘Aye,’ it is all that,’ he granted, and leaning in closer, he offered her a small wink, ‘And don’t forget, it’s a crackin’ love story, too.’

She blushed, turning a shade reminiscent of a ripe tomato at a summer fair, and erupted into laughter so raucous that she snorted like a gleeful piglet discovering truffles before scrambling to conceal her face in utter mortification. Yet, he remained unfazed, as if her antics were a delightful comedy show he'd stumbled upon. Instead of making a swift exit, he anchored himself firmly, as and leaned against the bookshelf, his arms crossed, his curiosity captured.

They shared a soft chuckle, the air between them lightening with every word exchanged. Their conversation flowed effortlessly, like a playlist of their favourite songs on shuffle. Characters and plots, love and heartache—they navigated the realms of storytelling, finding solace in the resonance of each other's thoughts. With each passing moment, the physical distance melted away until they stood close enough they touched toes, their hot breaths mingling, the two of them lost in the authenticity of their connection.

For the first time in ages, a glimmer of hope sparked within her, though she dared not entertain it too eagerly. The notion that someone like him could be interested in her seemed too good to be true. She was so plain, and he, well, he was so──

But then he said it.

‘Would you like to get a coffee?’ he asked, his voice tentative, as if he were nervous. ‘I mean, if you don't have any plans...’ he added.

‘No,’ she said abruptly, and his smile dropped into a frown. He suddenly felt like such a fool. Of course! A girl as sweet and clever, and pretty as she surely must have a date on Valentine’s Day.

She noticed his disappointment. ‘Oh, no!’ she said, stammering to correct herself. ‘I mean, I have no plans,’ she laughed. ‘I mean… I would love to go out with you.’

She blushed at her choice of words, surprised to find him blushing in return.

Her heart fluttered with an unexpected thrill. She hadn't anticipated such a turn of events, never imagined a chance encounter in a quaint bookshop would lead to anything beyond casual conversation. Yet, the sincerity and warmth in his gaze reassured her in ways she hadn't known she needed.

‘Great,’ he replied, his relief genuine, his eyes reflecting a shared understanding.

They ventured into the evening's cool embrace, the streets pulsating with the promise of endless possibilities. Side by side, they strolled in comfortable silence, their footsteps synchronised with the rhythm of their hearts. As they turned the corner and faded into the gathering dusk, she felt a soothing tranquillity enveloping her like a snug blanket on a wintry night, comforting and familiar.

It was right there, at that moment, in those very seconds, that she knew that she had found something precious—something worth holding onto. She had no idea where this would lead, but she knew one thing, she was not afraid to find out.

And it was only as they were entering a snug café, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee beckoning them inside, that she finally realised that she had forgotten to ask him a basic question. As they settled into a corner booth and removed their coats and scarves, she picked up her hot chocolate with cream and marshmallows and asked: ‘By the way, what's your name?’

The man's eyebrows shot up. Yikes! Had he really not asked her name or given his? Oops, maybe he had. It seemed he had become so engrossed in their conversation, so swept up in the chemistry between them, that he had skipped the polite formalities. It was just that they felt as though they had been the very best of friends in another life, dancing through the mist of fact and fiction as two connected souls. It was strange, but he somehow felt like he had always known her, like he knew her inside and out, better than he knew himself. And, he suspected she felt the same way about him. It was almost...almost as if they had pre-loved each other through time. Perhaps he had simply forgotten to hit the rewind button and start at the beginning, the beginning of their story. Anyway, that could soon be fixed.

‘John,’ he replied, his name simple, but sturdy and steadfast. ‘Yours?’

Glancing up, she smiled with the brightness of faith in the future. ‘You’ll never guess…’

Chapter Text

  A PRIZE TO BE WON

CHAPTER ONE

(From a Marriage of Inconvenience)

As Margaret made her way down the passageway, carrying a cup of tea for her father—as dutiful a daughter as ever she had ever been—she was thinking. Thinking very carefully indeed, her brow furrowed in deep contemplation.

She was going to see him to apologise for her outburst earlier that afternoon and to seek a reconciliation, something he must surely desire as much as she did. Margaret sighed. It pained her to quarrel with her dear papa, a rare and unwelcome event in their otherwise affable relationship, and the discord caused by this particularly unpleasant dispute had dampened her spirits all day.

Margaret clasped the place tighter in her hands that did not tremble, but gripped the china resolutely. She would not be daunted.

The warm, buttery biscuits she had baked were intended as an olive branch, to sweeten what was bound to be an uncomfortable conversation that did not roll easily off the tongue. To be sure, she needed to apologise. She wanted to apologise.

That said, Margaret was sorry—but, at the same time, she as not sorry at all!

Oh, dear, I am not explaining myself at all well, am I?

I am most sorry, it has been a terribly trying day, as you shall soon read if you choose to bear with me.

Let me start again.

At precisely one o’clock—she remembered it clearly, for the church clock had struck the hour with a strange solemnity, as if it knew what was to come and was preparing her for this sober time. As she listened to its sombre tones, Margaret had been summoned to her father’s library for what could only be described as an audience. At first, she had no cause for concern. She enjoyed conversing with her father, especially now that she felt alone in this lonesome place.

However, the moment she entered, it felt as though she had stepped into the pages of a weighty book, thick with implicit trials. The silence was flat and final, as if the final chapter, which contained her fate, had been written for her without her knowledge or her consent.

Margaret closed the door cautiously. Something was about to happen. Something was about to be said. And she had a sickly feeling that she knew what the subject, objectionable as it was, would be.

She was right.

The address—no, the sermon, for that was what it truly was, had been mercifully brief. Yet every word had landed with the weight of stone. Her father was adept at giving sermons. He had been a clergyman, after all, and while his homilies had tended towards the Good News, he was not unaccustomed to cautioning his flock on the price of sins and the well-signposted gate to hell if need be. And this, unfortunately, was such a sermon.

Her father, a man who usually held all the meekness and mildness of a lamb, concluded his lecture, or rather, delivered the verdict with all the ceremony of a judge passing sentence: she was to marry Mr John Thornton, and, she was to do so without delay.

Margaret sat in silence, stunned and descending deeper into a state of anguish. As she had taken in this most unwelcome yet not entirely unexpected news, Margaret had felt all the light vanish from her life, the smothering walls of desolation closing in and threatening to crush her hopes of ever achieving any semblance of authentic and independent happiness.

No!

The word rose in her like a cry in a cathedral—echoing, falling on proud, pious ears.

How could this be? How could she be expected to marry a man whom she did not love, and as far as she knew, cared nothing for her in return?

She listened, incredulous and heartbroken, as her father explained his reasoning. There was no choice. Propriety had been despoiled. It was now a question of duty and honour.

Margaret’s eyes welled with tears.

What was duty, when it asks the heart to lie?

What is honour, if it silences the soul?

She had cried, despite her efforts at stoicism. She had objected. She had appealed to her father to change his mind and set her free from this obligation in which she would become no more than a pawn that was tugged and thrust in all manner of doomed directions by others, all for the sake of pleasing the pathetic idol that was respectability.

But her pleas were left unheeded.

Her protests were ignored.

And so she was left to drown in this sea of rage and regret.

This is how a soul sinks into the depths of despair.

