Margaret Hale sat at the garden table - amongst the sweet-smelling roses of Helstone - unable to enjoy the crystal blue of the uninterrupted, cloudless skies. Nor could she enjoy the sound of birdsong or the fresh summer breeze which carried the fragrant scent of jasmine to her lips. In truth, she could think of nothing but the words her father had just spoken.

'But why, Papa? Why must we remove from Helstone, and so very far away?'

'My old friend, Bell, has recommended Milton-Northern. It is a thriving city, my dear. I feel sure that I can be of use there.' Margaret frowned, but determined to hide her evident distaste for somewhere so very alien to her beloved Helstone, for it was clear that he father's conscience at uprooting his family, weighed upon him, greatly.

'But the Church, Papa! You have broken with the Church? Is there not a resolution to be found so as not to necessitate such a drastic move?' asked Margaret, with a hopeless expectation. Still, her eyes widened, eager for his response, for how could her father be so very set upon the move - to have put the wheels in motion without saying a word to wife or daughter - when her dear mother would be so obviously unhappy to leave their rural idyll? Mr Hale shook his head sadly and gave a helpless shrug of his shoulders; quiet man as he was.

'I am sorry, Margaret, but no. It is a matter of conscience. I have determined to remove to Milton, and in that, my resolve shall not falter. I cannot - in all conscience - allow it to.'

'But Mamma -' began Margaret, only for Mr Hale to straighten his back with a sudden burst of surety.

'No, Margaret. Your mother will come to understand. This, I must do. Besides, we shall do well in Milton. It is a young and thriving city unlike any we have ever seen, ourselves. Think on it as an adventure, Margaret.'

'But work? What shall you do for work?' For, although her mother was a fine lady, and her father a gentleman, he was the youngest son, and of limited funds, even with employment. 'If you are to break with the Church entirely, whatever shall you do in this place - Milton-Northern?'

'I mean to teach, Margaret.' He paused, then nodded stoically, as though to assuage his own remaining doubts. 'Yes,' nodded Mr Hale, 'I shall teach, and - indeed - I may find that is my true calling in life, dear.' Margaret could not share her father's hopeful confidence, however, for although she knew nothing of this northern manufacturing town, she felt sure that a place so very full of tradesmen, could offer her father little in the way of students of the classics. Reading and writing, perhaps, but Plato and Aristotle? Latin and Greek? Mr Hale, not the most astute of men, but a deep thinker, nonetheless, caught his daughter's stifled frown, but happily misinterpreted it. 'Come, Margaret; I know you have never been fond of schools, but to give a man an education is to give a man the greatest gift in life. The young men in these growing cities seek to better themselves, and how can one do so without an education? No, I feel certain Milton will suit us well.' And so saying, he stood from the garden chair and took up his teacup and saucer. 'You will speak to your mother?' asked Mr Hale, in a quiet, pleading voice. Margaret's head snapped round to him in alarm.

'I will speak with her?' asked Margaret, aghast. Mr Hale had the grace to blush. His hands moved nervously behind his back and he anxiously twinned his fingers together.

'I know not what to say to her. I feel sure you will know best how to break the news. You will tell her for me, Margaret?' His large eyes looked upon her hopefully, and she sighed her acceptance. It was a commission she did not wish to accept, but her father had not the stomach for conflict, and she knew her mother was sure to take a turn at such alarming news.

'Yes, Papa,' came her low reply. She was resigned to their fate; now she must be resigned to her duty.

'Thank you,' Mr Hale whispered, laying an elegant hand upon his daughter's shoulder in a gesture of sincere gratitude. 'I shall be gone from home tomorrow - out for much of the day. Your mother must know of our removal from Helstone before my return tomorrow evening.'

