AN Hi All, I hope this new chapter finds you well and thriving.

First of all, please, dear readers, accept my most fervent apologies for the delay of this chapter. I have been ill, and overwhelmed with life, and for the best part of 2 weeks this chapter refused to be written. It felt as thought Margaret did not want me to divulge what became of her following the events of chapter 11. But we pushed through and here we are. Needless to say, comments and reviews would be especially appreciated. I'm not sure how I feel about this one...

I've also written a little one-shot, mostly cuddly, fluffy lovey-doveyness, perhaps to counter all the angst I have going on in this story. It's called The Master and the Madness s/13657145/1/

Please take a look and tell me what you think. If people like it, I have a few other light and loved-up one-shots, or shorter stories I would like to publish, so I'm eager to hear what people think about it, to decide whether or not my fluffier ideas are worth working on.

Finally, if you haven't already, do yourselves a favour and check out TheScribbler's amazing story, A Mother's Final Gift s/13621984/1/A-Mother-s-Final-GiftIt is an absolute gem!

Happy reading! EH

The sun had reached high in the congested sky over Milton by the time Margaret awoke. Opening one eye and then the other, she squirmed a little, stretching her arms high over her head and startling when she heard the dull thud of a flower-filled vase hitting the carpeted floor. Disoriented, she did not immediately recognise the familiar swirls that adorned the ceiling of her father's small study.

She slowly pushed herself upright on the narrow chaise as the memories of the previous day flooded her consciousness. The knowledge of her loss struck her a second time, and she keeled forwards, pressing her face into her palms. Although she felt her facial muscles contract, and her throat thicken, she soon realised that there were no more tears to shed.

After a moment she rose to her feet, although to what end she really did not know. She felt groggy and parched, and most horridly stiff for having spent a whole night sleeping in the rigid confines of her corset. Taking her first step away from her makeshift bed, she knocked her foot against something hard. She looked down, and bent uncomfortably to retrieve the hefty book that lay at her feet. Sartor Resartus. How odd. She had no memory of reading that. She did not much care for Mr Carlyle and his crude parodies.

She turned about the room several times distractedly, piecing together the memories from the previous evening as she took in her surroundings. It felt strangely as though she was seeing the small study for the first time. Dreamlike, and unsettling.

Mr Thornton was here, some small voice inside her prompted.

"Of course he was here." she whispered instantly in reply, "Where else would he have been?"

With Miss Latimer, or his mother, as is his proper place.

"Oh…"

She jerked her body in an almost complete full circle, shaking her head as the impropriety of Mr Thornton's visit began to sink in. What had she done, they done? Why had he come? Why had she let him? How had she not considered her actions, been more circumspect in her behaviour? Throwing herself at him once again, clinging to him as if her very life depended on it, allowing him to touch her, to hold her, to…

"Water!" she croaked, suddenly aware of the dull ache in her head, stinging in her throat, and her urgent need for distraction.

She left the room and padded downstairs, strangely careful to not make any noise, although she knew there was nobody left to be disturbed. She approached the kitchen, noting the door was ajar, and came to a stop just before. There was a medley of thick, darkshire accents coming from the other side, two of which she was sure she did not recognise.

"Ye' 'av te' tell us somethin'. They're all dyin' to know all 'bout it back at Marlborough Mills, they'll 'ave our 'eads if we go back with nothin' te' report!"

"I'm sure I don't know anymore than you two! Besides, 'ave you no respect? Miss Margaret 'as been through so much, what with 'er mother dying and now 'er father so soon after."

Margaret smiled at Mary's staunch defense of her privacy, and was about to announce her presence, when another unfamiliar voice halted her step.

"Now, nobody's sayin' things 'aven't been 'ard fe' the girl," it began, "but th' loss of 'er parents dunt' excuse all tha' shoutin' and screamin' tha' Miss Latimer was doin' at the Measter, on account of 'is attentions to Miss Margaret. Behaved like a dog, sh' thinks 'e 'as! You'd 'a thought he'd a' formed an attachment to 'er!"

"Oh I heard 'e 'as 'n all! Remember all the talk of th' ball up at Latimer's? All of Milton felt sure 'e would ask for 'er 'and 'n not Miss Latimer's. But weren't we surprised when 'e didn't? Went 'n chose Miss Latimer, dint' he. Fer a bonnie face won't pay th' bills, even one as fine as Miss 'ale's."