Margaret had tried, truly tried, to make him see that he had misunderstood the whole sorry affair. The riot had not been as grave as he imagined. The crowd had scattered quickly, and no real harm was done. She had not meant to fling herself at the mill master, certainly not in the way it must have appeared. It had been a foolish impulse, nothing more, and hardly anyone had witnessed it. As for her injury, it had looked worse than it was; the blood, she insisted, had made a drama of what was little more than a scratch.

She had appealed to his sympathetic, forgiving nature, quietly, then urgently, but her words had found no purchase. He would not be moved. Her father had shaken his head solemnly and stood firm. He was not a man to cast his children into unhappiness, but he had already lost one child to disgrace, and he would not lose the other.

Struck by the horror of her fate, Margaret had sunk to her knees and begged him for mercy. She told him that she did not love Mr Thornton and never could. She said that she found him unfeeling, callous and self-serving, swearing that she obstinately refused to give her heart to such a man as he. At the same time, amidst a torrent of mournful tears, Margaret had professed that, in turn, Mr Thornton admired her not, desiring her even less, explaining that he had only proposed because he felt he had to out of a sense of obligation, an honourable act indeed, but one which meant that he wanted her as a wife just as little as she wanted him as a husband. How then could her parents insist that she bind herself to a man who loathed her, rather than loved her? Was that not the cruellest of cruelties?

At these words, Mr Hale’s mask of stony indifference melted, replaced by a small, private smile that played at the corners of his lips. He chuckled softly to himself. Poor Margaret, he thought. How young, how unworldly she is. A favourite quote echoed in his mind: Methinks she doth protest too much.

How blindly the young stumble in the shadow of love.

But he resolved to help her find her feet and find her way, even if she resented him for it at first.

Still, with God’s blessing and guidance, she would know the truth soon enough, and then, finally, she would thank her lucky stars for the good fortune that chance, not prudence, had handed her this day.

What truth is that, I hear you ask?

Well, never you mind, just you wait and see.

Nevertheless, as far as Margaret was concerned, this verdict had felt like the end of her world, and she had fled from her father’s sight, her heart broken beyond salvation, fearing that she would never know comfort or contentment again, since how could she ever hope to find such a thing as joy in that man’s home, that man’s arms, or that man’s bed?

She could have fainted at the thought, and Margaret was not the fainting type.

At any rate, as she walked along the corridor this night, a single candle in her hand to enlighten her journey and lighten her mood, Margaret had decided to parley with her father again and plead her case. She had spent the afternoon carefully weighing her position, constructing a series of well-reasoned arguments designed to appeal to his sense of philosophy and benevolence.

He was not pitiless, and so, he could hardly be so lacking in compassion. How could he shackle her to a man who shouted at children, allowed his workers to starve, and set soldiers on honest people? A man so consumed with bitterness that, when he proposed, he spoke to her with such fury, accusing her of being a temptress before storming from the room.

No, all would be well, she knew it would be.

It would be… wouldn’t it?

However, as she approached his study, Margaret stopped and stilled.

There were voices.

Plural.

He was not alone.

With discreet caution, Margaret made her way closer, tiptoeing as softly as she could, inwardly admonishing her skirts for rustling so raucously and giving her away. When she, at last, reached the door, she leaned against the wall and listened, her ears pricking as she pried.

’Two thousand, that should do it,’ came a cheerful voice, clearly pleased with itself.

‘No,’ said another, rather firmly, a degree of disdain fortifying his tone.

‘You wish for more?’ asked a third with a hint of scepticism.

‘No!’ repeated the second, more hotly than before, almost growling like an enraged beast. ‘I want nothing, not a penny!’ he insisted. ‘I require no incentive, and I would be wrong to take any. She would not like it, and nor do I.’

Margaret’s blood ran cold, an icy chill distressing her veins and sending an ominous shiver throughout her body, causing her to shudder from the crown of her head to the nail of her toes. She knew who the three men were, and what was worse, she knew precisely what they were talking about, and it made her furious; it made her so angry that she could feel the self-righteous resentment of it bubbling and brewing away in her belly. And oh, how she longed to spew it forth and scald every one of those calculating villains with her indignation for violating her so.

All at once, Margaret stood tall and boldly stepped around the corner, and there she stood, waiting for them to notice her, unashamed of her intrusion, since, after all, she was the one of whom they spoke and schemed, so why should she not be there?

In an instant, all three men peered up from their negotiations, and even in the dim light of the dying fire and the few paltry candles which flickered furtively on the table overlooking their documents of underhand hurt and humiliation, she could see that they were each aghast to see her, the lines of their guilty faces etched into sculptures of surprise, horror, and dismay.

Once more, a quote sprang to mind: Though she be but little, she is fierce.

In the darkness that swathed the trio of conspirators like a stealthy cloak soiled by venality, the erratic convulsing of the wretched light only served to make their appearance all the more sinister; this scene being one of shady dealings.

However, the man in the middle, the youngest of them all, was the most disturbed to be discovered by her, his fervent eyes searching Margaret’s face frantically, and causing her to tremble as they seeped into her very soul, attempting to penetrate her spirit and speak openly with it, begging for her forgiveness, praying for her fondness, something he knew, deep down, that she could never gift him.

My heart is not thine to command, thought she.
But thy love is a storm, and thou, a drowning man.

But Margaret would not give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze.

No!

Let him look, for she would not look back at him.

Let thine eyes search the heavens, but not my soul.

Her silence was a fortress, and in that defiance lay a power far greater than any words could convey.

The stone was cast, the die was thrown,
and she would not bend.

‘Daughter,’ began her father after a noticeably self-conscious cough, the man plainly abashed to have been found out so, participating in such a disgraceful meeting. ‘There you are, dearest, I thought you were asleep. Do—do come in,’ he bid, reaching out a welcoming hand to her, which may once have been tenderly paternal but now appeared withered to Margaret, forever tainted by his betrayal.

Margaret was rooted, bound by invisible chains—immovable, trapped. Her body trembled, like a wildflower battered by an unrelenting wind. Powerless to flee, unable to find shelter. A thorned rose in the tempest, its petals torn but still proud, not delicate, but defiant. Stoic. Unwavering. The chaos raged around her, but each tendril of resolve curled around the corners of her soul, garrisoning her self-possession. Even as the gale of their treachery howled, her resolve sank its roots deeper. Each lash of wind only strengthened the soil of her will.

She said nothing, her small yet stately figure framed by the doorway, making Margaret appear like a wrathful vision from a nightmare, her skin that had been paled by sickly shock, transforming her into a ghost with an eerie aura, almost like an ethereal presence that was not of this realm of flesh and bone.

The men fell into a heavy silence.

Who would dare to break it first?

‘Dear girl,’ piped up one of the trio, his hair greying at the tips of his thinning strands, his immaculate suit as black as his conscience. ‘There is no need to look so alarmed, my child, no need,’ Mr Bell said with galling dynamism, attempting to reassure her, but if she looked, Margaret could see a glimmer of unease flash behind the wily fox’s eyes at having been caught bartering like the Devil, and he his cowardly tongue deserted him.

This in itself was no crime to Margaret’s mind, no, not when men bargained scrupulously for mercantile goods. However, inanimate objects and innocent services were one thing, but it was a different matter, a wicked sin, when they were striking up a deal to exchange a far more precious commodity than cotton: that of a human soul. For in the eyes of the Almighty, who fashioned man from dust and breathed life into his nostrils, how could one barter what God had entrusted to the mortal coil?

