Occasionally he wondered what the sky really looked like on a day like this, unhindered by smoke and haze and looming buildings surrounding him. Though it was still quite early, long before any of the hands would arrive, the mild temperature hinted of later, almost-overwhelming heat. And yet, even on summer days like these, when night came late and departed early, he could not see the sun or enjoy a truly blue sky.

John Thornton shook his head, berating himself for such traitorous thoughts to his home and profession. Surely there was nothing to regret about the path he had chosen; he was proud of his work, and proud of himself for the care he took over it. A hazy sky above was a small price to pay for being able to face himself in the mirror each morning. But there was no denying those moments when he imagined a different life, one in which the sun shone brightly and clearly overhead.

He had never contemplated such things in his youth, at least not with great frequency. In the far-too-brief moments of leisure, any ruminations of an alternate existence only changed the circumstances of his father's death, not his home. Removing from Milton, even then, was unthinkable. He never allowed himself to dwell very long on such thoughts, anyway. There was little point in wondering something that was not nor would ever be.

And so he had continued into manhood, excessively aware of reality and never straying far or long into fanciful notions. These musings about an open sky had only begun in the last year, no doubt influenced by the company he kept. Or perhaps to be more accurate, the company he wished to keep. Imagining a country life came much easier when a man was desperately in love with a passionate defender of the country. He never seriously considered living away from Milton, but he was not immune to visions of a lovely forest, wandering hand-in-hand with a living, breathing wood nymph.

He shook his head again, stirring himself to concentrate on the ledger in front of him. There was another hour or so before the workers would arrive at the mill, and there was no sense indulging in idiotic fantasy during time he should be devoting to figures and contracts. Barely five minutes into seating himself at his desk and he was already letting his mind wander! This was unacceptable.

But, he pondered, it was also inevitable that she should enter his thoughts. How could he callously forget her or her father when they must be suffering? Only yesterday morning he received word that Mrs. Hale had been released from her mortal pain. He had gone in the afternoon to give assistance to Mr. Hale, but had not been able to see him. He wished he could be of service somehow to his old friend, and he was anxious to know how Margaret bore the loss. Inevitable, he repeated to himself, and natural that she should persist in his thoughts at such a time.

There was little use in lingering on her, however, and he soon bent his head to his work, the only audible sound coming from the scratch of his pen on paper. Ten minutes passed in such a manner when he heard the distant squeal of the front gate and crunching footsteps on the gravelly pavement of the courtyard.

Glancing on the clock in mild confusion, he irritably wondered who the devil would be here so early. His employees, knowing his strict standards, were punctual, but even the earliest could not be reasonably expected for another half-hour. It was foolish for anybody else to be here now, but he didn't care enough to investigate, especially as it was clear the footsteps were getting louder and closer. Apparently he would soon find out who was here. He dipped his pen and continued with his task.

Soon the door of the main office creaked open, and he lifted his head again, though the situation of his private office blocked the main entrance from his view. Whoever it was, he would not see them until they came to his own door. Irritation and curiosity were chief among his feelings, especially as the steps of the unknown person halted, then stepped, then halted again. He leaned back in his chair, curiosity taking over his annoyance, for it seemed that his visitor was suffering from indecision. This ruled out any of the clerks that worked in the main room, for they would have simply gone straight to their desks. He found himself intrigued with the sound of another step and another pause. He decided to put an end to the visitor's hesitance.

"Williams?" he called out. "Is that you?"

He was certain it was not his overseer, but it was as good a name as any. Speaking up was simply a means to discover the person's identity, and clearly his small action paid off, for the steps began again without pause and crossed the remaining distance to his office. Mr. Thornton was unaware of his jaw dropping, but down it went all the same.

For there, in the door frame, stood Margaret Hale.

She had never found it so difficult to sleep as she did that night. Why, she asked herself, when she was so exhausted with grief and turmoil, could her body not allow her rest? She spent several hours in weary frustration, trying to will herself to slumber, and still it would not come. She finally gave it up as a lost cause and sat up, lighting the candle at her bedside to review the events of the day.

Was it really only the previous night her mother had passed on? And yet it already seemed a lifetime to Margaret, who had to put aside her mourning to be a comfort to both her father and brother. She had forced herself to be cheerful, to plan and bear them up. Only through silent prayer had she been able to endure the strain with a modicum of peace.