"Can't say I blame 'im. From what Miss Thornton says, Miss 'ale's a most unpleasant young lady- so surly 'n severe! And full of 'erself too, even though they're not rich nor ever 'ave been!"

"Aye and all that business at Outwood! Out walkin' at all hours with a gentleman at train station. Truly, th' masters' not bin 'imself since that Miss 'ale come t' Milton."

"Aye, bad influence she is, I reckon."

Margaret gasped. The curiosity that had held her glued to the floor was replaced with a shock-induced paralysis. If she had not found her own behaviour abhorrent enough, it now appeared she was also the abomination of all of Milton

"You two'd do well to stop yer mouths before I throw ye' both out on ye' backsides!" scolded Mary, with not a little of her father's grit in her voice. "I'll not 'ave the likes o' you talkin' so idly and so ill of Miss 'ale. Ye' don't know 'er at all. Ye' don't know nothin'!"

"Per'aps, Miss 'iggins, but all I do know is the's not one person 'twixt 'ere and the Mill, that int' talkin' 'bout the Master 'n 'is mad dash to come comfort Miss 'ale in 'er 'our o' need."

"Aye, 'n all the servants up at Marlborough knows 'im didn't come 'ome last night…"

Margaret could not say how long she had been sitting on the third step of the creaky, wooden staircase, or even how she got there, by the time Mary emerged from the kitchen. She carried a tea tray heaving with the first of the offerings from Marlborough Mills, and leapt several feet in the air at the sight of an unexpected figure lurking on the stairs.

"Miss!" she gasped, as Margaret rose to steady the young girl's burden.

Good God! thought Mary, This house will be the death of me!

Once she had gathered her wits about her, she was struck by the pain written across the young mistress' face. It wasn't just the exhaustion of grief, there was something else, some poignant injury she could read there, that hadn't been there while she slept.

"Come Miss, ye' shun't be up 'n about. Ye' should be restin', to get ye' strength up. Measter's orders."

To her surprise Miss Margaret acquiesced without a word. Mary lead the way upstairs, past the parlour and into her mother's small sitting room. Once she had settled her compliant charge in one of the more comfortable armchairs, she set about preparing a plate of ham, eggs and fragrant Easterhedge pudding. Margaret accepted the meal, offering the smallest ghost of a smile by way of thanks. Mary nodded, responding with as firm a smile as she could muster, but inwardly quaking with inadequacy in the face of the almost tangible disquiet that enveloped them both. Her expression faded as she turned away, and began pouring the tea.

"Is it true?"

Mary set her mistress' teacup down on the small table beside her.

"Beg ye' pardon?"

"Is it true? What they were saying about… about all this? Those girls in the kitchen this morning. From Mrs Thornton's house, I imagine"

"That depends," replied Mary, honest, as ever, to a fault, "wha' did you 'ear 'em sayin'?"

"About Mr Thornton, and Miss Latimer, and about what people are saying… what people think… of me?"

Mary stood rooted to the floor, her stubby fingers toying with her apron as she found herself suddenly bereft of occupation with which to calm her agitated hands. How could she tell Miss Margaret of the rumours she herself had heard, spreading through the mill and the streets like the last lingering bit of summer fever- an illness that gave extremely unpleasant symptoms, but whose effects were invariably short-lived.

She chewed on her lip and studied the floor, casting about for how to best respond to her friend, oblivious to the answer she unconsciously provided by her silence. Her salvation came in the form of a determined rap at the door.

"That'll be th' Doctor." She announced, "Excuse me, miss. I'll show 'im in whilst ye' finish yer breakfast."

Margaret bore the doctor's visit with as much grace as she could muster, which was not very much at all. She appreciated his calling, surmising that much like the delicious meal she had only just finished, his visit must have been arranged at Mr Thornton's behest.

What kindness, she thought to himself, what kindness, and tenderness and thoughtfulness. All of which I might never know again.

Dr. Donaldson seemed satisfied to see that she was up and on her feet, and eating with sufficient appetite as to indicate that her body had not succumbed to some overwhelming collapse. He took care to offer sincere condolences, as he truly felt sorry for the girl- bonnie, sensible creature that she was. With a warm smile and a paternal pat of her hand, he quit the Crampton house. He remembered to leave a small missive containing the details of his first diagnostic impressions, to be collected by Mr Thornton's servants when they came to deliver the next repast.