She wondered, with a touch of dread, if they were not tempting fate, as the Scriptures warned: ‘What shall it profit a man, if he gain the whole world, and lose his soul?’

Yet here they stood, like modern-day merchants of flesh, their hands washed clean in appearance, but their hearts blackened with the stain of damnation. For they sought not to sell a thing, but a soul—a living, breathing person. Would they not, as the Scriptures warned, face judgment by fire and brimstone for such wicked trade?

Well, if God did not condemn them, Margaret Hale surely would.

Still, she did not speak. The three offenders stared at her with mounting dread, the three of them no match for her ire.

‘How dare you!’ she breathed at long last, her voice so hushed it was almost a hiss.

All three men gulped and looked down, too ashamed to meet her eye.

‘I said, how dare you!’ Margaret repeated more forcefully, stepping into the room. Courage was not her ally. Her tone was severe, as her body shook with the moral rage that overwhelmed her.

‘I heard you, all of you!’ she accused, pointing at the three crooks who stood in the dock before her, the woman’s judgment so unforgiving that they would each be condemned in her estimation for all eternity.

‘What are you discussing?’ she demanded.

They remained silent, stiff and still as statuettes, as though her words had sealed their lips.

‘I asked: what are you discussing?’ she pressed.

Still no reply.

‘Two thousand pounds?’ she repeated incredulously. ‘For what?’ Her gaze swept over them in turn. ‘Or better yet—for whom?’

Her father cleared his throat. ‘For… for… you,’ he admitted quietly.

‘For me?’ she echoed, feigning surprise. ‘Surely you are mistaken,’ she insisted. ‘For fine, clever, Christian men could never contemplate such a thing.’

The flickering candlelight cast shadows over her face, making her seem almost otherworldly, as though her presence was a challenge to the fiends, the felons of corruption before her.

‘Am I a commodity, then?’ Her eyes flashed. ‘Tell me, Father, is that all I am worth? Two thousand pounds? Is that the going rate for a daughter sold like a milking cow?’

‘My dear girl,’ Mr Bell began calmly, stepping forward, but Margaret’s sharp, rueful glance halted him before he could say more.

‘Very well, if you will not say it, then I will,’ she declared, her chin raised, her posture brimming with authority. ‘After all,’ she continued, her voice biting, ‘I thought those in Milton preferred plain speaking.’ She cast a pointed look at the man in the middle—the youngest and tallest—her gaze sharp as a knife, a knife that sliced at his integrity.

‘You are discussing the terms of my future,’ she scoffed in injured incredulity. ‘You are deliberating over who will pay whom and what price should be placed on my head,’ she seethed.

Her father made to speak, but she stopped him with a contemptuous gaze. He would not be granted the right to defend himself.

‘And I am surprised that I was not invited to this conference,’ she almost laughed.  ‘I know that my independence is inconsequential to you, for I am the mere property of men, that is my unfortunate lot in this life as a woman, but I had honestly thought you all better than that!’ Margaret provoked curtly, hoping to make them all heartily mortified in themselves for debasing her, for making her feel so unbearably insignificant.

‘Well, I tell you this, gentlemen, not that any of you are worthy of such a title, I will not be bought and sold like a slave!’ she shouted, her fists balling at her sides. ‘I am no prize to be won!’

At this, as her anger finally overcame her, Margaret spun on her heels and made to leave, but before she had taken one step, a single sound fell upon her, assaulting her ears, arresting her attention, and forcing her to stay, poised like a glass figurine.

With her heart fluttering in her chest, Margaret bit her lip, and her head fell to the side as the man in the middle called out a solitary word, one which was drenched in desire and devotion. It was as if the sound itself caressed her skin, sending a shiver down her spine and awakening every dormant nerve. She felt the butterflies in her stomach take flight as that irresistibly passionate voice undid her with one fatal annunciation, their rich baritone impenetrable with an aching yearning. Closing her eyes, her every sense shook and then soared as that lone word set her soul on fire:

‘Margaret!’

All at once, the whole world seemed to halt, and then it waited, watched and wondered with bated breath as it witnessed this scene between the pair of star-crossed lovers unfold, anxious to see what would happen next. Each heartbeat a drumbeat of suspense. Slowly, very slowly, Margaret turned around, and there, she looked at him at long last.

Here he was, her husband-to-be.

John Thornton.

He was tall, dark, and yes, handsome, even she could admit that much. As Margaret let her curious gaze wander across the face of the man whom she would see every day for the rest of her life, since she ought to make a thorough study of him, she discerned something hidden there, but in her naivety, she could not quite make it out.

Longing? Maybe. Love? Impossible!

But while he regarded his wife-to-be with an intense focus which was bordering on being unnerving in its concentration, desperately imploring her to stay and hear him out, all so that he might explain himself, she returned his ardent stare with nothing more than haughty disregard.

‘Well, Mr Thornton,’ Margaret began irreverently, addressing him alone, her throat cracking in its intolerable dryness as she stalked towards him, her shapely body gently swaying from side to side, something which she could tell he had noticed, since how could he not, when every move she made fascinated him?

‘And here was I hoping you could think in greater terms than buying and selling,’ she quipped spitefully. A sudden, sharp pang of sorrow pierced her heart as she saw his shoulders slump, the faintest glimmer of tears clouding his eyes, tears he fought to conceal, wounded by the cruel accusation she flung at him.

And yet, despite every stubborn instinct to remain unmoved, a reluctant flicker of pity stirred deep within her—a feeling she swiftly quelled. She cared for him, in some quiet, reluctant way she refused to acknowledge. The gulf between them yawned too wide, and she was not yet ready to cross it.

She was not done hurting him like he had hurt her this night.

‘Tell me…,’ she went on, venturing closer still as she stood across the table from him and leaned in nearer, drawn to him as she was by some invisible force that violently pulled her towards the man who had occupied her thoughts day and night for longer than she would care to admit. Margaret’s insubordinate gaze never once left his own as she challenged the mighty mill master head-on, their breathing ragged as they stared at one another in suppressed silence, the air around them becoming excruciatingly humid, their skin itching to touch as their fingers sneaked closer across the expanse of the tabletop.

Then, snatching her hand away, Margaret saw the disappointment spill across his face, and as unsympathetic as it may seem to you and me, she could not help but feel just a little proud of her victory over him, since, after all, he would soon have such immeasurable power over her. Rolling her tongue across her lips to wet them, something she had never done so brazenly before, especially not before a man, Margaret smiled in satisfaction as his fevered eyes darted to watch her do this, his strong body trembling as his teeth involuntarily gnashed at her with hungry yearning.

With her head cocked in casual listlessness, she demanded to know: ‘Tell me, darling, how much would I fetch at market?’

‘Good Heavens!’ her father hollered in disbelief to hear his daughter speak with such impudent dissent. He flapped his arms like a flustered chicken, a spectacle that would have been comical if the scene were not already smothered with tension.

Still, she did not look away, and nor did he—both refusing to yield in this crucial battle for their pride. For Margaret, this was no mere quarrel; it was a stand for her very right to be heard, to be seen as more than property or possession. In that unblinking gaze lay a silent revolution, a firm declaration that she would never allow her voice to be suppressed, nor her spirit to be diminished.

