In Consequence: A Retelling of North and South (41 page)

As the last strain of the piece faded, Mr. Thornton bounded resolutely to the dance floor where Margaret was disengaging herself from her partner. “I believe the next dance is mine,” he announced in deep tones, causing Margaret to turn about to face him. His heart lifted to see the sparkle in her eyes as she smiled at him.

“Of course,” the younger man allowed graciously, bowing to Margaret before leaving the betrothed couple alone.

Mr. Thornton was grateful to hear the first notes of a waltz as he took his position with the woman in front of him, never taking his eyes off of her as he gladly placed an arm around her waist and held her gloved hand high in his.

“Fanny looks pleased,” Margaret noted as they began to move to the lilting music, passing the other swirling couples.

Mr. Thornton smiled in acknowledgement, glancing briefly to where his sister was being led in steps by Watson.

“And Mr. Watson looks quite happy,” Margaret added with an air of amusement as she caught sight of the hopeful suitor’s face.

“Not as happy as I am,” Mr. Thornton returned in a low voice of utter sincerity, gaining her complete attention with this comment.

Her eyes flew to his.  All her flippant gaiety vanished as she searched his face, becoming lost in the passionate intensity of his penetrating stare as they danced in effortless cadence to the music.

Everything in her eyes told him that she was his, and it took all his power to restrain the muscles in his arm from pulling her forcefully against him. His heart soared to feel her in his grasp, and he was aware only of the bliss of this moment as he led her through the maze of waltzing couples.

This is what he wanted, to hold her in his arms for all eternity, navigating together the cycles of life, heedless of what the world might throw in their path. They would forge their own way and create their own paradise as they followed the flowing rhythm of their hearts.

The engaged couple gliding around the dance floor was quite unaware of the chatter being made about their match. Amongst a group of manufacturers’ wives, it was whispered that the newcomer to Milton had set her sights on the Master at the very outset. But the secret of how she had so readily attained the prize that so many others had been denied mystified them. Some argued that some sophisticated trap must have been set, for it was long assumed that Mr. Thornton never intended to marry, being so sorely tied to his work. It was unanimously admitted, however, as several pairs of eyes darted again to the dance floor, that they would never have imagined seeing the Master of Marlborough Mills so thoroughly in love.

Nearby, an assortment of congregated men weighed in with their opinions on Mr. Thornton’s state of mind. “He’s completely besotted. Who would ever have guessed it?” Henderson remarked in amazement. Hamper nodded.

“You certainly can’t blame the man; she’s a very lovely girl,” Mr. Galloway, a steam engine manufacturer, replied. “From the South, didn’t they say?”

“Aye, she’s new to Milton. And that’s the rub — she sided with th
e strikers just a fortnight ago. A regular Lady Bountiful, she takes baskets to the poor. She even made friends with one of the union leaders, that man Higgins they were talking about. And here’s Thornton — the one with the dogged determination to bring the Irish in, the most stubborn one of us all — hiring him that helped start the trouble for a woman’s sake! I never would’ve believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself,” Henderson exclaimed with a shake of his head.

“She’s got him completely wrapped around her finger. The next thing you know, he’ll be feeding the workers out of his own pocket. Mark my words,” Hamper mused, incredulous that the Master of Marlborough Mills should cast aside
all of his business prowess to bend to a woman’s plea for compassion.

“Ah, then it seems that his ‘experiment’ is more than meets the eye, and the impeccable Mr. Thornton is human after all. He’s fallen to the wiles of a great beauty,” Mr. Galloway concluded, evoking grunts of agreement from the other men. He smoothed his waxed mustache with a swell of self-satisfaction as his eyes fell upon the couple in question. 

His triumphant pride evaporated as his appreciative gaze lingered on the vision of the girl in the burgundy dress. With a gnawing envy, he was recalled to the fact that his wife was no longer the svelte bride he had married. In truth, she had never been much of a beauty. A sigh escaped him and an inevitable jealousy surfaced. Mr. Galloway was forced to admit that despite any difficulty Mr. Thornton might have with the girl’s intransigence, the longtime bachelor had done very well for himself … very well, indeed.