Margaret sat alone at the garden table, the early evening air cooling about her, but even the slightest of chills could not propel her to rise from her sanctuary of uninhibited nature, and retreat into the confines of what had always been to her, a most beloved home. Now, looking up at the house - catching the low light from a recently-lit candle - placed, no doubt, for the ease of her mother's embroidery - Margaret felt only oppressed. Long had Helstone held a special place in her heart. She had dreamed of her haven as she spent her many years in London with her cousin Edith, and her mother's sister - Aunt Shaw. Her cousin had lately married, and it was with a calm excitement and relief to be free of rigid London society, that Margaret had returned home to her southern domicile. But all that, thought she, was now so cruelly snatched away from her. Her life was to be given up, thrust into an unknown land without anchor. That her mother would be deeply grieved by such a move was undoubted. That her father had not the heart or courage to inform his own wife of such a momentous decision piqued her momentarily, but she sighed, knowing that he was ill-equipped for the task; knowing that she would speak her part and then, no doubt, their faithful maid, Dixon, would swoop in and push the daughter aside; eager to comfort her mistress; only too happy to offer her ready agreement of the Master's callous designs. Yes, Margaret knew how the scene would play out, and it was better for all that her father was from home when the news was broken and the sorriest words of regret were spoken in the most pained of tones.

'Leave Helstone!' cried Mrs Hale, aghast. 'You say we are to leave Helstone?' Her voice took on a shrillness which cut Margaret to the quick, and she eagerly sat forward in her chair in an attempt to offer her mother comfort.

'Yes, Mamma; we are to leave Helstone,' replied Margaret, in lowered, soothing tones, taking her mother's hands in hers and giving them a gentle, reassuring squeeze. 'We are to leave Helstone as soon as can be arranged.' Mrs Hale's lip trembled, her bosom rose and fell with anxious in-drawn breaths, and her eyes widened in horror.

'As soon as can be!'

'Within weeks,' was all Margaret could offer.

'And to this place called Milton?' Mrs Hale said in an incredulous tone. 'Milton! Why, that is in the north. It is so very far away and the climate! It is dreary and grey. Are northern people even mannered? I think them all rather heathen. How on earth can your father mean to take us to such a place?'

'He means to teach, mother. It is a working city, or so he says. He can offer the young men an education.' Mrs Hale blustered, her mouth gaping but offering no words, and then she pressed a dainty handkerchief to her lips in a gesture which told her daughter that she was completely overcome.

'We are to leave all this - our friends and our home - your father is to give up his position and employment - to take us to a northern city where he means to teach? The uneducated man?' Margaret shared her mother's incredulity, but she would not dare to voice it; not at her father's expense, and so instead, she attempted to console her mother, but it proved to be impossible, and soon Dixon came and took up her role as sentry, ushering Margaret from her charge.

'Come now, Mistress. Let me see you to your room. This is a grave shock; you must lie down.' For Dixon - a servant with a very high opinion of herself - had surely been listening at the door. And indeed, Margaret knew it to be so, for as she watched the faithful servant lead her mother up the stairs, she heard the sturdy old maid mutter a series of woeful lamentations; all offered at her father's expense.

'Milton! In the North! And to give up the Church?' complained Dixon, as she carried her heavy frame downstairs after settling her mistress.

'Dixon!' scolded Margaret, but Dixon had never favoured Margaret, and had always thought her mistress married below her station in marrying Mr Hale.

'If my mistress had stayed in London, this would never have happened!' Dixon continued, unperturbed. 'No, I always said the Master would bring her low, and now he does so by uprooting the family and taking them north. North! of all places.' Margaret lifted her chin in her familiar, proud manner and looked at Dixon distastefully.

'That is enough. It is not your place to question my father's decisions, and I must ask you not to encourage my mother to do the same. Father has made his decision, and it is our duty to support it.' Still, once Dixon had left to ruminate unhindered in the kitchen, Margaret took herself off to her own room and cried silent tears of regret.

And so it was that the Hales packed up the parsonage, and said farewell to the inhabitants of Helstone; once a place much derided by Mrs Hale as being damp and lacking in society, but now so very dear and cherished, by virtue of the fact that they were to leave with little chance of ever returning.

