Scene 2 WIP From New N&S Variation by Nicole Clarkston

Margaret Hale shifted her pitifully small bundle of letters under the crook of her arm as she manipulated her father’s heavy umbrella. He had insisted that she take it today, citing his fears for a coming storm. She had complied more out of a desire to cheer and comfort him than any actual fear of the weather. Of course it would rain. It was Milton! It rained nine months of the year here, though not always heavily enough to justify an umbrella.

Most of the town’s residents did without one of the ungainly contraptions unless the rain picked up some real vehemence, which it just might do today.
Most of the poorer residents, she corrected herself. The more well-to-do tradesmen’s wives and daughters who did not possess carriages nearly always kept one near, but Margaret had developed something of a sense of independent competence. She was proud of her newfound ability to cope nearly as well as those who did not possess her resources. The weather was of little concern to her these days.

Of great concern, however, was one particular letter in her clutch. She had been waiting anxiously for many days, calculating and recalculating the amount of time it ought to take before it could arrive. Her heart had leapt into her throat when she had claimed that day’s mail at the office, and she had promptly beaten a direct trail out of the city so she might have the privacy she required to read it.

Glancing about, she made her way to a small bench along the path where she could separate out the much coveted correspondence and break the seal. Her eager gaze flew over the opening script, slowing in sorrowful denial as it continued, and halting in abject mourning at its close. She dropped the missive to her lap.

So, that was it. There would be no reprieve, no pardon which would allow her brother to return to his homeland in safety once more. He was in Spain to stay. She bit her lip, refusing to cry. Her poor father! How he had counted on that hope, that one chance that his son might return! An unbidden sob pierced her and she felt convicted of her guilt. It was she who had planted that false hope there. Her father had told her it was a futile exercise before she had begun, but naively she had pressed onward, insisting that the world must bend to her wishes.

Her hand stretched out, her fingers curled into a tense little vise to snatch up the letter and crumple it along with her broken dreams. Clenching her fist, she stopped herself. Frederick’s letters were now to become all the more precious, as they were apparently the only contact she would ever have with him again. Heartbreaking as this particular specimen was, it would take its place of honour in her mother’s old box of memories.

Oh, Mother! She swallowed hard, that shooting pain returning to her heart. At least Maria Hale had seen her son that one last time, and would nevermore mourn his absence. Her father, on the other hand- bruised and jaded from the loss of his wife- still lingered half his days in a dreamy stupour. Once or twice even of late she had heard him speaking as if her mother still sat across the table from him. Perhaps, she mused, it would be best not to share with him the contents of this recent letter right away.

Margaret had, in the last months, grown startlingly adept at burying her own sorrows. She could not afford to show them, not at home. It was only here, far away from all humanity, where she could slowly piece out her troubles; giving them full examination as was their due, and then carefully packing them away again for perusal at a later date. Her father… no, he should not hear of this just yet. He was not yet strong enough to learn that he would never see his son again. Let him cherish that hope a little longer, if it gave him pleasure.

The other letters in her stack- two of them, to be exact- were meaningless by comparison. One was from Edith and the other was from Mr Bell. Both would be admired and savoured in their proper time, but the dry comfort of her father’s study would do for their examination. Tucking the paper stack into a fold of her cloak, she gathered the umbrella once more and began her return home. The few sparse droplets which had begun to sprinkle down as she read Frederick’s letter had multiplied in number and in force. Adjusting her umbrella to account for the wind blowing the water back into her face, she set out with long strides for home once more.

There was scarcely a soul about, as she had chosen the rather melancholy route of her walk specifically for the privacy it offered. Thus it was with no little surprise that she made out a tall black figure as she crested a small knoll. The man was standing stock still, only about twenty paces from the path on which she walked. His back was turned, but there was no possible way anyone in Milton- least of all she- could fail to recognize his towering figure. She froze. Mr Thornton. He was the last person whose notice she wished to attract just now.

He gave no indication that he had heard her approach, standing as he was with his bare head lowered. Perhaps if she moved to the sparse grass off the path and stepped very softly, she might hurry out of sight before he could turn from whatever held his interest. What was it?