But when the night came and she was alone in her room, the peace that had sustained her was gone. In its place was an anxious fear, brought on by Dixon's revelation of Leonards and the subsequent decision to send Fred off as quickly as possible. This it was that so disrupted her attempts to sleep,she realized once she examined her thoughts. The simmering threat on Frederick's life, always present in the back of her mind the past few days, was now a full boil, and she could not stop her imagination from conjuring up dreadful images of a faceless man setting upon their house and dragging Fred off to his death.

Her mind simply would not settle, and her attempts at reason were to no avail. Their plan to send Fred away on the next evening's train seemed sound at the time, but was it soon enough? And if she was this restless now, what a state would she be in after a whole day of waiting and suspense? Was it safe to keep Fred at the house for an entire day, or should he find a way out of Milton sooner? Was the train a wise choice? What should happen if he were discovered in London? She had supported the idea of appealing to Henry Lennox, but what if she was wrong? What if delay meant catastrophe? What would that do to her father?

Her fears and questions consumed her, and she sank into her covers, wishing she could hide. But she knew she could not escape them. She had set on a course, and it was her responsibility now, whether to stay on it or find another plan. But which way was right? Tormented by indecision, she clutched her pillow to her body.

"Please, Heavenly Father," she whispered into it. "Grant me wisdom. Let me find peace again." Her fervent plea was swallowed up into the fabric, and for a moment she doubted He could hear her. At once she felt shame for her doubt. Did He not instruct His people to pray in secret? Was that not what she was doing now? What did it matter if her words were muffled? She knew He could hear her. "Help me, dear Father."

She did not dare hope that a heavenly vision would open before her, but she listened to every creak and flutter in the deep silence of night as though the slightest noise might be some kind of sign. She felt a strange mixture of alertness and exhaustion that made her feel more than a little giddy, and she became afraid she might miss whatever answer might come.

Breathing a sigh, she let her eyes wander around her room, where they stopped at her bureau. It was an ordinary piece of furniture, and the articles kept therein were not much different from any young woman's, aside from a few personal keepsakes. A handkerchief of her mother's, letters from her father from her time in London, some old beads from Edith, gloves from . . .

She flushed that her thoughts had moved so thoroughly and quickly away from one predicament to another. The gloves were not a willing gift, but rather a forgotten casualty of an embarrassing and painful argument. Mr. Thornton had left them there that horrible days many weeks ago. And she, in an effort to conceal his visit and the purpose for it, had taken and hidden them, unable to find an appropriate way to return them. Did he miss them now? Would she ever forget his face when she rejected him or the unrelenting passion in his voice? It had not been so long since that day that she could think of him without blushing deeply.

He had come that very afternoon, she had discovered. It was, after all, very like him. He had shown tender kindness to her mother during the last while, and he did have a strong friendship with her father. Friendless as they often felt in Milton, Mr. Thornton had not wavered. Even her fastidious mother had admitted to liking him in the end. He was a kind friend, just as she had told Fred, and though she had been startled to hear his name spoken, she was not surprised to learn of his offer of assistance. If only there was a way for him to assist her now.

With a start, she sat up straighter and held her breath. If only he could assist her now . . . The thought played itself again, like an incessant line of music. She swallowed to ease her suddenly dry throat.

It played again. If only . . . She shook the covers around her in response. No, it was ridiculous, not to mention dangerous.

It played again, louder. If only he . . .

Was it dangerous? She felt herself weakening to the suggestion.

Louder. If only he could . . .

What was she thinking? She grasped her hands together, bringing them to her mouth as though to silence the unspoken refrain.

Like thunder now. He could assist her . . .

Had she lost her senses entirely? she asked herself, now burying her face in her hands. This could not be.

Assist her now.

Was this her answer? Was she truly being asked to risk her brother's safety by revealing him to Mr. Thornton? Was he to be her assurance from heaven? Could he be trusted?

Immediately, without needing to resort to prayer, she knew one thing: Mr. Thornton did have a great deal of integrity. She also knew he was capable of protecting others; she herself benefited from that protection. Her name had not been scattered around town as gossip fodder after the riot, after all, and that must be attributed to his efforts. And he had done nothing to arouse suspicion in her own family after that terrible conversation. He was honest. And trustworthy. And he must be loyal, mustn't he? If not for her sake, then perhaps for her father's sake he would not betray them if she confessed. He was also a clever man, someone who could rationally consider even difficult and painful situations.

