A/N: Thank you every one for the reviews! Very appreciated, and getting some good ideas. I figured because they've had a relatively easy go of it, this one might be a bit rougher. I think this idea has been done by others before, to some extent, though no plagiarism is intended. I like a bit of melodrama, you may have noticed. Again, thank you for the reviews, they're little rays of sunshine, every one.

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John stared at his wife across the breakfast table, willing her to look at him, while she just as resolutely avoided his eyes. She was cross at him, he was furious with her. And neither would budge. John stood up suddenly, his chair scratching heavily across the wooden floors of the dining room. Margaret's head twitched, indicating that she had heard him rise, but she still did not look at him.

It had been three days.

He moved woodenly towards her, leaning down to kiss her cheek as he passed her. As his head descended towards her cheek, she moved hers away, looking down at the carpet to her right and dropping her fork on her plate in the process. His lips reached only air.

Sighing quietly, he righted himself and strode from the room. As he reached the door, he turned back to her. Pausing, he watched the curve of her elegant neck as she resumed eating.

Stubborn woman, he thought to himself. And with that amazing talent that some men possess of saying just the wrong thing during a fight to make his wife even angrier at him, he offered;

"You will see that I was right," and descended to the factory, leaving Margaret clenching the fork and her jaw in frustration.

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They had been married a year. A year of secret encounters behind closed office doors, of afternoon encounters in the master bedroom, of morning encounters after waking up tangled together, of picnics in the fields by the river which lead to encounters behind the trees out of sight of the road… suffice to say that the encounters were numerous, as the newly-weds learnt what it was to love and be loved physically. But there was more to their relationship than that. John learnt that when Margaret's brow creased as she read by the fire in the evenings, the best thing to do was help her undress, massage her shoulders, help her take down her long hair, and leave her to sleep. If, however, she lay her book to the side and stared at him with a cocked head and slightly unfocused gaze, she was imagining him doing things to her that she expected to be done, and soon. Margaret learnt that if Mr Thornton was quiet and thoughtful in the mornings, a tough day lay ahead and he would not appreciate being disturbed. She also learnt that if he stroked her neck lightly as he said goodbye in the morning, letting her hair curl in his fingers, she would be visited in the afternoon.

And so, the year passed. Margaret's parents had passed, as had John's mother about six months into their marriage. Mr Bell had sailed for Argentina, and, having visited the Thorntons before his voyage, ensured the future prosperity of the couple.

Yet this prosperity did not mean that the couple would be forever happy. The arrival of an outbreak of the consumption in Milton lead to their first major disagreement as a couple, and the current state of silence at the breakfast table.

Three days earlier:

Margaret returned to Marlborough Mills, a worried expression marring her lovely face and an empty basket lodged in the crook of her arm. Climbing the stairs to her home, she raised her hand to the handle only to have it and the door opened at her arrival. And standing on the inside was a livid Mr Thornton. Margaret exclaimed in happy surprise as he opened the door, but on seeing his stern brow and rigid posture did not move to kiss his cheek, as was customary between them.

"You went." It was not a question.

Margaret nodded, and moved past him, removing her gloves as she did so. Laying them on the foyer table, she set the basket down and began to remove her hat as John closed the door with a loud thunk.

"Yes. I said I would go, and I did. There was a lot of good to be done." She did not look at her husband, and kept her voice deliberately light. She did not want to fight, especially considering how tiring her day had been.

John slowly moved towards her, his broad shoulders blocking out the last of the light coming through the windows behind him. Speaking slowly in a voice barely masking his anger, he pronounced "Imagine my surprise, Mrs Thornton, on finding out, from a servant no less, that my wife had disobeyed my wishes."

Margaret looked carefully at him. He had never used her married name when they were in private before. She lay her hand on his arm. "There's no need to be angry, dear. I did what I thought was right."

John exploded. "What you thought was right? What is wrong with you? Have you completely taken leave of your senses? You could have died!"

"Don't speak to me in that tone! And if you expect to dictate my actions, think again. I told you, I did what I thought was right, and I will continue to do so until the pandemic is over. People need assistance and we are in a position to help, so I will do so."

John looked at her incredulously. "You are mistaken if you think I will allow you to leave this house again under these conditions! You will stay home, and you will avoid the ill. You will not visit them, and you will not tend them, do you hear me?"

