John discarded his attire and changed into his nightclothes. The fire was burning bright, curtains drawn up, and his room spic and span. Not one thing out of place, well, basically he didn't own too many things in the first place. His room hence looked too spacious and meagre.

His room was his dorm in the entire mill house. It was where he rested for a few hours after a long day of hard work. Basically, there was not much difference in terms of work between him and his hands. While other mill masters simply toured their mill every day and let all responsibilities be taken care of by the overseers, John would take up any work that he knew to do. If at one point he stood supervising his mill from the iron platform like a king, the next minute he would diligently discard his coat and get under the machines to check the engines to see if anything is remiss. Other mills had workers trained for each and every work no matter how trivial or tough it might be.

John didn't become a mill master in a day. No, it was not handed over to him by his ancestors as was the case with other mill masters. He was first a draper, then a hand in the exact same mill he worked in, became an overseer in just two years, and then a master. He never did anything without dedication and interest. He never forgot what he learned.

His room was his true home, to be honest. It was here that he could think freely without any disturbance. Yet, during all these years, despite his success and position, he felt empty. It was only during his time at the mill that he felt concentrated. But the minute he returned to his room, he felt something was missing. He always felt a part of him felt incomplete, but he knew not what. His mother suggested it was the lack of a partner. But John found that it was education that he lacked. John was a man of brains yet actual education was snatched away from him due to grave circumstances. It was then that he decided to pursue education, not economics or science, subjects that were useful to run his mill. No. He wanted to learn something that would satiate his soul, something about the literary and the artistic.

That was when he consulted Mr. Bell. He never liked his landowner, but he knew he was good in his judgments. Mr. Bell's greatest resource was not his wealth but the number of connections he had. He would always tease and pay witty retorts to John, always interfering in his and his affairs. Yet, Mr. Bell helped him a great deal in business by recommending Marlborough Mills to several of his contacts. He never told this to John and neither did John show his awareness about the same to him. But he was grateful to him.

"So you wish to continue your studies Thornton? That's interesting; though I am pretty sure Mrs. Thornton might see the classics as a waste of time. Why, she would rather suggest that you continue studying 'The Times' and 'The Daily Courant', haha!"

"Why Bell, do you suggest that I wake up every morning and read Romeo and Juliet before going to my mill?" John retorted curtly.

"Come now Thornton, we both know that classic isn't the one for an unromantic like you. Now that you want me to suggest you a tutor I do know a significant person. He's my best friend named Hale. Although, he lives in Helstone."

"Helstone? Surely, you don't expect me to travel to the country to study. No, that will not be feasible. Suggest me someone you know from Milton."

"Calm down, I am not asking you to travel to Helstone. Hale is a rector there. He wishes to give up his rectory due to a sudden lack of faith. He is a great academic and now wishes to travel up north and become a tutor. I suggested Milton to him. He is quite unaware of the ways of this place, the typical countryman that he is."

"I might be of some help if you wish."

"Exactly. I am required in Oxford for the yearly meeting of the education committee. Hence, I want you to get them settled here. Show him a few properties to choose from and once he gets adjusted, you can start getting tutored."

"Well, that can be done. I do suppose a modest home might be enough for one person."

"Aye, Thornton, no. Hale is not the only one coming here. His entire family will be shifting here. Four members- wife, daughter, maid, and Hale himself."

"Oh, I see. Then I will show them the best ones available. Let me know further details once you get with it. I will take my leave now, have ledgers to pour in! Good day, Bell."

Now when he thought about the conversation, he understood how much his life had changed because of the Hales. Not in a bad way, of course. He had been of little use to the family, but Mr. Hale and Miss Hale had changed him for the better. His coarse life, which was all and only about cotton and machines, was thrown into the paths of morals, kindness, and most importantly love. Although, unrequited.

He paced in his room slowly. The fire was of help, it warmed him from the coldness in his heart. He surmised over how he would never regret meeting the woman of his dreams. It will be the best part of his life even if she hardly thought about him.

He knew that Miss Hale was about to tell him something when they met in her home. But he stopped her abruptly and uttered the biggest lie he ever told in his life. The reason was simple; he couldn't bear hearing her tell him that the man at the station was her intended and that she lied in order to save him. No that would shatter his already broken heart.

Now that his mind drifted to the conversation he had with his mother, he thought about her approval of the Latimers. As much as he showed his lack of awareness over the number of women who vied for his attention, he knew very well how they pried and strived to become attached to him. Miss Latimer was undoubtedly one of them. He had nothing against her, she was a fine woman like any other Milton-bred. But it was only with time when he understood how conniving her pretensive naivety was.