No, no, no! She fidgeted sharply with her braided hair, pulling it from side to side. There was too much that could go wrong by including him. These observations about his character, however true they were, were no guarantee that he might not disappoint her hopes and trust.

A quieter voice within her argued that he would never act in a manner so unlike himself. Even if he could do nothing for them, he would never betray a confidence. He was not deceitful.

Is it worth the risk? she wondered, even as she felt herself relenting. There was risk in any undertaking, after all. And if this was her answer, well . . . that was what faith was about, wasn't it?

She would not think about how uncomfortable it would be to approach him. She would only pray. Was this seemingly foolhardy idea His will? Or was it a desperate collection of thoughts brought on by fatigued delirium?

The feeling was almost too faint to notice, for her mind was still loudly asking a thousand questions at once. But it did come, small as it was, and Margaret knew what she must do, no matter the personal mortification it must cost her. That one iota of peace she had not felt in hours had returned.

She decided to leave the house before the sun came up. First, she might lose her nerve if she delayed. Second, she had no intention of telling her family what she was doing, so it was only common sense to leave before they woke. Third, she hoped to make the walk to Marlborough Mills before any of the workers arrived. With any luck, Mr. Thornton would be alone and there would be minimal risk of being overheard. Heaven alone knew what her reputation might suffer now, for of course the streets were never entirely empty, but her reputation was nothing in comparison to Fred's safety.

The sun broke over the unseen horizon on her way, and she hurried on, doubts and questions still plaguing her. Perhaps if she walked quickly enough, they would fall behind. Of course this did not happen, and she stopped in the middle of the road to give herself a proper scolding. She had decided once again on a course, she told herself firmly, and it was her duty to follow it through, come what may.

The Marlborough gate had never looked so imposing before, but she pushed it open a small way with more bravery than she felt. She was relieved to see the yard was empty, so something had worked in her favor. Now to see if Mr. Thornton was at work. She sincerely prayed he would be; a forbidding shudder ran through her at the idea of knocking directly at his nearby home.

The office door opened easily at her touch. She was inside. Was it too late to turn back? She could simply leave. Twice, she almost turned around, nerves making her mouth dry and her stomach weak. And then the silence was broken.

"Williams? Is that you?"

No avoiding him now, she thought to herself. He knew someone was there. She stepped forward and closed the distance to the doorway where she had heard his voice. And, too soon for her frazzled nerves, there he was. And there she was, bold as brass, standing before him.

His coat had been slung on the back of the chair he sat in, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up. He held a pen in his hand. But these details were lost to her observation as she took in the astonishment on his face. His blue eyes widened and his mouth dropped open, and in that moment she was more tempted than ever to flee.

Speaking seemed impossible now and she could not hold his shocked gaze. She closed her eyes briefly, gathering her courage and trying to remember the small answer of peace that brought her here in the first place. She must see this through.

When she opened her eyes, she saw his initially shocked reaction shifting into confused concern, evidenced by the furrow of his brow and the tilt of his head as he rose from the chair.

"Miss Hale," he murmured, half in greeting, half in question.

She took a deep breath. "Mr. Thornton." She inclined her head in greeting as she stepped inside his office. With only the slightest hesitation, she took hold of the door and pushed it close. She turned back to see that his eyes had enlarged again in surprise. What was becoming of her? she asked silently even as she made herself stand strong before him.

"I must speak with you, sir."

.

A/N: Gotta love those persistent plot bunnies that don't leave you alone, right? I was thinking to myself, "Okay, in the book, the Hales decide in the evening that Fred's got to go, but it's not until the NEXT night that he leaves? (whereas the movie makes it simply that same night) How stressed would I be just waiting for that WHOLE day to go to the train station? I would be psyching myself out the entire time, wondering if we were doing the right thing." Hence, Margaret's dilemma that kicks off my plot deviation. As ever, I kind of blend my inspiration from both the book and the movie, as you might notice from the forgotten gloves that were a thing in the movie but not in the book. Anyway, there are a million other things I could say, but I'm going to stop myself there and let the story speak for itself. Hope you enjoy!