In Consequence: A Retelling of North and South (26 page)

Margaret willingly answered all her mother’s inquiries. And when Margaret was bidden to describe what Aunt Shaw had served at a dinner with a Member of the House of Lords in attendance, the dutiful daughter recounted all the details of interest, not forgetting to inform her mother of the great impression Mr. Thornton had made not only upon her family, but also upon the distinguished guest.

Mrs. Hale was pleased to hear that her sister had found Mr. Thornton to be a respectable figure in the realms of power. “I think I begin to understand Mrs. Thornton’s great pride in her son. I don’t believe we had esteemed him properly at first, Margaret, in thinking him a mere Milton tradesman. It seems he is indeed known beyond this city,” the frail woman mused.

“I didn’t tell you, my dear ... Mrs. Thornton paid me a visit on Monday while you were gone. I thought it was quite kind of
her. Mr. Thornton must have told her that I would be in need of company,” Mrs. Hale revealed, pleased at this courtesy. “She is not the type to talk endlessly, and I was concerned that we would run out of things to say to one another, but she was very polite and offered her assistance in regard to planning the wedding, since she is very familiar with the goods and services here in Milton.”

“Which brings to mind, Margaret,” her mother began with a cautious tone, “we must settle a on a date. I fear Mrs. Thornton was anxious to have some idea of your intentions, and surely Mr. Thornton will wish to know when you are to become his bride.”

Margaret felt the coils of trepidation begin to tighten in her stomach. For as much as she had warmed to the idea of linking her life to Mr. Thornton’s, the thought of setting in stone the time in which she would become his wife seemed frightening. “But you are not well ...” she countered weakly.

“Well, we cannot put it off, can we? Besides, I have been feeling fairly well lately,” her
mother replied, endeavoring to make light of her condition for the moment. “Three months’ time would be traditional, but perhaps it would be best to have the wedding earlier,” she posed in a wavering voice, averting her eyes from her daughter’s scrutiny.

Margaret nodded in helpless agreement, realizing that the issue must be faced at length — and faced squarely.

“Let’s reflect on it for a time, shall we?” her mother suggested, eager to dismiss the somber contemplation that had stolen in to hover as a shadow over their happy reunion.

*****

Margaret stepped out later in the afternoon while her mother rested. The sights and smells of the streets where she walked were pungent and oftentimes sobering, not at all like the quieter streets near her aunt’s house in London. But she was grateful to be home where she had the freedom to move about as she pleased amid the teeming life of this busy city. She saw everything around her not as a proof of man’s intractable depravity, but as a testimony to the tenacity, resourcefulness, and desire for progress evident in all the bustling activity.

She wended her way through the darker alleys to the Higginses’ modest dwelling, eager to bring a basket that might help feed the Boucher children and to hear news from Mary.

The plain, unassuming girl was glad to see Margaret and took the supplies from the basket with quiet efficiency, intending to make careful use of the bounty received.

“We did not have time to talk yesterday when you were at the house,” Margaret said cheerfully. “I am glad you are able to help us a few days a week. I hope Dixon has not been too onerous,” she added half teasingly.

“She’s a mind to do things just as they ought. I try to do my best in following her orders,” Mary replied honestly.

“I’m sure you are a help,” Margaret assured her. “How is Nicholas, and the Bouchers?” she asked.

Mary pulled a chair out to sit at the table with her guest, her normally dull eyes glinting with hidden import. “John Boucher has taken his job back — at Marlborough Mills. Father says he was given pardon and invitation to return to work in a letter signed by the Master’s own hand,” Mary related with significance.

Margaret smiled, both inwardly and with the curve of her lips. “I asked Mr. Thornton to consider taking him back so that his children would not starve. I am pleased he has done so,” she explained.

“Oh, that’s what father and
I reckoned. He was sure that yo’ had something to do with it. He was not pleased, yo’ know,” Mary added, looking to Margaret apprehensively.

“What did h
e say?” Margaret asked, wanting to know the truth.

Mary let out a
sigh. “It weren’t right for yo’ to hear what he said, but he was angry that Boucher should be rewarded — rewarded says he — for ruining the strike with his violence. He said all sorts of things against the Master, sayin’ that a man ought not to be so easily bended by women’s entreaties,” she recounted uncomfortably.

Margaret pressed her lips together and raised her chin in defiance. “And what of Nicholas? Has he found work? It were well that he found employ in something, to occupy his mind to other things.”

Mary bowed her head in defeat. “That’s what I were about to tell yo’,” she said feebly. She raised her head to search Margaret’s face, her own countenance drawn with confusion and pain. “Just this morning he received a message offering him work.”

Margaret’s brow furrowed, perplexed at her consternation. “Surely, that is a good thing,” she replied.

“It were from Marlborough Mills. The Master 'as offered him work, if he’ll take it,” Mary explained hollowly.

Margaret was dumbfounded. She had not asked Mr. Thornton to hire Nicholas, although she had talked about him favorably during their conversations yesterday.
 An effusion of warmth flooded her being as she realized how carefully he had listened to her. How swiftly he had acted! Had he done it to please her, she wondered?

“Will he take work with Mr. Thornton?” she asked with cautious hope, as she emerged from her deep reflections.

Mary shook her head with dejection. “He cast the note into the fire. He’s too full of his fierce pride, he is. It was all or nothing in fighting against the masters with the strike. He was so certain of winning,” she explained, staring at the surface of the gray wooden table.

“But that is all past now. He must look forward to the future,” Margaret said earnestly. “The strike did nothing to change the masters’ minds. He must look for new ways to convince them. Perhaps now if he will work with Mr. Thornton, they could come to understand each other better. Oh Mary, he must take work at Marlborough Mills! I’m sure only good can come of it,” she enthused eagerly, seeing the pathway of harmony growing brighter in her mind.