She was no fragile flower meant to be plucked and handed over at another’s whim. This was her moment to resist, to insist, and to remind them all that a person’s worth could never be measured in pounds or sold like chattel.

‘Why should I not ask such a thing?’ she questioned with a bemused expression. ‘You are the expert after all, dearest,’ she conceded, nodding towards the town’s most prominent tradesman. ‘But I must know… shall you make a profit or a loss when you buy me, sir?’ she goaded.

Here, Mr Bell interjected. ‘He is not buying you. It is merely a dowry, Margaret. He would be given the money in recompense for marrying you.’

This was entirely the wrong thing to say.

Mr Thornton shut his eyes and clenched his jaw, the clumsy phrasing of Mr Bell grating on his nerves. The man was digging a grave, but not for himself, it was Thornton’s burial plot he was shaping. He could only pray it was deep enough to accommodate his long limbs; after all, he had every intention of being comfortably ensconced in the afterlife.

As for Margaret, she was further angered by the suggestion that any husband of hers would require compensation for taking her a his lawfully wedded wife. She returned her attention to her intended.

‘And how am I to be valued?’ she went on. ‘By my size, like a cow? Or by my breeding, like a dog? Or by my performance, like a horse? For surely, my character, my intelligence, my passions, and most importantly of all, my capacity to love, none of these things are worth anything to you, so you shall not count them as assets when you assess my worth to you, is that not so?’ she continued, her pitch growingly increasingly strident as Margaret’s eyes watered while she stared up at Mr Thornton with unwavering rebelliousness, her frosty façade of indifference rapidly melting away.

However, much to her amazement and annoyance, he did not utter a word, but just let her go on, and on, and on, his eyes searching her own with miserable and restless longing.

Why would he not speak? Why would he not defend himself? How she wished he would rebuke her. How she wished he would rage and rail, all so she might fight back. Why would he not reprimand her? Why was he letting her abuse him so? God help her, why was he so honourable?!

Oh, how she wished he would reprove her with that masterly manner of his, just so she could meet his challenge head-on, revealing, with every ounce of her spirit, what he could expect if he ever so much as tried to claim her.

Sniffing vociferously and attempting to allay her crying, Margaret bit down on her lip so hard that she burst her skin, and a drop of blood trickled into her mouth.

Shuddering, Margaret began to edge away, and as she did this, she could sense him lurching forwards, instinctively mourning her leaving. ‘I tell you this, husband-to-be!’ she began, glaring at him as she held her head high. ‘You will never be my master, do you hear? You may be able to buy me and do with me as you like, but you will never, NEVER, buy my love, since that is not yours to take, but mine to give!’ she declared, thumping at her heart and bruising her breast.

‘And I promise you one thing, John Thornton,’ she concluded as she turned to deliver her deadly departing shot, every fibre of her being screaming out at the thought of being torn from him, her soul knowing what she did not yet understand, that the man standing before her was her one, true, and only mate. ‘I will never be your Margaret!’

And with that, she turned and ran from the room.

It was over.

It was all over.

They had ruined it.

Her chances of falling in love with the man she sorely loved.

Chapter Text

  A PRIZE TO BE WON

CHAPTER TWO

(From a Marriage of Inconvenience)

Margaret left like a storm, withdrawing out to sea—wild, then gone as abruptly as she came. But no tranquillity followed. No rainbow. No prism of peace. Only the quake she left behind. She fled. She had defended herself, all fire and fury, every word a strike, a blow, a bite. But now, the weight of it all had finally crushed her spirits to dust. The fight was over; only withdrawal remained. Each step dragged her further from the wreckage of their fight, yet his duplicity followed her like a mocking shadow.

She had to escape.

Her feet carried her to the stairs as she hurried to her bedroom. Fast. Unthinking. Breath ragged. Fists tight. But halfway up the stairwell, something inside her gave way. That spirit we spoke of snapped. Margaret folded onto the landing, knees buckling. Hands over her face, like a child does, thinking this is enough to hide from the world. She could have laughed at her naivety. As if hiding could stop the shaking. As if that could silence the scream building in her chest. She wished she could tear her corset away. It was too tight. Too restricting. It pressed her injured heart against her ribs and intensified her pain. She longed to breathe freely. But she was a woman, and women, she had learned, were destined to be controlled and constrained, no matter how heroically they sought to protect and preserve their oh-so precious independence.

Tears, hot and bitter, flowed rapidly from a spring of sentiment buried deep within her. Margaret was not one to cry, but she allowed them, this once, to fall unchecked, the sense of helplessness overwhelming her mask of composure.

Yet she would not be ashamed of her tears. Crying is never a weakness. It is our first act in the world—proof that we had breath, and that we feel. It is not the breaking. It is the beginning of becoming

Still, Margaret was angry, undoubtedly, but more than that, she was hurt—hurting not only from what had been said but from the disillusionment that had settled over her, shattering her hopes and leaving her in a state of aching confusion.

How could she recover from this? How could they recover from this?

She could never bring herself to confess the love she had barely admitted to herself. But still, she had believed—fiercely, trustingly—that he respected her. That even if his heart was untouched, he saw her as something more than a woman.

Now that belief lay broken, not by violence, but by the numb cruelty of clarity.

He had never respected her. Not once. Not at all.

To him, she was a function, not a person, a smooth part of a well-oiled machine, reliable, silent, easily replaced. A tool. Just like the workers he prowled every day without a glance, like names on a ledger, like dust on his shoes. And now she was one of them. Less a person than a possession. She was not an ally. She was not a companion. She was a mechanism. This was his revenge, no doubt. She had refused him, so he would take her, whether she liked it or not.

She was not special. She was not even seen.

And what hurt most was not the betrayal—it was realising that she had imagined dignity where there had only ever been utility. It was not just the deception; it was the defeating awareness that she had built her sense of worth on a lie. The truth clawed at her, raw and relentless, exposing everything she had missed.  She felt like such a fool for believing in him.

In truth, Margaret was heartbroken. The silence in the house pressed close, dense as fog, suffocating her. She sat hunched on the stairs, breath shallow, spine bowed, her body trembling with the effort to stay still. Alone. Shuddering. The emptiness of the space around her mirrored the hollow ache that had taken root inside.

Then—

She looked up.

Through the blur of tears, she saw him.

Her fiancé.

Her heart skipped a beat.

He did not move.

Neither did she.

He stood at the bottom of the stairs, caught in the spill of weak light from behind him. Tall. Motionless. His face was illegible.

Neither spoke.

Margaret swallowed hard, resentment scraping its way up her throat. Of course he had followed her. She need not ask why.

But facing him now felt like trying to lift a stone that had already crushed her.

She looked away, her cheeks burning—not with anger, but with a shame she had not expected. She had been harsher than she wanted, colder than she should have been, crueller than she had ever imagined.

He would not forgive her. She had ruined everything.

But then she remembered—he had ruined it first.

She had once believed he saw her differently.

Now, she was not sure which hurt more: the distance she had created, or the void where hope had once been.

The silence between them was not just a lack of sound; it was the burden of everything unsaid. It strained between them, taut as wire.

‘If you are waiting for an apology,’ Margaret said finally, her tone curt, though it was punctuated by sobs, ‘I will not be offering one. I stand by what I said.’

