In Consequence: A Retelling of North and South (12 page)

*****

At the Crampton residence, Mr. Hale studied the Greek philosophers in the quiet confines of his study while the women of the household were in the throes of preparing for Mr. Thornton’s visit that evening.

Mrs. Hale took care to rest herself in her upstairs sitting room, so that she might be ready for entertaining, while Dixon bustled about below in the kitchen, muttering about the lack of help in Milton.

In the cooler air of the nearby scullery, Margaret carefully ironed the family’s fine table linen. With the day’s activities all pointed toward the arrival of the man she was newly betrothed to, Margaret could hardly think of anything else.

She had woken this morning no nearer to a sense of peaceful resolution than when sleep had overtaken her. Still uncertain if she should be happily resigned to marrying the Master of Marlborough Mills, Margaret tried to understand the myriad feelings that rose and fell within her breast.

She had attempted to remain calmly composed earlier when her mother had eagerly elaborated upon every detail of the arrangements to be made. Every mention of Mr. Thornton’s name had caused her nerves to tingle with surprising expectancy.

As she firmly pressed the heavy iron over the white linen, she wondered if he would wear the burgundy cravat that she remembered when he had come to tea some months ago. She blushed to recall now how fine he had looked that evening. Halting her ironing, her stomach fluttered at the thought of standing before him again today.

She must find time to get away, she told herself while beginning to move the heated iron over the cloth again. She would look forward to visiting Bessy this afternoon when she finished her chores.

Later, as Margaret carried a tray of tea and sandwiches upstairs, she was surprised to find her mother diligently arranging a vase of flowers in the drawing room. “Mother, what are you doing down here? I thought you wished to rest so that you will be well for the evening,” Margaret gently reminded her with a cautious concern for her health.

“I’m feeling so much better today, I could not stay in my room. I wished to help make ready for the day,” Mrs. Hale responded with a happy smile.

Margaret studied her mother’s face and noted with rising hope that the sallowness had vanished, replaced by a more natural glow. Perhaps it was well that she had the opportunity to forget herself in thinking of more exciting things, Margaret thought, although feeling a pang of guilt for not sharing the same uninhibited enthusiasm for her future.

“I’m certain the silver needs polishing,” her mother remarked as she began to examine the dinnerware that Dixon and laid out on the table.

“I will polish the silver, Mother. Let us go now to your room for some tea. I’m sure it can only benefit you to try to take your ease today. Dixon and I can manage everything well,” Margaret assured her mother while guiding her toward the stairs.

It was still early in the afternoon when Margaret finished polishing the silver. Then, after checking on her mother once more, she escaped the house to briskly walk to the Princeton district.

Eager to spend some time with her friend, Margaret knocked on the plain wooden door of the Higgins’ home.

Mary opened the door with a tear-stained face. “Oh Miss!” she sobbed.

Margaret’s heart constricted with dread. Quickly, she stepped inside to confirm her worst fear.

Mary gestured to Bessy’s still form, which rested peacefully against the pillows in much the same manner as when Margaret had left her yesterday.

Margaret stepped forward
reverently, not wanting to believe her friend was dead.

So this is death
, Margaret mused sorrowfully while she sat down in a chair next to the body. She felt the tears forming in her eyes as she looked upon the serene face of the girl who had spent most of her life working in the mills. At least she would be at peace — more than she ever had been in this poor existence, Margaret thought, marveling at the tranquility of Bessy’s expression as Mary quietly sobbed nearby.

After some time of solemn contemplation, Margaret turned to Mary. “Where is Nicholas?” she asked softly.

The meek girl shook her head in ignorance. “I sent word ...” she began, but before she could finish, the door pushed open and the distressed father stepped into the house.

His eyes swiftly sought the place where his sickly daughter had always lain. Margaret stood up and moved aside as he approached the body, unwilling to believe the reports of neighbors who had sent him rushing home. He looked at Margaret. “Were
yo’ with her?” he asked with a pained expression.

“No,” Margaret whispered, bowing her head in regret.

He stared dumbstruck at Bessy’s still form for a moment before turning to Margaret again. “Mayhap she’s fallen in a deep spell. It were not the first time ...” he suggested with wavering desperation.

Margaret met his gaze bravely and shook her head. Tears began to spring from her eyes as she watched the last ray of hope die in his eyes.

A primordial cry rent from his lips as he sank down onto the bed next to the body.

Margaret’s tears fell unhindered as she watched him take his lifeless daughter into his arms.

“My poor Bessy!” he cried as he held her, his body shaking with racking sobs.

*****

The bell on the door at Hancock’s Jewelers tinkled brightly as Mr. Thornton swept into the store from the bustling street. A well-dressed, balding man looked up to appraise who had entered his quiet establishment.

“Mr. Thornton,” Mr. Hancock warmly greeted the respected Milton manufacturer. “How may I help you? I believe your sister’s birthday was several months ago,” he remarked with a congenial smile.

The corners of Mr. Thornton’s mouth edged upwards at the jeweler’s acute memory. He had come every March in recent years, having found that a gift of jewelry always pleased Fanny.

“I’m looking to purchase a ring,” Mr. Thornton answered with serious resolution, not wanting to appear as one headlong in love, although he had scarcely been able to think of anything else but this errand all morning. He was impatient to prove his affection with such a token and yearned to have her wear it so that all the world would know that she was promised to him.

“I
see ...” Mr. Hancock mused, swiftly recognizing the Master as an ardent lover. In his lifetime, he had seen hundreds of men stroll through his door with similar intent; their earnest manner always gave them away. He smiled inwardly at his sly assessment. “Have you anything in particular in mind?” he asked.

Mr. Thornton’s brow furrowed slightly in contemplation. “Something beautiful — of significance, but not overly grand,” he replied thoughtfully.