Mary looked at her meekly with disbelief at the thought of encouraging her father to abandon his willfulness and blind emotion. “If only Bessy were here....”

Margaret gave Mary a compassionate hug. “Yes, but she is not. I don’t mean that you should be able to convince him at once. But perhaps you might find occasion to drop a careful word into his ear.”

Mary still looked doubtful.

“Do not fret, Mary. It is not all up to you. I believe he will eventually see wisdom. For his sake and for the men he proposes to serve, he must,” she assured her with rising conviction.

*****

Margaret reflected on all these things as she made her way home. She stopped at the busy intersection at Marlborough Street to let a wagon heaping with cotton bales trudge toward the looming factory beyond the open gates.

Her face brightened at the thought of Mr. Thornton pacing the floors of his factory or busily attending to the accounts at his desk. He had surprised her with his willingness to hire Nicholas, especially since he had shown such vehemence against him only days ago. Truth be told, there were many things that she hadn’t known about the man she was to marry. He had always seemed so brusque and assured of his logic. If there was still a mystery lingering about him, it was how much thoughtfulness was hidden behind the stern mask he wore.

As her eyes trailed the loaded cart, the impulse came to follow it. She could thank him for what he had done, she reasoned, and briskly turned to make her way toward the opened mill gates. The din of machinery grew louder as she entered the dusty mill yard. A rush of activity surrounded her, as shouts sent men scurrying to unload the arriving supply.

Margaret halted, hesitating to enter the bustling factory to see the man who ran it. Certainly, Mr. Thornton must have much to do upon returning from London; she should not interrupt him. It would not do to rush about at every whim, she thought, chastising herself for her impetuous yearning. Besides, she reminded herself with a faint smile, she would see him later tonight.  

She took a deep breath and retraced her steps toward home.

*****

Margaret enjoyed her family’s quiet gathering in the cozy dining room of their home. She took another bite of the sumptuous roast chicken Dixon and Martha had prepared.

“Margaret, I neglected to tell you,” her father announced with an air of importance as he cut into his food, “I received a note late this afternoon from Mr. Thornton. I’m afraid he is tied up with his work at the mill and cannot come this evening after all. He asked specifically that I should beg your pardon on his behalf. He had very much hoped to see you as well,” he related, looking with a kind expression for his daughter’s reaction.

Margaret felt her heart drop, but gave her father a faltering smile. “I know he has been very busy since the strike ended. Perhaps he has much to catch up on after his recent absence,” she reasoned, stabbing vacantly at the vegetables on her plate.

“It is a pity he cannot find someone else to run his factory,” Mrs. Hale commented. She hoped, for her daughter’s sake, that Mr. Thornton might put his work behind him sometime in the near future, when he was comfortably established with enough wealth. It pleased her to imagine such a scenario.

“I rather think he enjoys it,” Mr. Hale rejoined, “although, not when it has been such a struggle as it has been of late,” he added reflectively, his brows knit in concern.

Margaret nodded in sympathetic understanding, but added no further comment.
She was confounded by the feeling of disappointment that had swept in to eradicate her easy contentment. She had not realized until this very moment how much her spirits had been buoyed all day by the thought of his coming.

“Anyway, I’ve sent a message inviting him to come tomorrow evening if he can find the time,” Mr. Hale said, giving Margaret an encouraging smile.

*****

With his forehead pressed into a propped hand, Mr. Thornton added figures gathered from the ledgers sprawled across his desk. A scowl formed on his face as he scribbled the final calculation and underscored it with an exasperated flourish. He sat back in his seat with a heavy sigh and then pushed away abruptly from the offending papers, the jarring scrape of his chair piercing the deadened silence of the room.

Long shadows from the lantern mocked his agitation, as the Master paced the floor of his office. He was trapped in a press of circumstances that threatened to strangle the mill’s recovery. Today’s work had been botched, and he would be forced to have it redone, negating his profit and occupying the machinery for days. He could not take new orders until all current obligations were satisfied. The stagnant looms during the festering weeks of the strike had thrown all his schedules and plans for progress to hell.

He passed an ink-stained hand over his tired eyes and felt the bristling coarseness of his unshaven face. He lifted his eyes to the clock on the wall. It was after ten.

How he had longed to escape his responsibilities and enjoy the exquisite pleasure of basking in the presence of one who could banish his cares with one look from her soul-filled eyes! How many times he had almost dropped his quill in frustrated agony to follow the path to her home!

It was too late now. She would be preparing for bed.

The images conjured from this silent pronouncement came swiftly, overpowering the twinge of guilt that urged him to retreat from this forbidden path. He should not indulge in fantasy. But this fantasy might someday come to life, for she would be his wife. He reasoned thus as a bewitching image began to take form in his mind.

She appeared before him as some angelic vision in white garments, standing demurely with her chestnut tresses, unbound, falling loosely about her shoulders. The gauzy fabric of her nightgown draped tantalizingly over shapely curves now free from corsets, slips, and petticoats.

The blood rushed madly through his veins as he dared to imagine himself being bestowed an alluring smile as she drew nearer, wrapping her arms lovingly about his neck and pressing her soft form to his.

He shook his head and began to pace the room in a frenzied attempt to halt the delirious progression of his thoughts, the sweet torment of pleasurable feeling now becoming a searing pain.

He raked his fingers through his dark hair and cursed his weakness, ashamed and bewildered by his utter inability to rein in the passion that consumed him. Could he not now govern himself as he had all the preceding long years?

He moved to gather his coat, slinging it over his arm, and bent to turn out the light on his desk. It was of no use. All the patience, forbearance, and self-denial he had practiced for fifteen years was reduced to naught at the mere thought of a woman — a woman who had beguiled him since the moment he had first laid eyes upon her.