A/N (Aug. 14th, 2020): First off, thanks for reading :) Second, I am currently revising all of my fic which will be posted again afterwards. In all honesty, having been jobless for a while and with virtually no options left to me I simply can t afford to write for free anymore and will be harvesting some bits of these stories to be used in my original works...fingers crossed I can get (some of) those published!

Chapter 1

New Scenes and Faces

Margaret could still taste the smoke on her lips, feel her bones rattle with the cadence of the crowd moving as one across the station, and hear the shrill whistle of the train as it left them stranded in Milton. Tired with the journey and even more with the prospect of finding a new home in a strange place, she continued to listlessly observe a finely woven cobweb clinging onto a forgotten corner of the only window in their cramped and sober hotel room on New Street.

The glass was so grubby it was impossible for Margaret to properly see through it. The hazy figures moving beyond it appeared like mere specters, though their purposeful treads at once told her they belonged in this manufacturing town in the North, whereas she was but a directionless phantom from the South that obviously did not.

Her old life and her new one were unfathomably far apart. It felt as if that dark chasm between the two had swallowed up all sense of the peace she had felt in returning to Helstone after gladly giving up her London life with Aunt Shaw and Cousin Edith. Now, it seemed, all she had for company were the happy memories of her childhood in the paradise that was the New Forest. As precious as those may be to her, however, they were fading fast and threatened to be overcast by the growing shadow of losing Henry Lennox's friendship, by the continuing absence of her brother Frederick, and above all because of the bleak future ahead.

The creaking of wood startled her from her numbness. She forced a smile on her face to hopefully dispel her gloomy mood long enough so her father wouldn't see how she truly felt, before determinedly turning around.

Margaret froze when her eyes found not her father but a tall man that she supposed must look completely ordinary and yet she couldn't help but feel he was unlike any she had ever seen. He had a sculpted face with a pronounced but not broad jaw, a finely carved nose and high, cut cheekbones which were softened somewhat by modest sideburns.

To her surprise Margaret felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth when her eyes shot up and spotted some wayward strands on his scalp. They must have escaped his neatly combed and strictly divided hair and arched all the way to one temple, one or two even poking out willfully. It gave the stranger an incredibly boyish and young appearance and yet everything else about him contradicted this.

He stood tall with both feet planted firmly on the floor, chin covered in a hint of stubble and his dark brows looked like they were used to being set and stern. Most striking of all, though, the inky, black color of his hair formed a staggering contrast with his eyes that were a deep blue like that of a lake. It was their enigmatic depth that caused a tingling to crawl up her spine, fully rousing her from her lethargic reminiscing and it felt like breathing for the first time after having long been underwater.

The silence between the two of them stretched a moment longer and Margaret stood unmoving under his piercing gaze, the expression he wore unreadable but intense. Courage rising at the intimidation, either intentional or accidental, she steeled her own features into neutral but not impolite indifference and simply observed him in return.

Somehow she did not wish to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging him first by speaking, though it took more effort than she cared to admit to herself to repress a wild fluttering in her chest that instantly gainsaid this resolve, her heart stubbornly advocating what her head did not.

And so her voice almost spilled over her parted lips as Margaret stared back as if locked to those strangely fixed and yet wavering sapphire orbs.

Similarly rooted to the spot by the round, heavy-lidded eyes gleaming a deep brown either in defiance or languid curiosity as they remained trained on him, John could not summon the power needed to look away.

Had he entered the hotel in his usual decisive manner, executing minute control over all his movements—all exuding purpose, none frivolity—now he stood like one entranced on the threshold to a small room he had been directed to as belonging to the Hales. John had expected to see a middle aged man, the friend he was to help on Mr. Bell's behalf, but instead he had stumbled upon what must be the man's daughter.

And it felt like stumbling. It wasn't a sensation John was overly familiar with. He had fallen in life. More times than he cared to remember, in fact. Starting with that fateful day his father ended his own life and chained that of the family of three he left behind to one of poverty, strife and hard work. But John had risen to his feet, had walked on, every single time circumstances had forced him down on his knees. But he had never stumbled. Until now.

Miss Margaret Hale was not the little girl he had thought she would be. She was a young woman and yet wholly transcending that distinction. An uncharacteristic color almost crept on his cheeks when he realized how he had taken the liberty of observing her when she had still been unaware of his presence.

It had struck him then how the simple dress she wore flowed to the floor, hem hovering but an inch above gnarled floorboards, and giving him the strange impression she was floating. The only thing that seemingly anchored her in place was an exquisite Indian shawl that was draped around her slender form as if she was a princess from some exotic, centuries old tale and had simply leapt off the dusty pages into this world. His world. The fact that it clearly did not seem to be hers had only increased his fascination.