Her words were sharp, carefully honed to erect a shield. But they could not conceal the faint tremor beneath the crack in her armour where hurt clung stubbornly to each syllable, unwelcome and unmistakable.

Margaret hated that vulnerability, the way it left her raw and exposed just sitting there, forcing strength she did not feel. Her fingers twitched at her side, restless, taunting the calm she tried to demonstrate.

He said nothing at first. His eyes, deep and blue as the sea, met hers—steady, indecipherable—void of antipathy or compunction. The stillness between them was weightier than any outburst could have been, an unsettling silence that made her pulse quicken.

After a long pause, he spoke, voice low but clear. ‘Good,’ he approved. She looked up. He met her gaze. ‘I have always admired your integrity. I am glad to see you have not lost it.’

She blinked, caught off guard by the absence of hostility.

Then, softer than she expected, he added, ‘May I sit?’

It was not a command, nor an intrusion. Simply a question, unobtrusive, cautious, acknowledging the delicate ground between them.

Margaret hesitated. Pride rose in her like a wall. The humiliation of it all twisted inside her, tight and burning. But in the end, she managed the faintest nod. There was no strength left in her for resistance.

Not now.

He had won.

He had come to claim his prize.

He moved towards her, climbing the stairs, then lowered himself to nestle beside her—not too close, of course, but with aching restraint, as if the slightest shift might shatter and smash what little was left between them.

She stole a furtive glance at him. This was him. Her future husband. Mr Thornton. John. She should call him John, that is, if he would let her. For now, she would think of him as John in her mind, and think of herself as Margaret, not Mrs Thornton. It was too soon for that. She would contemplate it tomorrow.

John said nothing. Did not reach out.

He simply sat, a good few inches away, but still close enough that Margaret could feel the faint heat of his skin, the quiet, steady rhythm of his breathing, and it both thrilled and terrified her.

She looked at his long legs that stretched out before him and compared them to her own short ones that peeked out from beneath the hem of her dress. He was such a brute in size, but she could not believe, even now, that he was a brute in spirit.

He did not move.

He sat beside her, excruciatingly near. Excitingly near. His long arms resting next to hers, broad and still, the fabric of his coat brushing her elbow.

She sat stiffly, arms drawn in, as if to take up less space. But his presence, his proximity, made that impossible. He sated and satisfied the air beside her without trying.

Silent. Still. A presence, not a pressure. Not demanding, not retreating. Merely there, beside her, in the soft hush of the hallway. After a moment, he dug into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. Without a word, he held it out. Her hands trembled as she took it, hardly trusting this small kindness.

She dabbed at her cheeks and sniffed.

Margaret was acutely aware of his presence. Though part of her longed to stay furious, to nurture her stung pride, another part, quieter and wearier, began, despite herself, to relent.

After some minutes, once he sensed her weeping had begun to subside, John spoke again, his voice sober yet earnest. He watched her closely, as though reading the subtle changes in her features, measuring each fleeting emotion before daring to break the stillness.

‘I am glad you did not make it to your room,’ he said, the words emerging with the halting quality of a reluctant admission. ‘Had you done so, I should not have known how to follow or been at liberty to do so. But here... here, at least, in this middle ground between the public and private spheres of your life, I may sit beside you—even if in silence.’

Margaret offered no reply. Words eluded her. His gentleness perplexed her, disarmed her. It was not what she had anticipated. So she would let him speak, if he wanted, if he must.

‘I am sorry,’ he continued, more gently still, albeit with a gravelled rasp, ‘to find you so afflicted, and worse, to know I am the cause of it.’ There was no artifice in his tone. The sorrow was plainly and painfully felt.

The simplicity of his words, unadorned and sincere, pierced the swell of ire within her, a carefully tended reserve she had held in place with great determination. To answer him would have been to concede to the distress she had thus far refused to name. So Margaret retained her reticence. Her teary eyes were fixed ahead, shoulders drawn tight, hands pressed on her lap. She was afraid that if she lifted them, she might use them, either to slap him or hold him close.

And yet, there was something in his voice, something unvoiced but acutely present, which gave Margaret pause. His apology—neither demanded nor anticipated—struck her not as performance, but truth. And for the briefest of moments, her anger, so severe only minutes before, lost some of its edge.

The silence clotted, fractured only by vague and distant sounds: the faint, uneven splutter of flames from the drawing room fire below; the irregular drip of rain tracing paths down the worn shingles above; and the mournful murmur of the wind knocking at the windowpanes, begging to be let in. Neither of them stirred; the haze of fraught feelings seized them both, fragile and unmoving.

At last, after what felt like an eternity, John once again broke the silence.

‘I am sorry, Margaret.’ His voice was soft, almost reverent, only the second time he had spoken her name aloud, and it landed between them like a sacred secret offered in the dark.

He looked down, gaze flickering to the floor, then back up to where her cheek caught the faintest glimmer of light. She would not meet his eyes. He studied the curve of her face instead, as if piecing together what she would not say.

‘I know there is no undoing what has passed, yet I must apologise once more. It was grievous, so hideously grievous, that you should have overheard that conversation,’ he said, his voice rough with regret. ‘To hear your father, Mr Bell, and me speak of you in such terms... it was never my intention, nor could I have wished for you to know the manner of our discourse. It was clumsy, inconsiderate, and cowardly, and I wish I had refused to be part of it from the start.’

His hands clenched briefly at his sides, a trace of shame scarring his features, though his confession held firm. ‘I do not expect you to forgive me, but I hope you will trust in my remorse.’

Margaret’s heart beat hard, each thud loud in her chest. A dull, relentless reminder of the distance between them. His words, though shaped by regret, did nothing to soften the cut they had left behind.

She had heard them. But she had not let herself believe them.

His words had been spoken carelessly. Cruelly. Words that undid her. Stripped her down to something small. Something tradable.

Her eyes lifted. Met his. It was the first time she had looked at him—truly looked—and he faltered. Whether from her fury or her beauty, she could not say. Her eyes lifted. Met his. It was the first time she had looked at him—truly looked—and he faltered. Whether from her fury or her beauty, she could not say. But in that instant, all he could see was her. Even in anger. Even in pain. And he worshipped her for it—fiercely. He loved her. Desperately. Devoutly. Despairingly.

‘You mean,’ she said, her breath caught tight in her throat, ‘speaking of me as though I were property?’

John said nothing. No protest. No plea. He would let her talk. He would let her find her voice, own it, and use it, even if it was against him.

She did not blink, but was compelled on by his silence, taking it as contrition, and worse! She thought she saw pity in his face, and she could not bear it.

‘You think me a prize,’ she accused. ‘Yours, if only you could find the right way to claim it. You could not persuade me into marriage, so you schemed to force me instead.’

The words came before she could stop them. Ruthless. Plain. Meant to wound. And they did. She saw it. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. A shift in his eyes. How she longed to go to him. To bury herself in his arms and say she was sorry—for everything. To whisper that all might yet be well, that they could begin anew, and strive to do better.

But the words never came.

‘No,’ he said, and there was a sorrow in his voice that robbed her of all reason. A quiet kind of sorrow. The sort that asked for nothing.

‘I would never force you,’ he said. ‘Not for anything. Not in any way.’

