A/N: I haven't forgotten about this story! Soon I will start updating a little quicker, rest assured. Thank you to everyone for reviewing – it never gets old receiving reviews, and there's no such thing as too many of them. Thank you to the anonymous reviewers: Margot, Chris01, Nocturne and Rosdal.

Now for two reasons I am going to plead for reviews – 1) this chapter is a little longer than usual, and 2) I have an English exam tomorrow (3 hours, 3 essays, could potentially be life-changing if I mess it up) – I am going to need some cheering up, and nothing better than reviews for that purpose.

So... if you've been holding out on me thus far (and I know there are a fair few of you, judging from the number of people who've put this on story alert), now's the time to come out of lurkdom and let me know your thoughts!

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Chapter Eleven – Communication

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For what felt like the first time in years, Mr. Thornton was laughing, a full, genuine, open-throated laugh. It was a sound of true mirth, not simply guilty amusement at Fanny's flightiness, or wry, rather contemptuous diversion at the occasional idiocy of the other masters.

The most amazing thing was, the man who had made him laugh was one of his employees, a man whom he would not have been able to name a few short weeks ago. After that first time that Nicholas had asked him into the dining hall for lunch, he had been dropping in now and then – only when the men invited him, of course – and he had been really getting to know some of them. Despite an initial awkwardness when he had first joined them, the men (and women) had become more accustomed to his presence now, and they all operated under the unspoken understanding that while he was in the dining hall eating with them, he was no longer their master, but one of them.

This was not to say that the conversation was all laughter and jokes – occasionally they did clash swords on the topic of the cotton industry and workers' wages and unions. But this sword-clashing was metaphorical only; these debates remained civilised, at first because of Nicholas' warning hand on the agitated man's arm, but then later because the men had come to truly respect Thornton and his opinions, perhaps because they realised that he genuinely did listen to their concerns.

In many respects, the dining hall was the perfect compromise between master and men: apart from the small wage he paid Mary Higgins to cook there, the scheme cost Thornton no money at all after the initial cost of fitting out the old outhouse, and this way the men could all eat at least one solid meal a day, and their pride was kept intact by the fact that it was their own money they were using to buy all the required ingredients.

It had got Thornton thinking – could they apply a system like this to any other aspect of the mill's running? His first idea was healthcare: would it be possible to start up a medical fund, which worked in a way somewhat similar to the union's strike fund? A system where every worker contributed a tiny portion of their weekly wage so that if anyone fell ill, a doctor's fee could be paid for – would it be feasible?

These days, Thornton found himself sharing these ideas not with Williams the overseer or any of the foremen, but rather with Nicholas Higgins, who had somehow become the link of communication between master and men. Somewhat to his surprise, Thornton found that he trusted Higgins' judgement, and he knew he could rely on the man to be honest with him about what the workers really wanted, but at the same time willing to listen to the master's ideas and convey them to his fellows.

But however receptive his workers seemed to be to his new ideas, Mr. Thornton was aware that his mother disapproved of it all; he could sense from the tautness of the lines in her face whenever the topic came up that she thought it all a waste of precious time and money, even if she did not express it so aloud. Margaret, on the other hand, seemed delighted. She had taken an active interest in the dining hall scheme, even helping Mary buy all the things needed the day before it came into operation, and at her own request, she had been given the task of keeping the accounts for the hall. The happy afternoon that he had spent teaching her how to manage assets, liabilities and drawings while she had smiled at him and their hands had accidentally brushed over the book of accounts more than once almost made him forget about the man he had seen her with at the station.

If only it had made her forget too – but he knew that she hadn't. Although they seemed now to be friends, whenever their conversation approached anything remotely connected to that night at the station, or the letter she had received, the atmosphere would become strained and awkward, if not downright tense.

And so it was that today, after a particularly sorry account of the mill's running was balanced and completed, that Mr. Thornton finally decided to confide in his mother the full extent of his worries about the mill's solvency. He hated to admit it to himself, but fear was what was keeping him from being entirely honest with Margaret on this score – he knew well that his wife should now be the first person he should tell about any worries he had, but he was also frightened. Frightened that if he told her about the likelihood of failure after all his promises to take care of her, that she would leave. What would she have to stay for, after all? She did not love him; she loved someone else – and if he could not even provide for her, then what reason had she to stay? This painful weight on his mind was the reason why he was now talking to his mother instead of her.

'Why didn't you tell me earlier?' his mother asked quietly, the sewing in her hands forgotten. It was hard to tell whether worry or reproach was more dominant in her voice.

He sighed. 'I had hoped that it was simply a rough patch I could get over. I did not want to worry you unnecessarily. But now...'

'You think it cannot be gotten over,' she finished for him, putting into words what he could not quite bring himself to say.

He nodded, sinking heavily into a chair. 'I have been trying for months now to make up for the lag caused by the strike, but we just haven't been able to produce fast enough.' He added ruefully, 'And what we have produced, we haven't been paid for on time.'