Once the doctor had left, Margaret's legs nearly gave way beneath her, and she stumbled over to the bed and collapsed onto its welcoming softness. Her body was spent but her mind was alert, strangely abuzz with a sharp, almost frenetic energy. She sighed as she realised that although sleep had been the doctor's chief prescription, there were far too many thoughts that needed attending to.

Even reclined across the comfortable bed, a feeling of weight clung to her, the kind of resigned heaviness that can only be achieved when one has emptied one's person from an excess of emotion, and wept a great many tears in a short space of time. This was not the numbness of feeling that had overwhelmed her at her mother's passing, no, she felt the misfortune of it all most keenly, but had not the strength to resist these feelings, neither the inclination, nor any valid reason, to rally her spirits to feel otherwise.

That all of Milton should be buzzing with her scandalous behaviour struck her as almost comical. Indeed she had not the energy to regret the inevitable damage her reputation would have sustained, conjecturing that following the events at Outwood station there was, in all likelihood, very little of it left to damage. But the injury to Mr Thornton, that she had not anticipated. It would seem even the formidable Master of Marlborough Mills was not immune to having his good name bandied about for the few moments of sordid pleasure that such scandalous rumours could procure. He did not deserve such censure, and neither did his fiancée who was, by all accounts, a good, accomplished and virtuous young lady. They had every right to happiness, and Margaret bitterly regretted the stain she had wrought upon their acquaintance far above the havoc she had wreaked upon her own.

She recalled wistfully Mr Thornton's gentle attentions of the previous evening. When the thought struck her once again of the impropriety of his actions, she pushed it aside, soon finding amusement in the observation that impropriety had coloured almost every aspect of their relationship. It seemed very fitting, then, that this, their closing scene, should prove no different. For that was what it was, she felt certain. Closure. Yesterday two of the three men she had ever loved had been lost to her.

Although their paths might cross, they would never again share another quiet intimacy, a rare luxury that they had been afforded, for it was usually unheard of for two unmarried persons of the opposing sex to spend as much time in eachother's presence as they had. And rightly so, if the scandalous results of their own indiscretions were anything to go by! Oh, how she had craved those moments, even when she had mistaken her longing for loathful apprehension. Even last night, as she had attempted to dismiss him, testing his resolve, her entire being had betrayed her, rebelling against her own actions in casting away her only possible source of comfort. Where else would she find solace enough to begin the repair of her battered spirits, outside of such a warm, covering embrace and the shelter of so great and steadfast a heart?

"Oh Anne Latimer!" she whispered to herself, "I hope you know how blessed you are to be loved by such a man as he!"

He might have loved her once, but could not ask for her. She had encouraged, then rejected him, then allowed him to believe the worst of her, without offering him any alternative. And yet, in his great generosity he had still asked for her forgiveness, for her friendship, and she had thrown it back in his face by behaving so inappropriately when he had come to pay his respects at the death of her father. Papa! Oh, how she had dishonoured him! He might not have blamed himself for their cruel removal to Milton, if he had known just what a petulant, wanton wench his own daughter had become.

No more. She would toy with John Thornton's great and tender heart no more. She had no right to his affections, no claim to a future by his side. She must release him and resign herself to a life in which she had known what it was to love but had recognised the opportunity far too late. John Thornton would marry Miss Latimer, and she would away, to London, or Oxford or Cadiz, or wherever the fates that had so tirelessly sought to tear her life apart thread by thread would find it in their fancy to cast her.

She was interrupted in her ruminations by another decisive rap at the door. She cocked her ear out, and heard the determined rustling of skirts that followed, accompanied by several muffled exclamations of discontent, and a decided creaking of the wooden staircase. Instinctively she rose, smoothing her dress as she turned to face the door that flew open in a moment.

"Margaret! My poor, wretched dear! How sorry I am for you!"

"I…"

"No no no child!" dismissed the portly lady, gliding across the room and gathering the startled girl into her corpulent embrace, "there is no need to thank me! Where else could I possibly be but by your side at a time like this?"

"Yes, but…"

"Although I confess I've never thought much of that Adam Bell, far too idiosyncratic for my liking, all that reading and gallivanting about, and those chequered trousers, dear me! But in this instance I can readily admit that I am indebted to him for his quick thinking."