He preserved every appearance of propriety, never saying anything overtly indecent, but the intent beneath his words was unmistakable. He intended them to be so. He needed her to understand. John looked at her then, ardently, as if hoping she might believe him.

She said nothing. Her hands trembled in her lap.

She let them. Let him see what he had done.

‘I did not plan this,’ he said, somewhat sadly. ‘I asked you freely. Once. And was refused. What comes now—this arrangement—it is not of my making. I take no comfort in it and certainly no pleasure.’

His voice rose, almost imperceptibly, and it deepened with feeling as his fervour soared, as if on the wings of an eagle. He, too, was hurt. He was hurt in more ways than he would show, in more ways than she would ever know.

‘A marriage of convenience is not what I wanted,’ he bit out. ‘I wanted a wife who wanted me for her husband. I wanted you,’ he declared, turning to look at her, almost accusingly.

However, he soon sat back. Knowing it was hopeless to ever expect her to share his passion. It was too late for that. If his chances had been slim before, they were nonexistent now. He had ruined it. John’s hands hung loose between his knees. His back was bowed now, the straight line of pride softened into something wearier.

Not broken. But undone, in some small, human way.

He stared at the floor. Not in shame, not exactly. But as if the shape of himself no longer held.

Then.

It happened.

Her finger twitched—barely a breath of movement—and found his. Whether by intent or by chance, they would never know. But she did not flinch. She did not abandon him. Instead, she traced the length of his finger, slow and trembling, just once. It was enough. A second passed, suspended and soundless, before his finger answered, gliding softly along hers, as if sealing a vow neither could bring themselves to voice.

It was too precious to name.

Together, they sat in silence. Just silence. And in that silence, the beginning of something resembling a bond began to gradually unfold.

John thought for a moment and then laughed, his expression wholly unforeseen by either of them. It was a wry twist of the lips, a recognition of the absurdity of his situation. ‘You must know,’ he said, with a hint of mirth in his tone, ‘that some women view me as a prize, a prize to be claimed, a thing to be won. And I despise it,’ he glared. ‘Despite the very notion of it. You are not the only one who feels reduced to something that can be possessed.’

Margaret smiled, her discontent slowly ebbing away, replaced by something far more complicated. Something all the poets and philosophers have yet to adequately and accurately describe or define. It was an uncomfortable tenderness, perhaps, or the faintest glimmer of understanding. It was strange, she thought, how swiftly things could shift when one was not prepared for it.  But then again, was that not the very nature of them? They had never expected to meet. To cross paths and collide as galaxies must do, and erupt from the sudden, volatile impact. Such clusters of dust and stars either fade away into the abyss or they engage, adapt, and accept their new fate, merging as one. Margaret believed she and John were the same. Indeed. They had never expected to be thrown together. They had never expected to wage war on one another’s values and views. They had never expected to be devoted to one another. Yet here they were.

Margaret absorbed his words. It was a disorienting thing to hear him speak so openly, to hear him express such repentance, not only for his actions, but for the way he too had been symbolised, reduced to a mere object for others to desire. She saw him then with fresh eyes, not as the man who had unwittingly hurt her, but as a person, as vulnerable and flawed as she was. He cared for her; she knew that, she had always known that, but the truth was still there. This truth was the real root of her despair.

‘I am sorry, too,’ she said quietly, almost to herself. ‘Sorry that you are caught up in this. Trapped. That you are marrying a woman you do not truly love.’ Her words were faint, but they carried a weight that settled heavily between them. She had said them out loud, though she had not intended to.

John’s expression eased, and for the briefest moment, something flickered in his eyes. Was it hope? Whatever it was, it was there to stay.

Margaret,’ he said, his timbre firm yet gentle, and she felt the hairs on her neck quiver. ‘I do love you,’ he avowed, and paused, allowing this declaration to settle over them. ‘I may not have shown it in the way you would have wished, but I do love you, and it is that love that brings me here, in spite of everything. I came here tonight not to talk for you, but to talk for you.’

She did not answer at once. Her breath came out in a small gasp, and her gaze dropped to their fingers, barely but unmistakably touching. A flush rose to her cheeks, not from shame, but from the sharp, startling knowledge of how deeply she had longed to hear those words—and how afraid she was to let herself believe them.

‘I do not understand,’ Margaret replied.

‘I have heard you called obstinate,’ said John at length, his voice shy, his manner unguarded. ‘Headstrong. And I begin to understand why such names have followed you, not as a failing, but a virtue misread by smaller minds. For no man may steer your course but you. Nor, indeed, should he.’

He did not look at her. He dared not. If he did, he feared he might lean in and kiss her—softly, fully, without restraint. John longed for it. He dreamed of her lips, her warmth, with a constancy that haunted him. He dreamed of her lips, her warmth, with a devotion that refused to loosen its grip, stealing his sleep and filling his days with ache. Countless hours at his desk had passed in reverie, imagining her in his arms, not out of desperation, as during the riot, but willingly, loyally. And still, he longed to draw her close, to feel her melt against him, and make his arms the place she would remain—forevermore.

He had practised self-denial his whole life, and yet, with her, he had no self-possession. All he wanted was her. And it was destroying him to be denied her.

No, John did not look at Margaret, for if he did, he would relinquish the last shreds of his self-control, his sanity. Instead, his gaze stayed on their fingers, barely joined, as if all the hope he carried rested in that small, living point of contact, as if that glorious sight represented all the hope of his heart, and held it steady.

‘It is not my place to speak for you, Margaret. Nor to presume upon your mind, your character, or your heart. Every soul must be sovereign in its own cause.’

A further silence followed. Thin, expectant, beguiled by something akin to awe.

‘I came tonight believing I might serve you,’ he said, the words carefully formed. ‘That I might preserve your name from the meddling of others, that your dignity would not be bartered in your absence. But I see now—’ his voice caught, not theatrically, but with the honest faltering of shame. He swallowed hard. ‘I erred in imagining such a task should be mine to attempt without your leave.’

She remained still, though he felt her silence like a wind against the skin—impossible to catch, impossible to forget.

‘To speak of you as though you were not present,’ he went on, ‘was an offence, however kindly meant. To shield you from the fire while denying you your voice—that is no act of care, but of cowardice dressed in gallantry. I meant to honour you, and yet I trespassed upon what I claim to revere.’

John turned his head then, just enough to see the pale outline of her cheek by the grace of a few dull candles that sat on a nearby windowsill, their flames fluttering in the draft. ‘And for that, I am sorry. Most sincerely. Not in the fashion of men who regret the consequences but not the act itself, but from the heart. I am sorry that you feel bound by hands not your own. That your future has been discussed like a contract, and you were treated not as a woman, but as a circumstance to be managed.’

His sorrow was not dramatic; it was authentic. But it cut her just the same. When Margaret had entered the room earlier, with God as her witness, she had not meant to abuse him so. Yet her anger had taken on a shape too sharp to hold without consequence. Now it stood between them—hers and his, pride turned to pain.

Still, she could not unsay what had been said. Could not unfeel it.

She loved him. God help her, she loved him. She longed for the warmth of his touch, the steadiness of his presence, the strength of his devotion. But love was not always enough. Not when wounds still bled beneath the surface. Not when the past sat heavy in the room, asking whether what had been broken could ever be made whole again.

