More North & South fanfic because problems are what I don't have. Also, Richard Armitage and I are getting married. In my head, at least.

This fic is basically coming from the idea that what if Margaret had arrived 'last April'-ish and been around for the town thrown into mourning over the three hundred killed at the mill Thornton mentions. There are multiple chapters to this because I'm a dweeb.

Enjoy!

As she wandered through the grim town of Milton, Margaret couldn't help but notice that the town didn't seem to normally be so grim. The sad little flower boxes in some of the windows, and surely not everyone wore such dark clothes and faces? It wasn't until a young woman, introduced as Bessie Higgins over the sad pickings of fresh fruit at the market, answered her questions that she understood. An accidental flame in one of the cotton mills—and that just a month before the Hales' arrival in Milton three hundred men, women, and children had been laid to rest. Not a soul had survived the fire, the entire mill burning to the ground in less than a half hour.

After returning to the hotel with half a pear—she and Bessie had genially agreed to split it after realizing it was the only thing worth having that day—her father mentioned that his old college friend Bell had gotten in touch with a man named Thornton. This man, a mill owner apparently, was to send over his foreman to help them acquire a house. They knew so little of Milton ways that they didn't know quite who was renting and what was a fair rent.

Margaret refused to let this man lead her and her father about town without knowing the man who employed him. She wanted to know ought of his character, and perhaps even his business.

Her father tried to stop her, but only halfheartedly, later as she pushed out of the office the foreman left them in. The sound of machinery drew her in, deaf to her father's worrying, and then the air was snowy and white—bits of fluff, floating without care inside a noisy, breezeless room. She'd known, and not just from her new friend Bessie, that Milton was primarily known for cotton mills. She'd known, also, that Thornton ran a cotton mill.

Bessie's words over the single pear—three hundred dead. My cousin and his wife among them—Auntie has been inconsolable ever since. Seventeen children—the only solace their mothers have is that the deaths was quick from the smoke and airlessness—were in her ears as she watched the cotton dust float. That flame had been an accidental one, she couldn't imagine anyone being allowed to smoke anywhere on the grounds of the mill.

There was a man, standing on a higher platform than the floor she stood on, tall and dark. His eyes were scanning the room in such a sharp, piercing manner that Margaret knew him to be Mr. Thornton—he had the eyes of a man who had many worries and few joys amidst his responsibility, and was so engaged and aloof that he must be the mill owner.

That was when out of the corner of her eye she saw a man taking what could only be a pipe from his mouth. Eighty three women widowed in just more than a quarter of an hour. Margaret ignored her father calling her back, and shrugged off the foreman who was trying to usher her back, and veritably stomped her way towards the man. She took his pipe and stuffed her gloved thumb down the small bowl, clutching it tightly in her fist to prevent any accidental flames escaping. The man she'd snatched it from stared askance at her right up until her free hand wound back and slapped him soundly across the face.

Margaret never knew how badly she'd kicked the hornet's nest with that, because before she'd even managed to turn her glare back on the man a vividly black suit coat was before her face.

"Stephens!" the tall dark man from the platform had apparently nearly flung himself down from the higher level, rushing to put himself between herself and the man she'd just slapped. The workman's fist was raised as though to strike her, and the man from the platform was obstructing the blow from falling. It took Margaret a few moments to catch up on what he was yelling over the din of the machines.

"A woman, Stephens? You'd dare strike a woman for saving your life? Be glad she got to you first, man, else you'd be leaving this mill with a beating atop of your last day's pay. Out—get him out!" Surrounded now by men, Margaret tried to hold her head high to face their coming recriminations. Her father was already mumbling something about how shocking her behavior was.

The foreman was given no chance for he left to take the man out of the mill—yelling at him the entire time, roughly dragging the hapless smoker along. Margaret thought briefly on the pipe still clutched in her hand, but she wouldn't give it back to the owner. What if he got a job at another mill and killed all of them with this same pipe? It would be awful to believe she had led to such an event.

That brought her to look up into the mill owner's eyes, even as he took the hand crushed around the still warm pipe. Both of his hands wrapped around her smaller one, keeping her fingers tightly covering the pipe. She felt a blush rising over her cheeks as she looked into his blue eyes.

"I must thank you, miss, for being without hesitation in this matter. Flames of any sort are banned in this mill for a reason—that man might have killed us all." His accent was thick and if not for the fact that she'd spoken with Bessie for an hour over a pear earlier in the day she would have perhaps lost some of his words. She tried not to stare at his mouth as he spoke.

Her father was trying to get the man's attention, but neither Margaret nor the tall dark man were of a mind to pay heed. His hands were warm, and his thumb rubbed very gently over her gloves. She wondered if he were even aware of it.

"Then I must thank you for not beating him out of rage, though I feel perhaps you might have been justified." Something flickered in his face, between annoyance and respect. His hands never wavered in their grip on hers. The pipe she held was firmly encased away from the cotton filled air.

"My name is John Thornton," he said, loud enough to be heard over the din of the machines surrounding them—but only just. An industrial whisper.

"And mine is Margaret Hale."

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