During this outburst, Margaret's temper had raised to match Johns. In a clipped tone, she asked "And what exactly do you think gives you the right, Mr Thornton, to place me under such a house arrest? There are ill people who need care and supplies and no one will help them. Why would you prevent me from doing my duty- "

"Because I love you, you impossible woman! You are the only thing of any value in this god-forsaken world and you insist on throwing that away! What kind of sheer stupidity is that? Why can't you see that your actions were reckless and stupid-"

"You are calling me stupid?"

"No, I am calling your disregard for your own life stupid-"

"Do not try to deceive me, the two are conflated."

"That is besides the point, Margaret." Lowering his voice, he said clearly and coldly, "As your husband, I am demanding that you do not leave the house to tend the ill until the worst of the disease is contained. If you do not obey, I shall send you to stay with Fanny in London until it is over."

Margaret looked up into the eyes of her husband, her mouth agog in outrage and shock. After a moment of silence, she closed her mouth and shook her head.

"I do not know you at all."

And she had not spoken to him since.

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Three days turned into a week, a week into two. Meals became ever more tense. Silence prevailed. John had come home one night to find his wife asleep in the bedroom next to their marital room.

He missed her.

He woke up every morning cold and confused, before remembering why the pillow next to his was cool and untouched. He missed seeing his wife smile at him in the morning, before moving to kiss him. He missed her smell, her visits at lunch time and the feeling of her head on the crook of his shoulder.

It was becoming unbearable. The evenings in front of the fire had been tense, so when Margaret excused herself one evening, he was relieved. Seating himself in his favourite chair, he stared into the flames, lost in thought. He could apologise, he supposed. But he wouldn't. As much as he missed her, he knew he was right. She couldn't put herself at risk like that, and it was his duty as her husband to protect her, even from herself. He couldn't bear the thought of losing her. He had lost his mother, and his sister now lived in London. He knew what it was to love her, and be without her. He knew what it was to be alone. And the idea of losing Margaret, his Margaret, was too painful to bear.

He was so lost in thought that he didn't even notice when his wife, dressed in her night gown with hair loose came to stand at the door, looking in at him. He was so lost in thought, in fact, that he didn't notice the tear descend his cheek, illuminated by the fire. Margaret did though, and her insides ached.

"John?"

He looked up at her, surprised. Suddenly feeling the dampness on his chin, he wiped it away. Margaret walked towards the fire, though rather than sitting in her usual chair, she sat on her knees at John's feet, coming her leave her hands resting softly on his knees. He looked down at her, surprised, but willing to speak to her in what he hoped would be their reconciliation.

Margaret looked up at him, her stomach in knots. What she had to tell him would be difficult, but it had to be done. Reaching for her confidence, she started.

"John, I must confess something. Although you forbade it, I continued to visit the sick for a week after our disagreement. I bribed Jessie to tell you differently."

John raised his hand to his head, feeling the old anger rise up, but before he could say anything, she continued.

"Then last week I…" she paused, gathering strength, and decided to start elsewhere. "Doctor Harrison visited today-"

At the name of the local physician, John felt as though he had been simultaneously plunged into iced water and punched in the gut. Rising to his feet in panic, his eyes trapped on those of his wife who rose at the same time, he couldn't breathe, couldn't-

His knees buckled beneath his as his worst nightmare faced him, a long illness followed by a life without Margaret, and falling in front of her, he clung to her, his head at her navel, clinging on, desperate to be close, desperate-

Understanding what exactly he had misunderstood, she quickly reassured him "John, no! I am not ill, I am with child."

His eyes snapped to hers. The room was silent except for the occasional crackle of the fire. It took a solid three seconds, a long three seconds, for John to understand what she had said.

"With child?" He repeated stupidly.

She nodded in confirmation. "Doctor Harrison thinks that I am eight weeks with child. As soon as I suspected I stopped visiting. I realised you were right, I was being reckless and-"

Margaret was made to swallow her sentence as John crushed her to him, kissing her deeply on the mouth with such intensity and desperation that tears sprung to her eyes. He was trembling, she realised. He was shaking and every second he kissed her he held her closer, as if scared she would disappear. She separated for air, and he latched onto her neck, kissing feverishly.

"I'm sorry, John."

"No." Raising his head and kissing her lips again, he spoke against her mouth. "No words, no apologies, just-" He kissed her again, then lifting her up into his arms, carried her to his bedroom, their bedroom, where he proved his love for her again and again, praising every inch of her skin.

And in the morning, she woke up and smiled at him before attacking him with renewed vigour. John realised in that moment how he could have avoided the entire fight had he addressed her in the entrance hall with a bit more common sense, before the thought was driven out of his head by his passionate wife.

Perhaps such common sense is overrated.