"Aunt, I…"

"The letter Margaret! Mr Bell sent an express to Harley Street to inform us of the death of my late sister's husband, so suddenly in Oxford. I know we had planned to come for you in a week's time, but fortunately we had but one dinner engagement this week and so it was absolutely no bother to reschedule in order to bring our little trip to Milton up by a few days. So you see this little detour was no trouble at..."

"Aunt Shaw! I cannot breathe!"

"Oh!"

With the propulsion of a jack-in-the-box, Margaret sprang from Mrs Shaw's grasp as the lady released the smothering hold she imagined was providing her niece the greatest measure of comfort. Rubbing her neck discreetly, she nodded and mumbled in response to her aunt's barrage of interrogations and appraisals of her current predicament, although it was apparent that her participation in the conversation was completely optional. Indeed, even after she fell silent, her aunt pressed on her soliloquy, as it took her out the door into the adjoining sitting room, and perhaps beyond.

Margaret stilled, her ears suddenly detecting the lower tones of an indisputable masculine voice coming from the stairs, accompanied by heavy, but quick footfall. Instinctively she lifted her hand to smooth her hair, brushing the other down the front of her bodice whilst she shot a glance in the direction of the small looking glass mounted on the wall.

"Margaret! My, but what a sorry business this is, that brings us up north so suddenly!"

One could hardly mistake the visible slump of Margaret's shoulders, but the young lady rallied admirably, extending both hands to greet her dear cousin's husband.

"Maxwell, it is good of you to come. It is a comfort to see you again."

She meant every word. Captain Maxwell Lennox was the sort of person whose easy manners and childlike enthusiasm made his presence an asset to almost any social situation, and the man himself quite impossible to dislike. If she were entirely honest with herself, his company was by far the most pleasant of the entire Shaw-Lennox clan.

"Not at all, dear Margaret! Although I must say I am quite surprised by what I have seen of Milton so far. It is not at all what I would have expected. So much soot and ash, very unusual for a port town. And I'm surprised not to have seen a single sailor, or boat for that matter."

The most pleasant, but not always the brightest.

"I think you must be thinking of Liverpool, Maxwell. Milton is a manufacturing town, there is no port here."

"Oh...right."

Just then Aunt Shaw returned, clucking her discontent at some aspect of the Crampton house that was too small, or too dark, or too firmly erected on Milton soil for her tastes. Feeling the familiar prickle of exasperation creeping over her, Margaret excused herself, scurrying downstairs as quick as she could to retrieve some refreshment for her unexpected guests, and some space for herself.

She walked into the kitchen unannounced, her face splitting into a tired but genuine smile when she beheld a familiar hunched figure darkening the back door.

"Nicholas!" she exclaimed, circumventing the kitchen table to greet her friend warmly. How strange it was, that the sight of Higgins brought her greater comfort on this dark day than the arrival of her own blood-relations. Although one of them was as dear to her as a brother could be, and the other, the closest approximation to a mother she probably had left, they had been in the house scarcely half an hour before she had felt the suffocating need to escape their company.

"Miss," said Higgins gravely, the twinkle in his eye replaced with a paternal tenderness, "I come t' offer ye' my condolences. 'E were a good man, your father. 'Twas an 'onour to 'ave known 'im."

Unable to reply, she pursed her lips and nodded, shaking several tears from their tracks upon her cheeks and onto the grimy hands that gently clasped her own.

"N ye' mus know, Miss. Nay, as a father meself 'tis me job t' tell you. Th' biggest credit to 'im, to 'is goodness 'n kindness, is th' daughter 'e leaves behind. 'E was right proud o' ye', 'n 'ad every reason t' be. You take comfort 'n that."

"Thank you Nicholas," she managed to gasp, "I shall."

"Good girl. Now, ye' must've come down 'ere with summat' in mind, what wit' yer London relations arrived, or so Mary tells me."

"Yes," said Margaret, dashing a palm across her cheeks, "Mary, might we have some tea, upstairs in Mama's sitting room? I do not think we have anything by way of biscuits or cake, so we'll just have to…"

"The's plenty o' dainties, Miss," countered Mary, pulling a gingham dishcloth off two plates heaped with an impressive assortment of biscuits, chief amongst them ginger snaps, which Margaret noted with a grimace. "Mr Thornton sent 'em over from th' kitchens up a' Marlborough Mills."

Ah, thought Margaret, that explains those horrid things!

"And how is Mr Thornton?" asked Margaret, addressing her friend as she helped Mary arrange the things on the tea tray.