She befriended his sister only to get him under her trap. He knew very well that she hardly cared about Fanny. If Fanny was immature, innocent, and too ignorant, Miss Latimer was cunning and coquettish. She hid her sly nature under a well-practiced smile. Many times she belittled Fanny right in front of other women, although Fanny was hardly aware that she was being mocked. Yet he never thought to pull his sister apart from her so-called friend, because he knew that his sister had no one else as her confidante. She already resented her mother and brother, and breaking her friendship with Miss Latimer will only hurt her more. He decided to be quiet.

Just as the women prying for his attentions derived artful tactics, he, similarly did the same to keep them at bay. Many times would Mr. Latimer invite him to his office or home to discuss figures, interests, and loans, only to end up boasting about his daughter and her progress in the Switzerland finishing school.

The truth was that he had decided he will not marry Miss Latimer and any other such woman much before he even met Miss Hale. He couldn't believe that a woman like Margaret even existed. He hardly attended social gatherings, but in the very few that he did, he witnessed women talking about a list of potential bachelors waiting for eligible wives, fashion, gowns, curtains, and such sort. They prattled about the way they strictly dealt with their maids and servants. They pretended to be knowledgeable in every aspect when they were simply being artificial.

But, Miss Hale! His Margaret! She was not like any other. She was one of a kind. Not like those manufactured dolls from finishing schools whose only aim in life was to become mistresses of wealthy households.

When his mother had said that she saw him warming up to Miss Latimer, he was gravely shocked. How did I miss such a thing? He questioned himself. Surely if mother herself had noticed it, and so would have other guests, and....

Miss Hale.

God.

No, she wouldn't have thought what his mother thought. Or did she?

Despite pretending to not care for Miss Hale, he was well aware of how she was during his sister's wedding. She was with Mr. Bell and talked with a few people. The women hardly cared to talk to her and gave her their haughty disapproving looks. That slimy Slickson, as usual, tried to grab her attention only to fail. He was angry at Mr. Bell for entertaining that idiot. There was a sheath of sadness covering her dainty face. Yet she looked so surreal. He understood that she might be coming to terms with her mother's death and also her lover's parting.

When his mind was racing with such thoughts in the church, suddenly, Miss Latimer draped her hand over his arm. Now that he recollected the incident, he remembered that he smiled not to her but in general. Surely, he cannot disentangle himself from her right in front of the guests! She was after all the maid of honor for Fanny. He had to maintain decorum and goodwill, for it was not a ball party, but his own sister's wedding!

No matter what, he cannot let her think that he attached himself to another woman now that she rejected him. As much as John wished Miss Hale to feel at least a tinge of jealousy that he felt right now, he cannot let her think bad of him. Yes, she has a lover, she is right to have a lover, a gentleman other than the uncouth manufacturer that he was. But yet, she must know that his love was true and it kept burning for her and her only.

Now that he stood staring at the fire, he thought about his words. He had lied to her that every feeling he had for her was over. And that he was looking into the future. But what was his future if not her by his side? His feelings for her only increased tenfold. The entire town teased that Mr. Thornton was wed to Marlborough Mills. He hardly cared about their words. But now when he thought about it, he understood how true it was. It was only his mill that would be for him.

He sat on the floor, tears pricking his eyes. He didn't stop them. As his eyes blurred in watery bokeh, he closed his eyes and uttered the truth to himself.

"I love you Margaret. I always have and always will. But I know you do not, you don't have to."

***

In a distant part of the town, in Crampton, the fire was still burning bright in a home. While everyone else was asleep, a girl was sitting by the fire in her room, clutching a keepsake, shedding silent tears.

Margaret and the gloves.

His gloves.

During the worst as well as the best of times, Margaret preferred to write in her diary. Her diary knew her deepest secrets. It knew of Helstone, her brother Fred, her childhood adventures as a pirate and swordsman, her walks with father to church and sick parishioners' homes, silly times with Edith, failed dance classes from Mrs. Bringham in London, her rejection of Henry's proposal, and whatnot!

Most importantly, it also knows about Mr. Thornton.

Margaret slept late these past few weeks. No matter how much she tried, she wasn't able to let go of her grief. Her mother's death was lying heavy on her heart. Then her brother's nearly tragic escapade in Outwood, Leonards' death, Mr. Mason's investigation, her father's sadness and guilt, Dixon's prattling of how their shift to Milton perished her mother.

And to add oil to the already burning thick fire, Mr. Thornton's degraded opinion of her.

