In Consequence: A Retelling of North and South (30 page)

She laid the brush down and padded to the bed to quickly slip under the crisp bed sheets. Lying in the dark, her mind raced to make sense of all that had happened. Her feelings had been wild and overpowering, and she was quite certain she had not behaved in a manner becoming a lady of gentle breeding.

She felt a stinging pang of guilt for having abandoned all her practiced self-control. But her conscience struggled against unjust condemnation. She had been overcome by the feelings he had stirred in her. Surely, it could not be wrong to express the love she held in her heart to one who would soon be her husband.

Her husband.
She was certain he wished to make no delay in marrying, and her pulse quickened as she recalled how ardently he requested that she should come home to him each evening.

Heat rose from her belly and warmed her face as she wondered what it would be like to belong to him at night. She did not know exactly what passed between a man and a woman that distinguished the marital bed. She had heard whispered tittering from village women long ago, and was not ignorant of the cycle of propagation among animals, but a flush of nervous apprehension coursed through her to imagine the natural coupling of man and wife.

She closed her eyes and felt once more the press of his mouth on hers, the exquisite sensation of succumbing to his ardent possession. All the rushing intensity of emotions returned to her as she envisioned being held tightly against him.

She did not know what would be required of her; she only knew she must give herself wholly to him. Something deep within twisted and throbbed at the thought of becoming his wife.

With quick determination, she turned herself onto her side to stem the tide of such thoughts. There would be time enough to dwell on such things, she reasoned. She should not rush to imagine the future. Everything would unfold naturally in due course.

What mattered most was that she trusted him. The tension in her body lessened as she considered how tenderly he treated her. She could never be afraid of being in his arms. She smiled. No, that was where she most longed to be.

*****

Mr. Thornton threw off his shirt and leaned over the porcelain basin to make his nightly ablutions. Relieved to be at liberty to allow his mind to wander, he thought of his mother’s curious glances this evening and smiled. She had detected something of his happiness, but he had no explanation to give other than that he had very much enjoyed his walk with Margaret. He could not explain how his world had changed — how a lovers’ exchange of a few precious moments could transform his existence into one of such vibrant glory.

He dried himself off with languorous ease and tugged a loose nightshirt over his strong, muscled form. He had found it almost impossible to concentrate this evening on figures and accounts when his whole being exalted in the glorious memory of what she had said and what they had shared. The smiles that came now to his face were irrepressible. Waves of radiant joy had overtaken him countless times since he had descended the stairs at the
Crampton house.

He climbed into his broad oak bed, pulled a sheet to his chest, and lay motionless on his back. His lips curved into a beaming smile again.
She loved him!
The contemplation of it drove all rational thought from his mind. He did not know how he would manage his mill at present, for he could not think of anything but her. All he could feel was the palpitating, powerful, sweet euphoria of being loved by her.

As he lay in the dark, alone in his bed, he remembered vividly how she had clung to him with shivering passion. How willingly she had yielded to him! His pulse began to hammer erratically as he began to imagine how it would feel to lie next to her and pull her body to his.

He sat up quickly, attempting to break the tantalizing train of his thoughts. There would be time enough for such dreaming, he chastised himself. At present, it should be enough to bask in the knowledge that he had won her heart.

He lay back down, resting his head on his pillow, and attempted to reclaim the more tranquil reflections of his great happiness.

But inevitably, the vision returned of her lying next to him, wrapping her arms about his neck and pulling herself close to nestle against him. He let out a long breath — a faint groan — of shaking longing to hold her.

He didn’t know when the dream would become a reality, but he prayed he would not have to endure such torturous yearning for long.

Maria Hale woke with a start and opened her eyes to stare blindly at the darkness of the hour. She felt the cold uneasiness of some horrible dream, although she could not conjure the images that had left her feeling frightened and confused.

The dull ache in her body gave a twinge of protracted pain, and she tightened her muscles in dread. Closing her eyes, she prepared to endure it. Quietly, and as swiftly as it had entered, the pain ebbed after a few moments until all that was left was the familiar feeling of discomfort.

She sighed in some relief and took a few easy breaths to calm her shaking fear. But a lingering dread remained, haunting her thoughts and tracing the pictures of her future with an ominous hand of doom.

She could no longer deny it, even to herself. She was fast sinking into the morass of decline, being pulled ever closer to the final portal of death from which all mortals shrank.

Tears sprung to her eyes in helplessness and she offered up a prayer that the Lord would grant the last humble requests of an earthly mother before taking her to her eternal home.

*****

Margaret slipped silently into her mother’s room at mid-morning. A chill of fear crept into her veins as she noted at once the sallow cheek, wearied posture, and wan look of despair on her mother’s face.

“Mother?” the worried daughter called out, alerting the pensive sufferer to her presence.

“Oh, Margaret!” her mother returned with hopeful vigor, her features at once brightening at her daughter’s appearance, although there remained a trace of sadness in her eyes. “I’ve been waiting to talk to you,” she said, as she straightened herself with importance.

Margaret took a seat next to her mother on the sofa, awaiting her mother’s news with anxious curiosity.

“I believe you have a fond affection for Mr. Thornton, is that not so?” Mrs. Hale asked delicately.

Margaret blushed at this unexpected overture.  “Yes … I do,” she answered, glancing briefly at her hands, clasped gently on her lap.

“I’m pleased to hear it, dear.  I am certain he will be very good to you,” she remarked as she patted her daughter’s knee with an assuring smile. “You see
, I have been considering it all very carefully. If we were to set the date for the twenty-eighth, and send out the invitations quickly, the guests would have over a fortnight’s notice….”