Higgins studied Margaret for a moment, wondering how best to answer her enquiry. There was no denying the Master's partiality to the young Miss, and her own preference for him had also become increasingly apparent. But as far as he knew, and for some unknown reason, the engagement still stood, and Higgins had heard firsthand of the discord between the young couple, mostly on the subject of the grieving girl that stood before him, waiting with baited breath for his reply.

"Busy miss. What wit' all what's goin' on up at Mill. 'E puts in all 'ours just t' keep up."

"Oh," was her only response, but the desolate syllable spurred Higgins to offer her some attempt at comfort.

"I 'spect 'e might call round 'ere later. 'E mentioned wantin' t' get th' day's business out th' way so that 'e might call t' enquire after yer own 'ealth. Can't promise, though."

"I see," she replied, her eyes suddenly brightened by the prospect, which gratified Nicholas.

They chatted for a short while, as the kettle boiled. She heard more of the success of the mill kitchen, and some of the challenges of the medical fund Mr Thornton had been trying to conceive of an effective structure for. Their conversation contained no particular revelation on any subject, as she had kept abreast of the developments at Marlborough Mills through the Higginses and her other princeton acquaintances. And yet Margaret found herself once again moved by the generosity, and innovative ingenuity of the author of these schemes. He might claim it was all 'good business sense', but she now knew too much of his kindness to give any credit to such an assertion.

But all too soon the kettle was boiled, and Margaret was expected back upstairs and away from the cosy kitchen and the even cosier company. In a moment of childish abandon, she threw her arms about Nicholas' neck, propelled by some desperate feeling she could not quite put a name to.

"God bless ye' miss. I'll try stop t'morrow, per'aps t' collect Mary, if that's agreeable t' ye'."

"Of course Nicholas. I shall look forward to it."

Once back upstairs, the conversation had shifted from Milton and its deficiencies to the urgent nature of their departure. Aunt Shaw had been insistent they catch the evening train back to Harley Street directly, citing the immediate need to remove her niece, and herself, from so polluted a place as this. Margaret had resisted, and a battle of wills had taken place of such refinement and well-bred discretion that one could scarce discern there was any disagreement at all between the two ladies.

Finally they had reached a compromise. They would leave in the morning, first thing, giving Margaret ample time to ready her things and receive whatever mysterious 'friends' had given the impression they would call later in the day. It had been Dixon that had swayed the argument, the stout servant having sent a note saying she had learned of Mr Hale's death from some unnamed informant, and would arrive late this evening, or early the next morning to attend to her grieving mistress. Implacable as she was, Aunt Shaw still remembered the days when Dixon was her own ladies' maid, waiting on both her and her sister when they were still the young Misses Beresford. And even she could appreciate how one so familiar as she could be of great comfort to Margaret at such a time as this.

With the matter out of the way, the conversation turned back to more trivial matters, chief amongst them- the subject of Mr Hale and his deficiencies. Thankfully, Captain Lennox had been but little acquainted with Father, and could therefore be relied on for a welcome change of topic.

"I say, if there is no port in Milton, how do they get those great, big ships out to sea?" He asked, as one intrigued by some great mystery.

"Which great, big ships?" asked Margaret.

"The ships, the ones they manufacture here in Milton."

"They do not manufacture ships in Milton."

"But I thought you said Milton was a manufacturing town?"

"It is. But Milton manufactures textiles. Cotton mainly."

"Then where do they make ships?"

"In Liverpool."

"Oh… right."

Margaret stared at her cousin-in-law, bemused. She had often wondered how it was that Maxwell Lennox had come through the ravages of war so unscathed. How he had ever made Captain was beyond her.

"Margaret dear, if we are only to depart tomorrow, I'm afraid I must rest. Can you have one of the maids prepare one of the bedrooms?" she peered around the small room, as if waiting for such a servant to materialise, as they were wont to do in Harley Street.

"There is no maid, aunt. Mary is busy in the kitchen. I shall prepare your room myself."

"You will do no such thing!" exclaimed she, recoiling in horror at such a revolutionary notion.

"Very well, Aunt Shaw. Would you like to wait in here?"

"Yes thank you."

Margaret had just finished tucking in the final corner of the bedsheet when her aunt bustled into the room.

"Well, she might not look like much, but it seems that kitchen girl you have might have some prospects." Aunt Shaw smoothed a hand over the impeccably draped coverlet, "this bed has been most excellently made."