When she spoke, her voice was quiet, but it did not waver. ‘I am sorry,’ she admitted. ‘That I cannot thank you for what you meant to do. That all this—’ she gestured faintly, to the room, the hour, the history between them— ‘is what remains.’

She drew a breath that did not ease her. ‘May I tell you something? Something I have never told anyone?’ she asked nervously.

He nodded without hesitation.

‘I never dreamed of wealth,’ she began, ‘I do not desire a grand house, nor the vanities so many women esteem—fine gowns, glittering jewels, or the admiration that follows a well-made match. They have always felt hollow to me—no more than ornaments hung upon a life I could not recognise as my own.’

She grinned, a very slight grin, but a meaningful one, nonetheless. ‘What I wished for—still wish for—is very simple,’ and here she turned to him so she faced him fully, and he did the same in reply.

‘And what is that?’ he asked raspingly, finding it increasingly difficult not to capture her face in his hands and kiss her with all his might.

She did not answer at once. She looked at him. Studied him. And then she smiled.

‘A good man. Not a powerful one. Not a proud one. A man whose heart would meet mine not in conquest, but in recognition. Who would see me not as prize, nor burden, nor obligation, but as an equal. Chosen. Not arranged. Not for lineage, nor land, nor title. Not for dowry or favour or family ambition. But for conversation in quiet corners, for shared glances across crowded rooms, for the stillness that comes when nothing is said, yet everything is known. A love not built by design or duty, but one that simply is—unforced, undeniable, and wholly ours.’

He listened. So few men truly do. Many heard only themselves, mistaking silence for agreement. But John was not among them. He listened with stillness, with care, as though every syllable she offered was something to be kept, not answered. And as she spoke, gently and openly, with a tenderness he had not dared to hope for, he could hardly believe it. Her words, so soft yet full of quiet truth, reached him like light into a long-shuttered room. He sat, breath held, gripped by the fragile wonder of it, as if any movement might cause it to vanish.

‘Ours?’ he echoed earnestly, fearing he had lost his hearing, either that, or his mind.

She nodded. ‘Ours.’

At last, when he did speak, it was with the kind of restraint that carried more weight than persuasion ever could.

‘I did not come to deliver answers,’ he said. ‘Only to ask one question, though I have not the boldness to speak it plainly.’

He shifted slightly, not closer, but with a calm veneration, as if gathering himself for whatever might be revealed.

‘If you meet me at the church,’ he said, ‘I will ask nothing of you but your honest heart. I cannot promise ease, nor equanimity, nor even happiness. Those are the providence of time and endeavour, not of man. But I would do what I can to deserve your trust. And if, in time, love should come of it—then I would count myself the most joyful of men.’

He lifted his hand and held it out to her. Not in command, but invitation.

She looked at it. Looked at him.

It was a request. It was a beginning drawn from the ruins of better intentions.

She accepted his offer.

When her hand met his, it was not an act of submission, but of courage, of trust freely given, not taken.

No promise passed her lips. But in the stillness that followed, there was a transformation, no less profound for being wordless. Not contentment, not yet. But forgiveness. The first brick in the bridge yet to be built.

They sat that way for a time, two hearts still bruised, still uncertain. The fire in the parlour below crackled sleepily, pining to be snuffed. The house, long accustomed to sorrow, now bore witness to something else, fragile, unfinished, but true. Hope is a soft-footed thing. It does not shout its name. It slips beneath the skin, settles in the marrow at our core, and sings not of certainty, but of the nearness of appeasement and absolution. But when it comes, it is known by the faith it leaves behind. And so they remained, side by side. Not yet bound. But no longer entirely apart.

Sitting so close now that their sides touched from shoulder to foot, they stared into each other’s eyes, their heads slowly leaning in, her brow nearly coming to rest against his chest. Margaret was so very tired. Exhausted by it all. Her mother’s fading, Bessy’s death, the unrelenting existence of poverty and injustice, and the ache of belonging to a town that had never made room for her. Yes, she was tired. Bone-tired. And yet, in the centre of all that weariness, she wanted only him.

The moment brimmed with tension, tender and tentative, held between breath and thought. But the spell broke with the shuffling of Mr Hale and Mr Bell below. They sounded restless, curious, and eager for their return. Whether from concern or simple fatigue, they wished only for the young couple to reappear so the evening might be ended, and they could each part ways and go to bed, so that tomorrow’s quarrels could be postponed until morning.

John helped Margaret to her feet, and as she dusted off her skirts, she asked, ‘Can we make each other one promise?’

He looked at her intently. ‘Of course.’

She chewed her lip thoughtfully. ‘That we will never call each other a prize to be won.’

Just as he had, she held out her hand to him. ‘Do we have a deal, Mr Thornton?’

He grinned like a sunny schoolboy. He took her hand and shook it. ‘See, Miss Hale, you are learning Milton ways.’

And then, Margaret did something that astonished them both. She took his hand, that weathered, worn, strong hand. And with unhurried intent, she brought it to her lips. She kissed it with a tenderness that was neither shy nor brazen, but unmistakably hers. Her mouth lingered there, warm and devoted, and he felt it like a spark through his veins. His breath trembled in his chest and roared triumphantly within. In that instant, in that act, something in him broke apart and was reborn. Baptised by the wetness of her lips. John Thornton was a master, but with her, he was just a man. A man love-struck, a man blessed. He thawed beneath the touch, overcome by the sheer sweetness of her, by the soft, soul-deep grace of the woman he loved.

It was a kiss without urgency, yet it seared. A quiet flame passed from her lips to his skin and settled somewhere deep in his bones, where longing stirred and restraint began to slip. And in that single, simple kiss, an oath passed between them, clear as light, more beautiful than life itself. That all would be well. That they would do well. That this was not an ending, but the gentle, glowing beginning of something beyond words, beyond even the horizon of happiness.

‘I must,’ Margaret sniffed, grazing her cheek across his knuckles. ‘I am to be the mistress of Marlborough Mills, after all.’

The End

Chapter Text

LOOK BACK AT ME

(The Thornton Tales)

The house stood beneath a veil of white,
The cold creeping into the bones of Milton.
Frost adhered to the windows like hidden words.
A story untold, frozen in time.
Inside, the children laughed, unaware,
Their joy as bright as the firelight that flickered in their eyes.
Their little hands, sticky with the sweetness of life,
Pulled at the corners of his heart,
A heart burdened by grief they could never fathom.

Margaret was leaving.
Not forever, not far,
Yet in her heart, she carried the weight of their bond,
Like a river that flows but never falters.
But even the smallest distance can feel like an abyss
To a soul that has tasted loss too deeply.

John stood at the stairhead,
The warmth of the children pressed close to him.
His eyes, though, did not leave her.
Her steps, calm, intentional,
Each one taking her farther from him.
She would go.

Her departure was a quake,
A tension that awoke the ghosts of the past.
They yawned and stretched as they made their presence felt.
But he trusted her.
For in each step, she carried his heart, steadfast and unyielding,
As the earth bears the weight of the stars.

The clock on the mantel ticked steadily,
That somehow made the silence feel more deafening.
The fire crackled thinly in the hearth,
Its embers fighting to retain warmth in the face of the creeping cold,
As though it too mourned the separation that filled the room like smoke.
In sorrow's depth, he learned to dwell,
Where stillness came like a tolling bell.