*****

“I expect we shall hear more about you and your experiment in labor relations in the coming months, Mr. Thornton,” Lord
Garthwaite enthused as he shook the Master’s hand at the close of the evening.

The graying man’s ruddy face lit with approval as his gaze turned to Margaret. “Enchanted to meet you, Mrs. Thornton. It’s a pleasure to know such beauty resides in Milton,” he praised her, raising her hand to his lips.

Margaret flushed rosily at his gaffe, glancing anxiously to her betrothed.

Mr. Thornton grinned merrily at the drunken dignitary’s mistake, but betook it upon himself to save Margaret from her embarrassment. “We are not yet married,” he corrected him, albeit with some reluctance.

“Of course! How silly of me. My apologies … Miss Hale, is it not?… for my indiscretion. I wish you very happy. When is the blessed day?” Lord Garthwaite exuded with a boisterous air, flailing his free hand about as the other still gripped a fluted glass.

“In eleven days, my Lord,” Mr. Thornton answered.

A hearty guffaw turned many heads in Lord Garthwaite’s direction.

“And that, my boy, is as it should be,” the older man exclaimed as he clapped a hand on the Master’s shoulder. “I should be impatient myself to wed such a lovely lady. God bless the both of you,” he pronounced with fervor as he let them both go.

The engaged couple kept quiet in the carriage ride home, as Fanny extolled the virtues of the mayor’s grand house, the exquisite dinner, and the glittering private ballroom. She proudly informed them of Watson’s promised intent to buy a comfortable estate once he had successfully gleaned the profits that opportunities in speculation offered. She seemed pleased to imagine a future life of wealth beyond the boundaries of the smoky, dirty town in which her brother had earned his fortune.

Margaret listened to only half of Fanny’s dribble during the short ride and was relieved when Mr. Thornton escorted his sister into the house upon their arrival at Marlborough Mills. As she waited for his return in the darkened coach, Lord
Garthwaite’s appellation of her married name still rang in her ears, the relationship it designated sending a certain thrill through her as she pondered how soon this place, too, would be her home.

Mr. Thornton flashed her a dazzling smile as he mounted back into the coach once more and sat
beside her, reveling in the privacy that would be theirs for a time.

“It was a very fine affair. I believe the mayor did very well in showing Milton to its best advantage,” Margaret commented to cover her sudden nervousness as he slid his hand over hers.

His gaze roved over her with ravenous awe and no small measure of pride, as he drank in the sight of her now that they were alone. “I believe the esteem of Milton was undoubtedly raised by your presence alone,” he answered with utter sincerity.

She blushed at his praise. “And I was pleased to find that manufacturers are tolerable dancers,” she teased, endeavoring to ignore his warm commendation.

“Well you should know, for I believe you danced with every last one,” he returned with a widening grin.

She smiled at his accusation, but detected the strain of envy that tinged his remark. “Yes, but there is only one whom I wish to marry,” she returned with unabashed honesty, her gaze meeting his with sparkling adoration.

Her affirmation drew the breath from his lungs. The world stilled for a timeless moment. But for the steady beat of the horses’ hooves and the sway of the carriage, he might have believed himself to be living a dream, for only a few weeks ago he would fain have thrown himself at her feet just to win one kindly smile from her. For months he had admired her from afar, resigning himself to suffer alone the bewildering pangs of fierce attraction, certain that she would never deign to care for him. The stunning knowledge that she wished to marry him — that she, too, felt the strong stirrings of love that would cast them both headlong into each other’s arms — still baffled his comprehension and sent his aspirations and emotions soaring in dizzying disarray. 

He stared at her in amazement. The consummation of all his dreams of love was so close and yet so agonizingly distant. The space of days that still separated them seemed at once an impenetrable barrier and of nothing at all, for at this moment she was here, beside him.