Mrs. Thornton's brow furrowed as she thought. 'Can we not make our debtors pay on time, by imposing a fine for late payments or some such thing?'

Mr. Thornton ran a hand through his hair. 'I have thought about it,' he replied, 'but we simply cannot afford to lose any of our customers – none of the other mills charge a fine; I cannot lose to the competition.' He closed his tired eyes for a moment before opening them again. 'I also considered offering a discount if they could pay sooner, but it's not feasible. We simply don't have the funds for it.'

Mrs. Thornton put her sewing back in the work-basket, giving up even the pretence of persevering with it. 'Don't we have any free capital?' she asked.

'Some,' he admitted, 'but in business terms, very little. Certainly not enough to be of much help – you remember we invested most of what we had in the new machinery.'

Although her heart sank at this news, another part of her couldn't help but glow at the sound of that 'we' again. It was good to talk, really talk with John once more, and help him with the business again, in the old way, like she had done in the time before his marriage. Then suddenly a thought caused her to frown. 'What does Miss Hale think about this?' she asked.

Mr. Thornton almost rolled his eyes – there was that Miss Hale again! But then almost immediately he sobered up at the awareness of the fact that his next disclosure would be an astonishing one. 'She doesn't know,' he admitted finally, in a rush.

Much as she valued sharing her son's confidence, Hannah Thornton knew enough to know that his mother should not have been his first confidante. 'You should have told her first,' she said, 'it is not fair to her.' She surprised even herself with this show of solidarity for the daughter-in-law she had always rather disliked than otherwise.

What her son said next, she did not quite catch, it was so quiet. 'What did you say, John?' she asked.

'I said, I'm not going to tell her,' he repeated, looking at the floor, with the same stubborn expression he wore on those rare occasions that he acted in defiance to Hannah's wishes.

But was this really so against her wishes? A part of Hannah cried out for her to take this opportunity to get her son back, to be the first in his affections once more, and she almost said nothing more about it. But if nothing else, Hannah was a fair woman with a sound judgement, and in the end her conscience won out over her jealous mother's heart. 'John, that is not right,' she said firmly. 'Margaret is your wife – she has the right to know, and it is your duty as a man of honour to tell her the truth.'

Mr. Thornton stood abruptly and begin to pace in a rather agitated manner. Finally he stopped in his pacing to look at her. 'We – well, we are not really... an ordinary couple,' he finished lamely.

His mother's brow was furrowed in confusion; then it cleared. 'Are you talking about that–' she almost said lover, but then amended her words to avoid giving him unnecessary pain– 'incident you witnessed at the station? That letter... you have confronted her about that, haven't you?'

He shook his head miserably. Then he attempted to rally his spirits. 'I don't think anything further has come of it,' he said. 'She hasn't sent any mail or received any for a while now.' But these rationalisations sounded weak even to his own ears.

'God, John – you're at the mill for most of the day, and she often spends the morning out Lord knows where, visiting her father or those workers; how on earth would you know whether or not she sends and receives mail?'

There – she had pointed out the flaw in his argument. But his defence, when it came, he was a little surprised to find, even he believed. 'There is nothing underhanded in Margaret's nature,' he said staunchly. 'I refuse to believe that she would go behind my back to send letters to anyone she thought I wouldn't approve of.'

His mother looked somewhat mollified. Good thing she doesn't know about the Inspector, he thought, and then he tried not to think of it himself, for it gave the lie to what he had just said. And yet despite it all he could not believe that Margaret would do anything wrong or deceitful.

Mr. Thornton braced himself for what he had to say next – what he probably should have told his mother right from the beginning. 'There's something else, Mother,' he said. He took a deep breath, and then launched into the explanation of how his marriage to Margaret had actually come about.

To her credit, Mrs. Thornton listened without interrupting until the very end, and did not even think of reproaching her son for not telling her this minor little detail. Instead her mind was grappling with a thought which would not leave it. 'But then why has she been looking so pale and tired this week? She hardly touches her food at meal-times these days and I have to insist on her eating. I thought it was because...'

He looked at her, frozen in his pacing, worry etched in all his features. He had not noticed any of these symptoms, but to be fair to him, it was not due to inattention, but rather due to long hours at work and the valiant effort Margaret made to stay cheerful in his presence. 'Because?' he prompted.

'Well, because she was with child,' his mother finished in a matter-of-fact manner. 'It can sometimes have the effect of putting one off certain foods, you know.'

He could not react so stoically, however. He cleared his throat, trying to fight down the heat that was creeping up his neck, resuming his pacing with an agitated step. 'That is impossible, Mother,' he declared finally, when he was sure he would be able to master his voice. 'In one respect you were correct in calling her “Miss” Hale.'

His mother had the sense and tact not to comment on this, and for that Mr. Thornton was truly grateful.

After a considered silence, his mother spoke. 'Well, perhaps it would be best not to say anything to her right now.' Then she looked him straight in the eye. 'But if matters do not resolve themselves soon, you will have no choice but to tell her, John.'

He sighed. 'I know, Mother. I know.'

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