It was that which devastated her. To be frank, Margaret started to come to terms with her mother's death ever since she came to Milton. It was now that she understood that she would have died even if she was in Helstone. She missed her deeply, yet she had the strength to accept her absence.

But what she couldn't bear was Mr. Thornton's indifference to her. She would have retorted as she did with Mrs. Thornton had he chastised her. But no, he was quick to cling to the worst notion just by what he saw! She tried to pacify herself by clutching her pride, that she didn't do anything improper. Yet his cold eyes staring at her and her brother that night haunted her inevitably. That was enough to understand what impression she made.

If it had been anyone else, she would have hardly bothered. Why had it been him? She cannot dare to look at his face despite knowing she did the right thing. Every time she saw him put her into some sort of guilt; almost as if her inner mind was telling her that she did the worst offense.

She wanted him to understand honestly. She wanted to convey that the man wasn't related to her in the way he thought. But she almost told him that she had feelings for him. Didn't she? Now that she recalled their conversation for the hundredth time, she remembered her telling him that her opinions of him have improved just as his of hers had lowered.

What Margaret couldn't forgive was that he didn't let her speak. He didn't make an effort to understand. What's more, he might be turning away from her and leaning towards the notion of getting attached to Miss Latimer. Margaret wasn't the one to fall for slight jealousies. She never disparaged others and never let anyone disparage her. But in the two times she had seen them together- once during Miss Thornton's wedding and the other time on the street, she felt jealous and annoyed. Her mind suddenly replaced that woman with her own, holding his arms. She tried hard to keep such an idea away, but she cannot.

She once teased Mrs. Thornton when she boasted about the attention her son received. Margaret had scoffed at the thought but look at her now! Wasn't she too included in what his mother had told that day in her home?

Or maybe not. Well, she wasn't the type of woman who would ensnare a man by art and tact. No, she was way better than that. Matrimony, according to her, should be based on friendship and love. But she knew that not everyone married for what she thought. Mr. Thornton was a businessman and surely, marriage to his banker's daughter would be quite beneficial...

Hot tears slid down her face. She missed Bessy now more than ever. She would have understood the situation and judged properly. And even Fred. Both of them were now distant, unreachable. She so much needed someone to confide in but had none.

Except for her diary.

It was an inanimate object, yet it had been her savior in life. Now that she flipped the pages of the leather book in her hands, her eyes briefly caught one name on almost every page.
His name, obviously.

Towards the beginning, it was Mr. Thornton but somewhere towards the end, it became John.

Margaret dared not address him by his Christian name. Yet she knew that her time in Milton can be summed up in how Mr. Thornton turned John to her. She hated both in the beginning, shrank her nose at the very name of Milton and Mr. Thornton, but now, her ideas and feelings have extensively changed towards both.

But what's the use? He has gone ahead to think the worst of her. He was slowly drifting apart from her. For her, Milton and Mr. Thornton were no different. She cannot put into words how much she loved his visits to her home, to discuss the classics with her father. She felt the most homely she could ever feel when she carried the tea tray, poured tea in their cups, and handed it over to them, sat in the settee, and listened to their enriching discussions. Both men never stopped her from engaging in their discussions. They always asked for her thoughts but also equally debated against them constructively. Such a thing was a luxury rarely offered in London. She remembered how Edith and Aunt Shaw would force her to talk, but the minute she started talking openly, they would force her to stop! They never tolerated her vibrancy and passions; only wanted her to discuss running households, choosing curtains and linens, tea parties, and such things.

Margaret now realized that her father had started to become close to her only after coming to Milton. She saw that he was becoming more like a friend to her, although she knew that she cannot confide beyond a limit, since it might hurt him and increase his guilt. But she always listened to him talking about his discussions with fellow students, recalling Helstone times, days as a rector, and parish visits.
Margaret knew that her father had an inkling of something going on between her and Mr. Thornton. Yet, he didn't question again and neither did he stop her from attending their discussions. He had noticed that their discussions were turning a bit serious, not too formal, but somewhat to the point. There was not much opposition but only noting down things and merely nodding. She was thankful that her father didn't force her to confide, although she desperately needed a person to talk to.

The late hour forced her to seek her bed. Her father and Dixon didn't know that she slept late these days. Sometimes sleep wouldn't come and she would simply wake up, fetch a book, and sit in the stairs or walk around the house like a spirit in the dark. Finally, she would give in to the undisturbed peace of her bedchamber.

She coiled on the bed and thought about his words. A stab of sorrow hurt her. She realized that she was diminished to something trivial, like dust in the air. She wanted to run somewhere as fast as she could and scream.

But she cannot, hence, she whispered.

"I love you, John Thornton. But I know you do not. Anymore."