  He reached out his hand to caress her velvet cheek and, nestling his fingertips against the soft column of her neck, drew her face to his to kiss those lips that had spoken so eloquently all evening, driving him mad with the desire to possess them.

He kissed her for her beguiling beauty, for her proud and intelligent support of him, and for the glint of appreciation he had seen in the eyes of many men as they had looked upon her.  The past days of their separation, the preceding months of his secret admiration, and the pregnant moments of this evening seemed to culminate in a furious yearning to claim her as his own at last.

Tenderness turned swiftly into hunger as her lips moved in accord with his, dissolving with alarming alacrity the gallant restraint with which he had borne himself all evening. Abandoning his hold of her hand, he slid his arm around her shoulders, capturing her in a close embrace. Every pulse point hammered within him as their mouths opened to each other and their kisses deepened in the dark seclusion of the rattling coach.

A frisson of searing heat coursed through his veins as
their tongues entwined, melting his hardened core of self-control into the heaving, molten energy of lustful desire. He kissed her hungrily, unrelenting in his intent to prove his love and to discover in her response the depth of her devotion. She answered him in kind, and he felt the taut, tenuous chords that bound him to all gentlemanly behavior snapping like fragments of dust as her small hand gripped his coat.

He trailed his fingers down her neck, halting only a moment before tremulously pushing aside the gossamer fabric of her shawl to trace the smooth line of her bare skin to her shoulder, his heart pounding at his daring. She shivered beneath his touch, and he felt the electrifying energy smoldering between them as his hand lingeringly retraced the path from her shoulder to her jaw.

He tore his mouth from hers, aware that he was dangerously stepping further and further into the flames of desire from which he might never recover. “Margaret, you are so beautiful!” he called out hoarsely in despair as he fought the aching longing to continue his pursuit. “You do not know how long I have wished to make you mine!” he rasped as his eyes roved over her, feasting on the exposed vision of her voluptuous form which rose and fell rapidly, matching his own ragged breathing.

“I am yours, John,” she whispered innocently. Her shining eyes betrayed no dark need, but trustingly offered to him her whole heart.

A pang of love so intense seized him that he was rendered motionless for a moment. Then, he swooped down upon her. Frightened that he should kiss her violently, he sought refuge at her neck, brushing his lips against the tender skin just below her ear, where the scent of her was like an intoxicating elixir, driving his senses into a blinding oblivion of passion.

Her gasp of surprise only provoked him to further daring, and he dragged his open mouth hungrily down the slender column of her neck, as he had craved to do all evening.

The soft sighs escaping from her lips at the continuation of his sensuous onslaught sounded as a lover’s beckon of approval to his ears. His pulse pounded furiously as he pushed her slowly but firmly back until her head rested against the carriage wall, cushioned by his forearm. She reached up to clasp a small hand around his neck, causing his body to shudder at her submission.

Recklessness threatened to consume him. He was drowning, not wanting to surface again to the cold, hard reality of separation; he did not wish to fight the current of passion that flowed so mightily around them both, pulling them to the utter depths of emotion, where ardor fused with expression.

He scattered ardent kisses along the slope of skin from her ear to the tip of her shoulder, desperate to salve the aching torment of his desire to love her as he had wanted to ever since she had accepted his proposal: with his lips and hands, filling all his emptiness and need with the feel of her body pressed to his. How he longed to be at one with her!

He dipped his head to brush his lips across the silken skin just below her collarbone.  The force of her loveliness tempted — taunted him — to dip lower, while a voice inside, buried and hollow, scraped at his conscience to be heard, its moribund decree echoing a warning: she was not yet his wife.

He fit his mouth to hers to smother the rampant urges coursing through him. But her compliant, eager struggle to return his kisses with equal ardor turned his blood to fire, setting his world ablaze and consuming the last vestiges of his self-control.