And so, having taken in the sight of her, he had well and truly stumbled. Not in the literal sense of the word, but internally his heart had skipped a long beat before drumming rapidly against his ribs. He had felt instantly unbalanced, both inside and outside of himself, not understanding why he could not move, why he was robbed of all agency.

John supposed it was because there was something regal about her stance and posture that had given him pause. Even when he had only seen her profile it had been powerful enough to steal the air from his very lungs. Statuesque. He felt a fool for mentally conjuring up the one word that seemed to describe her in that one moment and even more so for the reverence he felt surging through him as he did.

The stunned state locking his limbs into place had lifted gradually but he, irrationally, regretted the wood creaking underfoot as a result seeing it had made her turn around. The heavy folds in which the shawl hung over her arms—gathering in the nooks of her elbows—had rippled with the movement, the rich colors splashed on it infinitely surpassing that of any rainbow the gray sky he saw every day had to offer.

Seeing her face fully now John only felt more ensnared by its sheer, almost haunting beauty. Framed by chestnut brown hair tied up in a loose bun, her features were not a perfect symmetry or even that striking, nor was her complexion all ivory skin or smoothness, but there was something in the sylphlike lines of it, in the soft lips, small nose and guardedly inquisitive expression that made him feel like a loyal subject entrapped and powerless in the radiance of his empress.

It made him feel beyond uncomfortable, he was used to assuming an authoritative role, of taking the lead confidently and decisively and yet even though she was silent and waited for him to speak there was no mistaking that spark lighting up those warm eyes now the color of caramel as they were directed at him. Nor did he misunderstand her chin subtly tilted up and her brows lifted just enough to send him a clear message. Her silence was not passive but commanding and he trembled and obeyed.

"Forgive me, Miss Hale. I have come for your father but I fear I have disturbed you instead in my haste to enter and offer him my help," he explained, for the first time in his life not fully trusting his voice to come out but feeling disproportionally relieved now it had, and it had sounded like himself too. He didn't like that he had apparently taken off his hat without him noticing it and had been fingering the rim like a nervous schoolboy about to recite a lesson not very diligently learned.

"He went out to stretch his legs after our train journey, leaving me to hold the fort." She waved a frustrated, almost dismissive hand at the small room. "I can tell him of the prompt appearance of our savior, if you like, Mister..."

Hearing her voice was magical, it was like the painted portrait of some mythical figure he longed to know had all of a sudden gained animation and finally spoke to him, acknowledging his existence, his craving to gain access to that privilege of talking to her.

What she said, however, and despite his elation, made him feel a fool for not introducing himself properly and in the earnest, terse way he was accustomed to do. After all, it was irrational to think she would have remembered his name even if it had been mentioned to her that he would come, whereas he had instantly known she was Miss Margaret Hale. He felt strangely irked at being forgotten by her even though he was of no consequence to her and neither should she be to him.

"Thornton, begging your pardon, Miss Hale. My name is John Thornton. As his business associate Mr. Bell has asked me to look out for properties here in Milton on your family's behalf."

"I see. It is possible that father has told me of you but I cannot now recall if he did. Either way, I thank you for your trouble and it only makes me regret all the more my father is presently not here, though it should not be long before he returns. Won't you sit down and wait?"

He was busy, he had no time to sit down and be idle until Mr. Hale would come back, he loathed waiting at the best of times, and yet would he normally have either curtly reclined the offer or sat down restless to be on his way again he now took a seat feeling none of those things. Her presence was soothing and intoxicating at the same time, he could not even wonder at that seeming contradiction and simply allowed himself a moment to revel in it instead.

John also knew that moment she would never admire him like he instantly admired her. How could she? He felt exposed for the crude, rough-around-the-edges manufacturer that he was. In her presence he wanted to be more than that. He wanted to be worthy of every glance, of every word that she bestowed on him without seeming to notice the effect it had on him or the gifts that they were.

This was folly! He was a man of business. A magistrate and a man of high standing within the community. A man of consequence even in this part of the world, though it went against his nature to boast or gloat about this. But he was proud of all that, thanks to his mother's guidance, he had achieved. He would not be shaken by this woman who had come into his life like a fairy swooping down from her lofty cloud to mock the simple, mortal man he was.

Even so, he still cursed the sound of footsteps when they came, indicating Mr. Hale had returned and he would soon be deprived of her sole attention. Accepting it for the challenge that it was, for the battle he would wage against himself, John fervently hoped Miss Hale would accompany her father to the property they were to view in Crampton. If only so he could prove to himself he could regain control of himself. That he would!