"I will be sure to tell her you approve." said Margaret.

"Yes, they like to hear that sort of thing. Speaks to their feudal pride, and all that. Now I must rest. Please ask the maid to wake me for dinner."

"Yes Aunt. I will see you later."

Back in the sitting room she found Captain Lennox preparing to take a walk, to see what a manufacturing town that manufactured textiles, and not ships, looked like. After some small debate over the direction in which lay the ocean, (in which Margaret had to point out several times, that it lay in every direction, what with Britain being an island, and Milton at its geographic centre), he faithfully repeated the directions she gave him, and promised to return within the hour or two.

Then, at last, she was alone. With her thoughts, her fears and the hazy heaviness that had coloured the day so far. Catching sight of herself in the mirror, she realised that she had yet to change out of yesterday's clothes, or don her mourning attire, barely washed and pressed from her mother's passing. She sighed, although in truth she was relieved. She felt instinctively that sleep would elude her, and did not have the courage to even attempt resting, for fraught were the thoughts and painful were the memories that she knew would occupy her mind should it be allowed to be idle even for a moment. She left her small bedroom, as quick as she had entered, padding down the stairs so as not to wake her sleeping aunt, to ask Mary for some hot water for a bath.

Once she was bathed, refreshed and more appropriately attired, she entered the sitting room to find an opulent bouquet of yellow roses waiting for her, arranged wildly in a vase that was, in truth, a little too short to hold the stems entirely upright. Instead the flowers were spread out in all sorts of angles, some bending, others tumbling over the sides, giving the impression that the sunny blossoms were spilling over the top of the porcelain vessel and onto the lace-covered tabletop. Margaret gasped at the enchanting sight, at once mistaking them for her beloved Helstone roses before dismissing such a notion at the sight of their pointed leaves.

There was no note, save for the florist's card, but Margaret knew instantly whom they must be from. She could not fathom how he had known that yellow was her favourite colour, nor that yellow roses her favourite flower, but the knowledge that he possessed such intimate understanding of her personal preferences was both a balm to her soul and a blow to her heart. After a few more moments arranging and admiring her new gift, she set about assembling the things she would need to take with her in her trunk, separating them from those that could be sent on at a later date. Every so often she would glance up at her precious gift, both warmed and saddened by its significance.

She took particular care in appraising each item as she packed, folding and preparing her belongings with uncharacteristic meticulousness. Armed with such rigour she was able to push away any thought of Mr Thornton's arrival, and the inevitable farewell that would follow soon after. She could not bear it to think of it. The heart can only withstand so much.

Soon the day had darkened to evening. Captain Lennox had returned, bringing with him the doctor, or rather, had been escorted back by the doctor who had happened upon the incongruous looking gentleman who had lost his way, and was wandering the streets on the other side of Crampton.

Dr. Donaldson was pleased to find his patient up and occupied, and was not concerned overmuch by her lack of rest during the day, mostly because Margaret did not inform him of it. He soon took his leave, declining the tea and refreshments offered him much to Margaret's exasperation, as she could scarcely fathom what they were going to do with the small mountains of biscuits, scones, puddings and cake that had been delivered from Mrs Thornton's kitchen throughout the day. In the end she packed up several baskets, and instructed Mary to take them home with her, and any of her neighbours with children. She was sure Mr Thornton wouldn't mind.

Dinner was a quiet affair, during which Mrs Shaw was convinced that the copious meal of new potatoes; roast carrots, parsnips and duck; a selection of English cheeses; and a splendid orange custard pudding, would not agree with her delicate digestion. After her third helping of each, she declared that she had been right, and although she meant no insult to this Mrs Thornton (whoever she was), nor her cook, she would have to stop there.

Aunt Shaw took to her room soon after dinner, claiming at this juncture that the smoky Milton air was too taxing for her lungs, and it was a wonder her dear sister survived as long as she did in such a barbarian climate.

Margaret accompanied her to her quarters, to ensure her aunt had everything she needed. Once it had been established that the excessive hardness and, somehow simultaneous worn softness of the mattress must have been the cause of her parent's ill health, and that the lady herself was uncertain as to whether or not she would survive the night in such discomfort, Margaret kissed her aunt goodnight, and scurried out as fast as her tired legs could carry her.

Captain Lennox too had retired, no doubt exhausted from the herculean task of wrapping his head around the idea that the north of England boasted more than one industrial city of note. And so, Margaret found herself alone with her thoughts once again.

