In Consequence: A Retelling of North and South
Read In Consequence: A Retelling of North and South Online
Authors: Trudy Brasure
In Consequence
A Retelling of North and South
by Trudy Brasure
Co
ver design by Heather Siemon
Copyright @ 2013 by Trudy Brasure
All rights reserved
.
ISBN: 978-1492895183
Table of Contents
Introduction and Acknowledgements
The characters and themes of
North and South
still fascinate and inspire me four years after my discovery of Elizabeth Gaskell’s love story. Like many others, I was first captivated by the BBC’s stirring adaptation of the novel starring Richard Armitage and Daniela Denby-Ashe. However, although the powerful images and emotions of the film remain emblazoned on my mind, I now happily turn to the book when I wish to immerse myself in the story and deepen my understanding of the characters Gaskell has so brilliantly drawn.
Please note that I have quoted a few lines of dialogue from Gaskell’s book in some of the preliminary scenes of my novel before my tale takes its deviation from canon.
In Consequence
inevitably draws on inspiration from both the BBC production and Gaskell’s novel, blending together elements of each as a testament to the indelible impression both of these great works of art have made upon me. This novel is an imaginative exploration of how Gaskell’s love story might have evolved if events had unfolded a little differently….
I’d like to acknowledge my dear friend Lori Sheppard, who understands my fascination with
North and South
and loves the book as much as I do. Lori was my sounding board for this story at its inception and throughout the whole project. The value of her contribution to my end product and my relative sanity is unspeakable.
I also owe a debt of gratitude to Nancy Klein, who was the first to encourage my writing and continues to support me as an editor and a friend.
Thanks go to Jane Dallimore, who is my British editor and was an invaluable resource in sending John and Margaret to the romantic honeymoon site of Scarborough. And thanks to Blithe Hogan for her editing expertise and her willingness to step in to help in a pinch.
This time, I will not be remiss in thanking all the wonderful people at C19 who supported my first writing endeavors and helped to cultivate and broaden my love of great literature.
Long may the interest in and appreciation of Gaskell’s beautiful book continue!
Trudy Brasure
October 2013
Margaret studied her reflection impassively as the family maid swept her auburn hair up into thick coils upon her head. Her usually expressive blue-gray eyes were placid as she regarded the generous scoop of her neckline, which made her look much older than her nineteen years.
The last time she had worn the pale green gown, she had been eminently pleased with how it had snugly fit her form and fell in easy elegance to the floor. Edith had enthused over it so that she had felt almost as beautiful as her glamorous cousin when they had appeared at a London soiree over a year ago.
It would be her first formal occasion since moving to thi
s rough industrial city in the North, but she could not muster any enthusiasm for dressing in such finery tonight. Not when she had heard and seen the suffering and struggle she had witnessed this week. She could not forget the gaunt figure of her new friend Bessy, who was fast succumbing to the disease sapping her strength, caused by years of breathing in cotton fibers that lingered in the air of the mills where she had worked.
Bessy
had never participated in grand dinners or balls in her short life. Margaret had been pleased to observe her friend rally this afternoon as the pale girl had eagerly admired the dress that Margaret intended to wear to the Thornton dinner party.
Dixon teased the last strands of her mistress’ hair into place and gave an exasperated sigh as a few errant curls escaped their bounds to teasingly fall at her temple and at the back of her neck. Margaret smiled faintly in approval at the sight.
“Come now,” the rounded woman urged as she laid the brush and pins down, “let’s show your mother how you’ve turned out,” she directed, shuffling the young miss toward her mother’s sitting room.
“Miss Margaret looks well — doesn’t she, ma’am? I’m sure they’ll not be a finer young lady in attendance,” Dixon declared as they entered the room where her mother was sitting.
Too ill lately to attend any social outing herself, Mrs. Hale was pleased to see her daughter go to this formal affair. “Oh, Margaret, how I should have liked to take you to some grand assembly as my mother, Lady Beresford, used to take me,” she lamented with a smile of approval for her daughter’s becoming attire.
Margaret bent to kiss her mother for her proud maternal instinct, and managed a sympathetic smile. “I would rather stay home with you — much rather, mama,” she answered. As her friend
Bessy had often reminded her, it was an honor to be invited to the annual dinner at the wealthy cotton manufacturer’s house. Still, Margaret had a mind to avoid the loquacious talk, vain posturing, and glittering display of these affairs. She found them abhorrent to her more thoughtful, simpler nature.
“Oh nonsense, darling! Be sure you notice the dinner well. I should like to know how they manage these things in Milton,” her mother admonished lightly. Born to a well-bred family in the South, Mrs. Hale was curious as to how cultured or resplendent a dinner party could be in a city so filled with toil, filth, and unpolished manners.