Curiosity took her, and she craned her neck momentarily to see what had captivated him. He was not the kind of man to waste time in one attitude. It must be something of some marked distinction to command his attention so.

An abrupt chill washed over her when she realized what it had to be. She suddenly did not need or even wish to see the actual object, standing silently just beyond him. There was only one possible explanation for Mr Thornton to pause so reverently in a graveyard, hatless in a pouring rain. Catching her breath, she redoubled her wish to escape as quickly and discreetly as possible. No man would desire a witness to his grief….

That last thought arrested her even as she gathered herself to move away. It had little occurred to her that the enigmatic, powerful man who held sway over half of Milton might yet grieve the father he had lost as a child. For her, the loss of a parent was still raw and fresh. His sorrow could hardly compare, seasoned as it had been with the passing of time.

And yet, if that were the case, what would compel him now to bear such a pitiable sentinel? He stood in only his suit coat, as if the cold rain threatened little further distress for him as he rendered his duty. Intrigued by this notion, she forgot her attempts at escape. Instead she merely stood as silently as he, watching and marveling and wondering what he could be about.

She was still rooted thus when, a moment later, he slowly turned, his eyes down until they encountered her feet on the path. His head jerked up as if he had been shocked. He said not a word, merely stared, dumbfounded, as she gazed quizzically back. Her open, honest expression searched his, and shame filtered into her conscience. The man before her was a man broken and heartsore, and one who no doubt had felt assured of solitude as he explored his pain.

She pressed her mouth firmly, dropping her eyes from his and swallowing. For the first time, she began to feel a trickle of compassion for him. Almost the first time.

Slowly, and not quite knowing what she intended, she took a deep breath and a bold step in his direction. He drew himself back slightly, almost like a frightened animal, and she stopped, watching him uncertainly. At her hesitation, he visibly forced himself to a more easy posture. Blinking, she took another step, and then another.

There, this was not so bad. Another step, and then a few more. She was within arm’s reach now, and with great trepidation, she turned her face up to his. Still, neither had spoken.

Propriety insisted that he ought to greet her by name, and that she should respond in kind, but what would be the point? It was useless to claim they had not acknowledged one another. Indeed, the shock of her sudden appearance and the memory of all that had passed between them reflected in every fiber of his being.

What more could they say to wipe out the misery of their past several encounters? Nothing, Margaret concluded. All she could offer him was basic human civility; what she would offer and what was owed to any other creature.

With that resolve, she deliberately extended the umbrella to him, her manner gently insistent. Surprise flashing in his eyes, he responded in the only way he could. He took it. He stared rudely in mute amazement, no doubt appalled at her lack of deference for his privacy. She took another long, trembling breath. It was too late to withdraw gracefully now.

All at once, the carefully ingrained manners of a gentleman reasserted themselves. He replaced his hat, shifted the umbrella and offered his arm, silently inviting her to share in its shelter. With a miniscule nod, she nervously accepted. Her gloved fingers hovered over his drenched coat sleeve until she gingerly touched them down, sealing their uneasy truce.

She found herself standing uncomfortably close to the most bewildering man she had ever encountered. What on earth have I just done? She closed her eyes, clenching her teeth. Given him another reason to doubt my modesty, that is what I have just done!

She blinked the drops from her briefly exposed lashes and discovered that she was looking directly at his chest, where a very soggy handkerchief dangled uselessly from his breast pocket. Bravely she raised her eyes to meet his face, which was also thoroughly drenched from the rain. He, too, was blinking rather rapidly as more droplets trickled in stubborn rivulets down from his hair.

Still without a word, she held out her own handkerchief to him. It seemed only the right thing to do, she reasoned. No matter how tempestuous their relationship had been, she could not simply walk away from another person whose pain was so obviously raw.

She dropped her gaze again discreetly as he hesitantly accepted the article from her, and so she was not able to witness with what feeling he received it. She was the intruder upon his solitude, and though she found it within her power to offer some simple comfort, she would never betray his vulnerability or seek to encroach more deeply where she was not welcomed.

“Thank you, Miss Hale.” At last the first words were uttered. Succinct, but sufficient.

She dipped her head in acknowledgement. “You are welcome, Mr Thornton,” she murmured softly.