With no other means of distraction, she allowed herself to feel a pang of betrayal at Mr Thornton's absence. Had he not said he intended to come? No, she reminded herself, he had not. He had told Nicholas that he hoped to be able to come. But he was a busy man, and she could no longer refute the impropriety of his calling again, even if her Aunt were present to chaperone. He was still betrothed to another, and it was not as if anything was likely to have changed on that score.

A wave of fatigue washed over her at the thought, and she slumped down gracelessly into her father's armchair. She decided to give herself a moment's rest, as she still had much to do before her departure in the morning. Her trunk was packed and her clothes set out, but she wished to prepare her father's books for their removal to Marlborough Mills. Although the task could have just as well been left to Dixon, who would probably remain at Crampton to see to the closing of the house, there was something about these particular preparations that made her feel connected to both the men she knew that she would never see again.

She was scarcely aware that he eyes had fallen shut, until suddenly, he was before her, at their opening. She had not heard him enter, so gentle was his presence and soft was his footfall. She made to rise but he halted her motion, lowering himself to his knees and drawing closer to her than was proper. For a moment they looked at eachother, and she lost herself in his eyes, her heart wrenching at the sight of the thunderous torment raging in those once clear skies.

He raised a hand to her cheek, and she leant into his warmth, every nerve in her body tingling as her cells rushed to collect under that one point of contact. She closed her eyes, leaning into him, drawing what little strength she could to replace the reserves she had depleted today. When she opened them again, he was but a breath away from her, and suddenly any thought of propriety was gone- beaten into naught by the hammering of her heart and the heat that coursed through her veins.

He angled his face towards hers, roving over every millimetre of her countenance as she had known him to do twice before. His eyes lingered on her lips that were parted expectantly, yet as he met them with his own against, she felt no sensation. Strangely, she heard his voice as if he were not pressed against her, the deep baritone travelling to her like some distant rumble of thunder.

"Oh Margaret, my Margaret, no one can know what you are to me! Asleep as you lie there… the only woman I ever loved!"

She opened her eyes and pulled back, studying his face as he looked at her with a longing he had never completely put to words. A moment more, then he spoke, and Margaret's stomach twisted bitterly at the sound.

"Would that that wretched kiss had never happened."

With one last ounce of willpower she jolted herself awake. She was alone, in the world and in the dark now that the candle had all but burned out, with nothing but the echo of Mr Thornton's regrets for company.

Rising heavily to her feet, she fumbled about in the dark to light another candle, which she used to locate a piece of writing paper and a pencil. After deliberating several moments, she heaved a weary sigh and scribbled a single line onto the page, before folding it carefully and slipping it inside the one volume she intended to leave unbound upon her father's desk. Once she had arranged the books into organised piles, securing their bulk with straps and bits of twine, she took to her bed. Perhaps the doctor had been right. Perhaps sleep was what she needed most.

The next morning, the small party quitted the Crampton house long before sunrise. Aunt Shaw was ill-tempered and Captain Lennox disoriented, so Margaret was pleased that Dixon had arrived and was present to take their departure in hand. She entrusted her faithful servant with a note of thanks for Mr and Mrs Thornton, a note of explanation for the change of plans for Nicholas, as well as several small packages of items to be given to Mary for the children. She also left instructions regarding the items to be auctioned, taking care to repeat several times that not a single book was to be sold or given away until Mr Thornton had taken his pick.

Dixon thought many of these last instructions unnecessary, for what would a tradesman like Thornton want with such volumes of philosophy and poetry? She had never subscribed to the idea that the coarse manufacturer could aspire to better himself, preferring to believe that his attendance at Crampton had been for the sole purpose of seeing Miss Margaret- pretty, naive thing that she was. No, it was best the young mistress was away to London, where she could no doubt find comfort in people of her own station and breeding, and as far away from these heathen northerners and their designs on her as she could get.

Still, compelled by her deeply ingrained devotion to her late mistress and now, her young daughter, Dixon was determined to carry out the instructions to the letter. This was just as well really, for this way, it would be Mr Thornton and Mr Thornton alone who would discover the secret missive hidden in the first few pages of Mr Hale's copy of Plato's Republic. Mr Thornton alone could appreciate the wavering curves of the letters as they betrayed the trembling hand that wrote them; or make sense of the short, cryptic message they spelled out.

Please forgive me. For everything.

MH