“The twenty-eighth? Of this month, Mother?” Margaret interrupted, her eyes widening with surprise. Edith’s wedding had been arranged in six weeks’ time and it had been an exhausting trial of constant activity and attention to detail.

“Why, yes — of course.  I know it seems hasty, but I believe with Mrs. Thornton’s help, everything could be arranged properly….”

Margaret only heard fragments of her mother’s continued speech, as her mind raced to comprehend the significance of this rush to the altar.
She would be married soon. 
Her heart pattered with conflicting pulses of elation and nervous apprehension. She had somehow imagined the interval of her engagement would naturally be of longer duration.

“But, Mother,” she hastened to add, “it takes three weeks for the banns to be read.”

“Yes, precisely so. And three weeks from today the banns will have been read,” she logically returned. “My dear,” she exclaimed with compassion at Margaret’s stupefied expression. “You must understand … I wish to see you married. It would make me happy,” she said more softly as she averted her gaze, a sweep of melancholy draining the recent animation from her features.

Margaret’s heart twisted in bitter sorrow at her mother’s implied meaning, and
she  chastised herself for not comprehending at once her mother’s reasons for such hasty plans. She foundered in silence for a few moments, gathering her composure as she endeavored to make a comforting reply. “I’m certain all can be accomplished as you see it, Mother, if we put our minds to it,” she agreed meekly, resolving to do her utmost to make it so.

“Yes, I believe so,” Mrs. Hale said more energetically. “It may not be a terribly grand wedding with so little time to prepare, but I believe Mrs. Thornton is very proficient in her dealings. I feel confident she can help us make a rather splendid affair of it with astute planning.”

The bride-to-be strained to pay attention as her mother excitedly elaborated upon the details that Margaret should present to Mrs. Thornton as soon as possible. But as the various words danced in her head, her body tingled with a strangely pleasant apprehension at the thought of how Mr. Thornton would react to this announcement.

“It is a pity you did not see a dress maker while you were in London. Of course, I have saved my wedding dress in case you might want to use it, but I fear you have a more ample figure than mine. I’m not certain if quality dress makers can be found here in Milton,” her mother lamented.

Margaret was suddenly struck with the image of appearing before the gathered congregation of Milton’s most influential citizens, which Mrs. Thornton would undoubtedly invite to witness her son wed the hitherto unknown girl from Hampshire.  She yearned to look resplendent, not for her own vanity, but so that he might feel pride in showing the world his bride.

She roused herself from her dreaming to consider what apparel might be suitable. “I have several fine gowns. Perhaps with a bit of satin and lace, they could be made into something presentable,” she suggested hopefully.

“Oh no, you must have something new for your wedding day!” Mrs. Hale protested, before another possibility dawned on her. “Miss Thornton seems to dress in the latest fashion. Perhaps she knows of an excellent dress maker!”

Her daughter nodded in acknowledgment of this possibility.

“It will do my heart good to see you married in elegant style, Margaret,” her mother proclaimed as she twisted a dainty handkerchief in her hands.

Margaret sensed a lingering wistfulness in her tone and looked expectantly to her mother for her next words.

“I can’t help wishing Frederick could attend. How awful it is to think he cannot see his own sister married!” she lamented, petulant dismay furrowing her pale brow. “Oh Margaret, he must come — even if he cannot be seen by others, we should have him here with us at last! Is it too much to ask for a mother to see her boy once more?  I have suffered so much — I must see my boy before I die! ” she wailed before burying her face into her handkerchief with choking sobs.

“I’m sure he can be summoned this once, Mother, if you wish it,” Margaret soothed, laying a comforting hand on her mother’s knee. Her stomach clenched in anxious dread at this singular request.

Her mother sniffed and complained bitterly that Frederick had ever joined the Navy. Seven years her boy had been forced into exile. She bemoaned her own fate, despairing of ever seeing him again and implored Margaret with pitiable cries to write to him at once.

There was nothing for Margaret to do but to assure her ailing mother that she would write to Frederick immediately. She was certain it could not be wrong to allow her mother the chance to gaze upon the face of her beloved son once more.

After discussing a few more details as to the wedding and being reminded by her mother to write Fred’s letter and visit Mrs. Thornton at once, Margaret left her mother in Dixon’s care. Somewhat dazed and confused by such an eventful morning, she hurried to accomplish her first task.

Sometime later, Margaret put on her bonnet and shawl. She hesitated uncomfortably as she looked once more at the letter in her hand.
Cadiz, Spain.
What she was about to do was portentous, fraught with an element of danger, and she wished she had had the opportunity to speak to her father about taking such drastic action. But Mr. Hale was at the Lyceum today and she could not wait for his return.

She stepped out into the mild September air and shut the door behind her. The street was filled with the usual merchants and perusing buyers. The gray sky overhead went unnoticed as these northern people scrabbled for a fair price, embroiled in the all-consuming pattern of daily strife. No breeze stirred as she wended her way through the crowded streets. The morning fog had lifted and the early afternoon was as bright and colorless as any day in the city. There was nothing in the surrounding sights or sounds to indicate any deviation from the ordinary, yet she felt the impending changes to her world with every advancing step.

Upon dropping her missive in the post box, she paused for a moment and then bravely pushed forward to her next task. She walked briskly toward Milton’s center, where industry churned in sovereign power, her subjects toiling in ceaseless obeisance to the demands of production and profit, and the promise of progress.  A tug of apprehension pulled in her stomach as the first distant sounds of clanking machinery and the din of the steam engines reached her ears.  Memories of panic — and of surprising tenderness — flashed through her mind as she approached the wooden gates of Marlborough Mills. Once trodden underfoot, they now stood restored and erect, creating an imposing entranceway to the massive factory of brick and glass ahead.