“Something with refined elegance and special beauty, perhaps to reflect the lady who will wear it?” the storeowner adroitly suggested, raising his eyebrows.

“Exactly so,” the younger man acknowledged with a comprehending smile, faintly embarrassed to be so openly read.

Mr. Hancock proudly led the groom-to-be to the fine selection of gemstone rings in his shop.

Bewildered at the onset by the dazzling array of sapphires, emeralds, and rubies before him, Mr. Thornton’s eyes soon alighted on a sparkling ring that seemed unique among its sisters. Mounted upon a delicate filigree of swirling vines in white gold, a rounded square diamond rose between two smaller emeralds of brilliant green. He thought instantly of the pastoral home from which his southern beauty had come.

As the small brass bell sounded at Mr. Thornton’s departure, Mr. Hancock smiled with satisfaction. Pleased to have made a successful sale, he was also amused to see that the longstanding bachelor had at last been sufficiently smitten to be ensnared by the bonds of wedlock.

We are all susceptible to the caprice of love, the jeweler mused cheerfully as he readied his display of rings for the next besotted lover.

Outside, the Master of Marlborough Mills strode absently through the crowded streets with burgeoning joy. Tonight he would see Margaret again, and, if his hopes were confirmed, she would allow him to place a ring of engagement on her finger.

He reached up to feel the small velvet pouch that was settled in his breast pocket and smiled broadly in satisfaction.

*****

Margaret and Nicholas dolefully walked along the streets toward Crampton. Fearful that Nicholas would seek solace for his sorrows in strong drink, Margaret had convinced him to come home with her.

Uncertain that the church held the answers to the deep questions of men, the weary union leader nevertheless had hope that a talk with Margaret’s father, the kind old parson, would give him some comfort.

When they arrived at the townhouse, Margaret directed her friend to wait in the kitchen while she searched for her father.

Mr. Hale was rather taken aback by the sudden request to meet with the mill worker. His concerns were only magnified by his daughter’s hasty explanation of events, which led him to believe that the disgruntled and bereaved union leader who awaited him in the kitchen would reek of gin. The pained look of compassion on his dear daughter’s face, however, made it impossible for him to decline.

Margaret then entered her mother’s room tentatively to see how she was faring. The elder woman looked up from her reclined position on the sofa and smiled at her daughter’s entrance.

“You are doing well, Mother?” Margaret gently asked in disguised cheerfulness.

“I’m feeling so much better, dear. I shall be quite happy to join everyone at dinner tonight,” she replied with eager anticipation.

Margaret’s face fell. She could not bear to think of entertaining Mr. Thornton upon the heels of such a mournful occasion. “Oh Mother!” she expelled with a heavy sigh. “Do you think we could arrange dinner on another day? I fear I cannot receive Mr. Thornton tonight,” she sorrowfully explained. She was reluctant to cause her mother any disturbance, but could not see any other way to avoid an evening of forced
pleasantry which would be so odious to her.

“Whatever is the matter, Margaret?” her mother asked, her face now filled with worry.

Margaret explained her grief, and although Mrs. Hale was clearly disturbed by the change in plans, she sympathized with her daughter’s sentiments and agreed to defer the dinner.

Margaret’s stomach roiled uneasily as she somberly descended the stairs to notify Dixon. The family’s servant was dutifully exasperated with Margaret’s announcement, but gave the young mistress a sympathetic glance as she wiped her floured hands with a tea towel and went to confer with Mrs. Hale upstairs.

Margaret then turned to join the men who were quietly talking at the sturdy table near the scullery. She was pleased to see the quiet transformation of her hard-working friend, who sat calmly across from her father with cap in hand, his face newly scrubbed.

“It’s one thing for all
them’s that put on their finery an’ go to church on a Sunday to keep the faith, but it’s a fair mite harder if yo’re working from dawn to dusk for yo’r bread,” Nicholas spoke to her father. “And yo’ll pardon my saying, but the likes of yo’ ‘ave never watched your daughter waste her life away slavin’ in those mills,” he declared hotly in his misery, looking askance at Margaret as she silently sat down to join them.

“I know her life was not
easy ...” Mr. Hale began.

“Easy!” Nicholas fairly exploded, his face distorted with pain. “She never had one moment of rejoicing. Never-ending work and hardship is all she got in this life,” he exclaimed bitterly.
There’s many a time when I’ve thought I didna believe in God. Where is the justice — where is yo’ religion when those that call themselves Christian care naught for the masses that work ‘ard to give ‘em their comforts and their high and mighty profit?

“But the masters are not all of them indifferent to your struggles, Mr. Higgins. Surely, they have won a higher station through some providence which gives them greater responsibility over the economies of others,” Mr. Hale started to explain.

“And this is God’s will, that some should rise to rule over others with a strong hand?” Nicholas interrupted in heated tones.

“No, no … that is not what I mean at all. I know that there are cruel and greedy masters who ought to consider their Christian responsibility toward their fellow man,
” Mr. Hale said with fervor. “I’m at a loss to explain my vision to those who believe they are in the midst of some perpetual war. I don’t believe that masters and men were meant to be pitted against each other in this world, but that men of good faith and sound character on both sides should come together and find a way to do God's will and live in peace and harmony. Why, if only some of the best and kindest masters would sit down and talk with some of your wiser men — don’t you think there might be some way to get over your differences? Don’t you think that perhaps a man like … like Mr. Thornton might be induced to do such a thing?” Mr. Hale queried hopefully, appealing to the working man’s reason and innately trusting the integrity of his favorite pupil.

“Thornton?” the mill worker burst out incredulously with contempt. “He’s the one that brought the Irish, that led to the riot that broke the strike!”

Margaret cringed at his vehemence, at once alarmed that her father might reveal her recent betrothal.