'You have visited all of our acquaintances in the village and wished them well?' asked Mrs Hale of her daughter, in a feeble voice. In truth, her spirits had weakened on learning of their removal to Milton, and three long weeks of packing up and visiting all that they knew in the local area, had only seen fit to bring Mrs Hale lower. Never had she loved Helstone with such as passion. Never had her friends been so dear; the parsonage so very comfortable and homely. Never had she taken such honest satisfaction in being wife to a lowly country parson, for certainly, a tutor in an industrial town was nothing to an honest man of God who walked among green grasses and an open expanse of blue skies.

'Yes, Mamma. Between us, Papa and I have visited them all; no one has been forgot.' Mrs Hale took little comfort in this admission; indeed, she felt only a mild stirring of resentment.

'And so we are to leave, then? It has finally come upon us?' She sniffled, her teacup trembling in her hand at her unrestrained emotion.

'Maria!' sighed Mr Hale, plaintively, pleading with his wife with his soft, brown eyes, 'it is settled. It is done. We leave in two days. Mr Bell has given me the directions for a tenant of his - a Mr Thornton - and he will assist us to secure appropriate housing. I dare say once we are settled and you have your familiar furniture and possessions about you, Milton will soon feel like home.' Mrs Hale was unconvinced, and even Margaret - loyal to her father as she was - had to admit that his words sounded rather more hopeful than they did, confident.

'But how will we get by with only Dixon? Here we have cook and Dixon has a maid to assist her. Surely we will not advertise for a Milton local. A northerner, in our home?' fretted Mrs Hale, and, for the first time in some three weeks since Mr Hale had informed his family of his leaving the Church, he smiled a genuine, warm smile.

'Well, my dear, I have reason to believe that my goddaughter may be joining us in Milton.'

'Your goddaughter!' asked Mrs Hale, in alarm. 'She must be thirty! And you have never seen her; not since she was baptised!'

'She is twenty-seven, I believe, and although I have not seen her since her since her infancy, I did keep in touch with her mother by letter, so I am sure to feel I know her.'

'But the mother died years ago!' At this, Mr Hale sighed and his eyes turned dull. It pained him to think of the loss of the young mother; the daughter growing up so alone, but she was overseas, and he had been in no position to take her in as his ward.

'A goddaughter, Papa?' asked Margaret, blinking in confusion. 'I did not know you had a goddaughter. I am sure you have never spoken of her?'

'No, indeed, I have not.' Another mournful sigh. 'She has been orphaned these past twenty or so years - and for all of those she has lived in some exotic climate, but I believe she means to make her home in England, and as such, it is my duty to welcome her into our family.'

'Exotic climate?' whimpered Mrs Hale, into her trembling handkerchief. She was greatly unsettled by the notion of welcoming one into her home who had lived so long abroad as to be virtually a foreigner. She feared the lady's manners to be quite coarse.

'And she is not married?' asked Margaret, with some surprise, for surely, the lady was twenty-seven years of age! Mr Hale frowned into his teacup.

'No; she is not. I believe,' he pondered hesitantly - a deep frown upon his brow, 'that where she has been residing, it is not uncommon for a lady to marry later in life. Indeed, I think some to do not marry at all. I am pleased though,' he continued with growing ease, 'that she chooses now to return to England, for though she is old enough that one might reasonably refer to her as an "old maid", she is still young enough to marry and bear children. Yes, Milton will be a new start for all of us, and Margaret, we will have a new companion for you, for I am certain you must miss your cousin, dearly?' Margaret smiled at her father to gratify him, but in truth, she felt no obscure goddaughter who had lived overseas some twenty or so years, could be anything to her - certainly not as Edith was. And so old! She knew not what they would speak of; she only hoped to find her a proper lady, for she expected to find few enough of those in Milton-Northern, as it was.