Not a Gentleman (North and South Fanfic)

Chapter One: The Riot

John Thornton didn't see the rock that whizzed by to strike his love's temple but he felt the jolt, as surely as she felt it herself, although not so acutely. He shuddered as she crumpled, doll-like, in his arms. Truly he could not be held responsible for the shout that escaped his lips moments later.

"Are you satisfied now? It was me you came for- kill me if you want!"

He was lucky, he realized, that the soldiers arrived just moments later, for the crowd might have taken him at his word. They had more rocks- and sturdy leather clogs- at the ready. But they got what they deserved. Those fools! And more fool, she, to think that these ruffians could be reasoned with.

But he loved her regardless of her impetuous naivete. Miss Hale was a lover of justice. This stood to reason: as the daughter of a clergyman, she was raised on a steady diet of scripture and philosophy. Of course she would stand on the side of what she thought was right. But John had hopes that one day she would see that he, too, was right, and stand by his side. Apart from today's most astonishing behavior he'd already been encouraged: she'd said words that brightened his outlook only the night before, once he'd taken the time to ruminate upon them. That surely it was good to see both sides of an argument.

John found the small, bloodied rock, wrapped it in his handkerchief, and secreted it in his waist coat pocket, then gently lifted his savior into his arms. Her eyes did not flutter when he whispered her name, and as he clasped her to his chest the steady trickle of blood from her temple strengthened into a rivulet. He did not notice the bright crimson pattern it made on the starched linen front of his shirt and the silk twill of his waist coat. He did notice that she smelled of lavender and roses. He breathed in the heady fragrance and sighed.

Margaret—dare he call her that?- was lighter than he expected, her form reminding him again that she was a mere eighteen years of age. John held her tenderly as he crossed the threshold, reminded briefly that this was something one typically did with ones bride, although typically said bride would not be bloodied and unconscious. He hurried her inside, only stopping at the foot of the stairs to kiss her once on the forehead, out of the sight of the prying eyes of servants and family.

John gingerly deposited Miss Hale onto the chaise lounge recently warmed by his hypochondriacal, vaporous sister, whose incessant fanning seemed enough to summon those typhoons seen in the far eastern parts of the Empire. Clearly Fanny would be useless as a nursemaid. But Mother would take care of Miss Hale, John knew, even if his sister could not. Certainly by the time John returned from speaking with the constable a doctor would have things in hand and Miss Hale stabilized.

But that was not the case, John learned, when he returned from his duties not a half hour later. Miss Hale was still unconscious, although a dressing had been applied to her wound. Dr. Donaldson's silver eyebrows were knit together, and his features, typically schooled in a neutral expression, betrayed concern.

"Might I speak with you in private?" the Scotsman asked quietly. John ushered him into his study, closed the door and gestured to a pair of leather wing chairs flanking the fireplace. He offered him a brandy, but the man demurred.

"I'll not mince words with you," Dr. Donaldson began.

John bowed his head. "I appreciate that." As one who spoke plainly, John appreciated this trait in others. Like all true men, he had little patience for the inanities of small talk. And in a situation like this where one of the weaker sex had been injured, he simply would not set aside the time to engage in such trivialities, customary though they night be in other locales. His chief concern- his only concern- was Miss Hale.

"Head injuries can be quite dangerous. And the sad truth is, modern medicine knows very little about the healing of the brain."

John's eyes widened, and his face paled as fear snaked into the recesses of his own brain.