*****
Margaret kept up with her father’s quick steps as they walked the quieted streets of the city in the last hour of daylight. She did not mind in the least that they would not arrive by carriage. Since renouncing his position as a country vicar, the family had had to manage their money very wisely. Margaret admired her father for his intellectual fervor as well as for his kind-hearted ways, and although she was not pleased that his religious doubts had pressed him to give up the cloth, she respected his decision to take up work as a private teacher in this bustling new place.
She knew his swift pace was congruent with his eager honor to have been invited as a friend of Mr. Thornton’s. The powerful cotton mill master had been her father’s first pupil, and the elder gentleman had grown to respect and admire the stern-looking manufacturer for his intellect and forthright reasoning. Mr. Thornton’s lessons often exceeded the allotted time, the conversations between them extending beyond the realm of literary themes and philosophy. Margaret was pleased that her father had found a friend amongst the strangers of their new hometown, although she was not as readily able to sing his praises.
Tall and dark-haired with strong chiseled features, Mr. Thornton was a formidable figure whose sober expression seemed to suggest that he knew little of gaiety or leisure. Margaret admired the self-discipline and unremitting determination that had enabled him to raise his family from poverty, but she had grave reservations as to his methods in dealing with the working classes. She held him and the other masters’ hardened stance largely responsible for the outbreak of the strike that currently held Milton’s cotton industry at a standstill.
They were among the first guests to arrive at the stone mansion that stood by the mill. While Mr. Hale conversed with Mr. Thornton’s mother, Margaret chatted with Fanny, who elaborated on the physical comfort she had discovered in using a water mattress for her delicate constitution, and wondered if Mrs. Hale might derive some benefit from borrowing it.
Margaret’s attention was diverted at this moment by the entrance of Mr. Thornton into the room. He was resplendent, dressed in dark coattails with a gold brocade waistcoat and matching cravat that fitted his commanding frame perfectly. He moved easily amongst his guests, greeting them and smiling as a perfect host would do.
She watched with fascination as he was introduced to an attractive young lady. He took the proffered hand with a simple elegance. There was no affectation of feeling or gleam of arrogance in his eyes, as she had often seen in the gazes of Edith’s London acquaintances. As the beauty bowed and smiled at his attentions, Margaret realized how strikingly handsome he was.
She caught her breath when he turned and saw her, and smiled as he made his steady approach toward her. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to clasp his hand in greeting on this occasion.
His features warmed as he returned the gesture. He spoke of her mother's absence in a low, silken voice of genuine feeling. His tone resonated within her, at once awakening her to the allure of his virile masculinity. She felt his eyes fervently search hers as if he would discern her thoughts and intentions. As she reluctantly pulled her hand from his grasp, his fingertips brushed lightly along her palm and fingers. The sensation sent a flutter through her stomach and she blinked in mute surprise at her reaction.
She had never felt such a strange stirring within her and wondered what it could portend. She had not yet taken anything to drink and yet she felt almost tipsy. Her limbs quaked slightly to stand so closely before him.
She was both relieved and chagrined when his attention was diverted by a fellow manufacturer who compelled him to leave her side. He gave her a penetrating look of sincere regret and excused himself with apparent reluctance. Somewhat stunned and forlorn, she stood alone until Mr. Bell, a close friend of her father, guided her about the room to mingle with other guests until all were called to dine.
Her mother would have been astonished at the opulence of the table settings and the quantity of dishes prepared. Mrs. Thornton’s dinner rivaled any that Margaret had attended in London. She would have been honestly impressed, were it not for her feeling of unease that the surfeit of food and grand elegance seemed incongruous to the lack with which the larger portion of Milton were currently struggling.
But such inequities did not seem to disturb the consciences of the other diners. Conversation drifted comfortably among the men from the cotton industry, while the women listened quietly to their discussion of profits and future opportunities. Margaret observed with great interest that, although he was the youngest master of the assembled group, Mr. Thornton’s opinion was sought by all the others for his sound judgment.
The evening might have proceeded more pleasantly than the newcomer had imagined if Fanny Thornton had not so inconveniently pointed out to all in attendance Margaret's attempts to alleviate the starvation of the strikers’ families.
Her charitable efforts had been rebuked by Mr. Thornton as a detriment to the strikers’ cause and she had burst out to scold his inhumanity in front of all his guests. Margaret’s chest had risen and fallen heavily at the tense interchange. She had felt the impulse to abandon the table so that she might indulge herself in a few tears. Her pride, however, had dictated that she remain and so she had continued to eat her soup with composure, betraying little of the turbulence that swelled in her breast.
The remainder of the evening could not pass swiftly enough for Margaret. She silently bemoaned having attended at all. Her father and Mr. Bell kept up pleasant conversations with several others after dinner, but she lost all heart in making talk, feeling very much alone in the company of these people who seemed to bear no compassion for those who dwelt beyond their own walls.