She left once more, as death does claim,
A soul, not lost, yet born to flame.
‘But why can't I come with you?’ he had asked earlier,
His voice was rough with latent fears.
‘It’s only a week,’ she had replied,
But to him, it felt like a thousand miles.
‘Why must you leave us at all?’ he had protested,
To which she had only smiled, shaking her head.

But even as she descended the stairs now,
Speech evaded him.
Words crowded his mind,
Yet none passed his lips.
The truth was too raw, too much to bear.
‘I cannot go on without thee,’ he thought. ‘Not again.’

And lo, the house, like the tomb of Lazarus, awaited her return,
For its very walls were as weary as he,
Thirsting for the touch of life once more.
‘This house will be madness without you,’ he murmured,
His voice a hoarse plea that did not become his magnificent standing.
Her smile wavered, holding back a sorrow she did not speak.
‘It already is.’
It echoed, a hollow pledge.

And in that moment, he knew,
She would never truly leave him.
Not entirely. Not for long.
Her absence would torment him,
Yet in the silence, his heart knew she was the echo of every breath, always with him in spirit.
Just like the morning sun, her love would rise again to warm his soul.
Her love would linger,
No matter how far she went.

Her touch, soft as the brush of an angel’s wing,
The tender words between them,
But his soul reached for her,
And found that it too would never leave.
Her voice, warm and low,
‘I shall return to Mr Thornton,’ she said,
Glancing down at the boy in his arms,
‘Or rather... Mr Thorntons. You appear to have multiplied.’

He did not smile.
‘I don't want to be alone,’ he whispered,
But the words were swallowed in the cold atmosphere.
‘It’s only a week,’ she said, her voice meant to soothe,
But they fell like a burden upon his chest.
‘But it feels like before,’ he confessed,
And she stilled, her hand trembling slightly.
‘That was different,’ she replied,
Her voice softened.
‘You weren’t holding George then.’
‘That’s not why it hurts,’ he thought. ‘I fear the pointlessness of life without you.’

Yet through the dark, the stars did rise,
A soft gleam, a whispered sigh.
The winds of fate did twist and turn,
And in her eyes, the sun did burn.

And in that instant, the world seemed to collapse around him,
The memory of her first departure flooding back.
Grief in her eyes.
Snow settling on her lashes.
Her valise, the symbol of her leaving.
She had gone before,
And with her had gone everything he had treasured.

All his hopes and dreams departed with her.

He had stood beneath the same sky,
A man so sure of himself,
A man who thought love could be controlled,
Measured, contained.
But she had shattered him,
Torn through him like a candle through silk.
Her absence had left him cold,
Cold as the stone beneath his feet.

He had cursed her,
Then cursed himself.
And when she returned,
He had never let her go again.
Until now.

This time, she would leave with his blessing,
But it was the leaving, not the absence,
It was the departure, not the distance,
It was the separation, not the silence,
That he could not bear.
Not the parting, but the ache.

‘She looked back,’ he said, a tear to hide,
Yet in his soul, no longer tide.
For though the past once tore his heart,
He knows, at last, they’ll never part.
‘I cannot bear this stillness. This waiting.’
An emptiness, as deep as the valley of death,
Pressed upon him.
For how can one endure the muzzle of separation
When the heart is bound, yet torn asunder by love?

Margaret kissed each child,
Her lips soft as they touched their heads,
A blessing, a vow,
Her breath lingering in the warmth of their hair.
John delayed by the hall table,
Her gloves still clenched tightly in his hand.

They were a small, insignificant thing,
Yet in his grasp, they seemed to carry everything he could not touch.
The leather was worn in places,
The fabric frayed at the edges from countless journeys she had taken,
Each tear a story, each crease a memory.

‘John,’ she said, her brow lifting in playful surprise,
‘Are those my gloves?’
He glanced down,
Feigning innocence.
‘Possibly.’

She stepped closer,
Her voice carrying a hint of mischief.
‘Still hiding things, Mr Thornton?’
But he did not return her teasing smile.
‘What is it?’ she asked,
Her voice faltering as she saw the grief in his eyes.

He looked at her,
And in that moment, her silhouette was filled with all the goodbyes he had failed to say.
‘I know you’ll return,’ he murmured,
‘But it’s the leaving I cannot endure.’

‘I don’t know how I’ll wait,’ he thought. ‘How do you wait for something that doesn’t come?’
Like the widow, who waits in vain for her son’s return,
The soul bears the brunt of such longing,
Torn between the promise of what once was,
And the reality of what remains.

The door opened,
And snow swept in like a breath held far too long,
Filling the room with an icy calm,
The very atmosphere laden with the finality of it.
The wind seemed to tear at the edges of the house,
As if the tempest itself wished to rush inside,
To bear witness to the loss that had taken place.

She stepped into the tempest,
The wind tugging her skirts like a pleading child,
Her figure scarcely more than a shadow now,
As if the storm itself sought to swallow her.
He held the children back,
Lest they chase after her into the cold,
Into the emptiness she would leave behind.

‘I’ve never known stillness like this,’ he thought. ‘The cold is a sound.’
Each step she took was an ache within him,
Her figure receding into the white,
A shadow half-claimed by the tempest.

She climbed into the carriage,
And the door closed with a finality he recognised all too well.
He exhaled,
Waiting for the stillness that would follow,
The stillness that had always come after her leaving.
He’d known it before. The nakedness of the vacuum, the void.

Once, she had left without a word,
And he had stood alone,
A king without a queen,
A master without a name.
He had cursed the light,
Raged against its retreat.

But this time,
This time, she turned.
She saw him.
And in her smile,
He felt the echo of all the words not spoken,
An oath written through the snow,
Sent adrift on the wind.
A kiss that lingered even as she left,
Stained and stirring on mourning lips.

She saw him. She looked back.
‘She looked back,’ he thought. ‘This time, she saw me.’

Now, in the garden of their days,
He stands amidst the bloom and praise.
The past is gone, yet not forgot,
For it hath shaped the love they sought.

He let the breath go,
And in that release, something within him relaxed.
He had braced for pain,
But found peace instead.
No longer the burden of lost time,
But a lightness in the ache.

Later, when the door had closed behind him,
The children rushed to his legs.
‘Papa—why do you look like that?’
He bent low and kissed the crown of one head,
The scent of their innocence a balm to his troubled heart.
‘Why are you smiling?’ the eldest asked,
Her innocent gaze bright with curiosity.
Her voice, the echo of that kiss.

He turned toward the window,
Silvered with frost,
And smiled softly,
‘She looked back at me,’ he said,
In her look, he saw the reflection of their entire history,
Stretching back to when they first found each other,
And reaching forward into all that would come.

And then, with a calm, wistful tone,
‘This time.’
She looked back, as if to say,
Not goodbye, but a gentle stay,
A glance that carried all they’d known,
A love that had, at last, been sown.

And in that glance, he found release,
Not sorrow’s grip, but calm peace.
For now, when he looks back in time,
He’ll see their past as soft as rhyme,
Not as a burden that drags him down,
But as the foundation for their crown,
A love that lives, not in regret,
But in the strength they’ve come to set.

Now, he shall never look again
With sorrow, longing, or with pain.
For in the looking back, he sees,
Not loss, but all the love that frees.