Margaret Hale stood on the bow of the massive steam ship that carried her and her young niece, Maria Louise, from the fever infested port of Cadiz to her native England. The ship cut the waves of increasingly height with slow and deliberated strength, forcing Margaret to occasionally rest her hand on the rail to maintain her balance. She stood tall and graceful, her dark hair was bound tightly in a coil beneath a black bonnet that was tied firmly beneath her smooth round chin. She had grown leaner with age, but it only served to enhance her beauty. She no longer hid behind the blushing form of a young girl, soft with youth. Instead, her body had matured and strengthened into the long lines of a woman that found peace in the solidarity of long walks, frequently along the soft, sandy shores of Cadiz. She was accustomed to being on board a ship, having sailed with her brother and his family on shorter journeys, and weathered the roughening sea by standing errect, supporting herself with a firm core and strong legs.
There were two other english families aboard ship, and both questioned Margaret's judgment in her insistance of walking around the ship's decks with her young child. Poor woman, they thought. So grief striken that her only outlet was this insistence on excessive exercise. They believed she was a widow with a young daughter, returning to England from Spain, perhaps having just lost her husband. Margaret gave little information to contradict their story, barely speaking beyond the normal pleasantries . She was protecting Frederick - once again - through lies and half spoken truths. The lie stuck in her throat, each time she introduced herself as Mrs. Dickenson, from no where in particular. Maria Louise was too frightened to speak in the company of others as her english was weak, but she understood all they were saying.
It was late September and the sky was reflective of the waning days of summer. Although the sun had burned bright the entire trip, gray clouds tinged the shoreline as they approached their destination. Margaret pulled the edges of her black lace shawl close to her body to ward off the memories of the damp, cold English seasons. An appropriate welcome home, she thought to herself.
Home.
That wasnt quite right, now, was it. The thought didn't sit well with her at all. She had grappled with the concept of home the entire journey. What was home? At its sum total, her life was that of a wanderer in one form or another, since she was nine years old. She was now 20 years beyond that age of innocence, and she had lived nearly all that time away from where she considered home. When asked of home, her immediate thought was fleeting and vaguely associated to a little brick parsonage in the south of England. This was where she was born and would briefly return to for a few weeks each summer while her Aunt, who took charge of her education and finishing in London, traveled to the continent with her own daughter, Edith. When she was "finished" she returned home, but stayed there only a few months before moving to Milton.
Milton.
It was hard to remember Milton, because it was only a brief stay, and so little happiness was found there. Her memories were of such intense emotions, losing both her parents within a year, watching her one true friend suffer and eventually die from consumption, the dissapointment of never being able to truely help the long suffering workers she had befriended and, lastly, the shame of her misjudgment of Mr. Thornton. Her pride got in the way and resulted in a refusal of his offer of marriage. Her weakness of character caused her to lie to protect her brother. All completely unnecessary, in the end. She could not think on it for long as it still caused her pain and such regret. Regret, in particular, that she had refused the hand of a man as fine as Mr. Thornton.
Despite this, she could not let go of the connection. It would have been the easier road to chose had she decided to sell her Milton properties when she left England. It would have severed all connection with Mr Thornton as he was her tenant; however, she chose to maintain the one golden thread that kept them connected across nations and seas. It pleased her to know that Mr. Thorton's business was thriving, that he was able to right the mill and meet his lease payments, every month. She knew this through her correspondence with Henry Lennox, her family's attorney. Dear, Henry, she thought. It would be good to see her old friend upon her return to London. Sarcastic snob that he was, she had grown to be amused by his letters with news of his brother Captain Lennox and Margaret's cousin Edith, and all their stylish London friends.
And yet... and yet, her memories were always drawn back to Milton. Now that the english coast was near, she felt the thread pulling her, gently tugging towards a future. A hope had returned, germinating and taking root in her heart. "Give me strength, Lord," she silently prayed. "Life is all too short and this story is not yet finished."
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