In Consequence: A Retelling of North and South (58 page)

“Good morning,” he murmured, the deep timbre of his voice wavering in the unadulterated joy of being the one to witness such moments.

She answered with a faint humming noise as she brought her hands to her face to wipe the tiredness from her eyes and then blinked to take in her surroundings.

A smile flashed on his face and then faded as he observed the dawning recognition of her waking reality — newly married bride, bereaved daugh
ter, and worried sister — pass over her features. How much he wished he could abolish the suffering he saw settle into her eyes!

“It’s Sunday,” she muttered, hearing no sound from the mill outside and surprised somewhat at this small revelation. The days and nights since their return had passed in a blur.

“Yes,” he answered with an inward sigh. For weeks, he had imagined the incomparable satisfaction of having Margaret seated at his side at the church his family had attended for years. At this moment, he fervently wished this trial of grief swept away so that they might continue to enjoy all the new and simple delights of their conjoined lives.

“We will return to your father’s house after we breakfast,” he assured her, sitting down on the bed beside her. He reached out to take her face into his broad hand and passed his thumb gently over her cheek as he searched the traces of sadness in her face. Avoiding the temptation of pressing his lips to hers, he pulled the soft curves of her feminine form against his firm chest. The scent of her filled his being as his
stubbled cheek and chin tangled blissfully in her hair. He longed to hold time captive and keep her in his embrace until all pain of sorrow melted away.

After a time, he took a determined breath and with all his strength of will released her and stood from the bed to continue to dress and allow her to do the same. He walked to the porcelain basin where razor and towel where laid out for his use. He would be satisfied and grateful, he resolved as he began his shaving ritual, to accompany her this day. They would face whatever trials lay ahead together.

*****

Frederick was glad for his sister and brother-in-law’s company, for it was apparent that the visitor from Spain strained to be released from the confinement of this cold and dark house in which he was prisoner.

All were unnerved by the restless to and fro motions of Mr. Hale, who seemed divided in his desire to spend the
se last hours with his living son or to sit with the prostrate form of his wife, who would soon be taken from sight forever.

Dinner was
somber, for everyone knew that this was the last time the remaining family would be gathered together on English soil. Frederick assayed to remark on the hospitable climate of Cadiz and its seaside beauty. A broad invitation to visit him once he had married procured little more than a glance from his father and a polite smile from his sister.

At last, the hour of parting came. Mr. Thornton announced the arrival of the cab in an effort to quell the tension rising in his breast as much as to avoid the pain of any prolonged good-byes. He hurried both of them into the small coach and took a breath of relief to spend the next few minutes safely confined from public view.

The Milton magistrate’s eyes darted about uneasily as he stepped out into the night air with his fugitive relation. He directed his charge to go and wait in the shadows of the platform while he procured his ticket.

“Mr. Thornton!” The middle-aged
station-master snapped to eager attention in the presence of the powerful mill owner. “It was well-played to have brought those Irish through here a few months back. That did the strike in, didn’t it?” he chattered, having no particular interest in either side of the matter, but taking great pleasure in accounting himself quite clever to converse with such a well-known citizen. 

“Yes,” Mr. Thornton answered mechanically, casting a furtive glance in Frederick’s direction. His face was downturned, blending well into the dark oblivion far from the gas-lit lamps.

The magistrate turned his face at the same instant the fugitive snapped his head in restless impulse toward the station, allowing a faint beam of gaslight to illuminate his features for one crucial second as an unknown form approached from the booking-office.

“You’ve got married very recently. Congratulations to you, Sir,” the station employee continued, satisfied to have remembered this tidbit of news as well.

“Thank you,” the Master muttered, impatiently watching the station employee gather the correct change and required ticket.

“Here you are,” the uniformed man declared with a friendly smile, handing the Milton cotton manufacturer his due.

Mr. Thornton gave a swift nod and swung around to glimpse a scene yards away that made his blood run cold: Frederick jerking his arm from the menacing grasp of a man in the shadowy darkness.

A terror he had never known before shot through him at the sight of this unraveling nightmare. Time was suspended in the lapse of helpless heartbeats as he raced to halt the ensuing scuffle.

“Get away from him!” John snarled, thrusting the aggressor away with wild violence.

The stranger’s eyes widened as he staggered backward, flailing his arms in vain as he pitched over the platform’s edge to the soft ground below.

Only now did the combatants hear and feel the rumble of the approaching train, coming from the other side of the platform. The cyclops of steel thundered into the station and announced its arrival with a fulminating hiss.

“That was
Leonards,” Frederick sputtered, his heart still racing from the terrifying encounter.

John nodded in strained coherence at this fantastical coincidence. His own pulse pounded in his ears. Grateful to find the ticket still in his grasp, he thrust it into his brother-in-law’s hands with the admonition, “Go!”

Frederick grasped John’s hand with both of his, the anxiety of longing expressed in his face. “You will take care of my family. I am thankful to you, my brother,” he avowed.

“Godspeed,” John returned, clasping his free hand over Frederick’s as one last glance of mutual approbation passed between them. The traveler snatched his bag from the ground and hurried to board the train.

The magistrate cast a wary glance behind him and stood watch until the train, with its smuggled human cargo, chugged away into the night. With only a breath of relief to have averted the unthinkable, he turned with a fresh swarm of fear at the consequences of the incident that had passed with lightning horror only minutes ago.

Stepping toward the platfo
rm’s edge with heightened trepidation, he peered over to find the perpetrator, a gangly drunk clothed in the garb of a railway porter. The remembered whiff of gin now caused the Master to grimace in disgust. A low groan came from the inert, crumpled form below before his head lolled to one side and he began to come to life. 

John
’s heart battered wildly beneath his ribs as he rushed to tell the station-master of the injured man. “You will please look after one of your porters. He took a fall off the platform after accosting a passenger. He smells strongly of gin,” he managed to explain with a forced air of calm authority while his arms and limbs trembled uncontrollably.

“Of course, Sir! I’m sorry, Sir … shall I call the police?” the
station-master asked in flustered obedience.

“No! The gentleman has departed and I must be away,” Mr. Thornton replied as he sped to return to the cab awaiting his return.

Once inside, he slumped against the leather cushion in the black privacy of the small compartment. His mind whirled in countless directions until it rested upon two points: Frederick would be safely out of the country in a matter of hours, and any babbling about a mutineer from a drunken sot would stand as nothing against his own word. His pulse resumed a more normal pace and the tension slackened from his tightened muscles. Resolved to make no mention of the frightful encounter at the station, Mr. Thornton had gained the better part of his solid composure by the time the cab pulled up to the Crampton house.

Margaret noted the tension that tinged his reply to her welcoming inquiry, but supposed it was only begotten of the questionable nature of his accomplished mission. She bowed her head with a trace of shame and a swell of meek gratitude that he had sacrificed his position and principles to safeguard her brother. 

*****

The day of the funeral arrived. No sunlight pierced the murky clouds above the bustling town as a black-plumed carriage from Marlborough Mills jostled over cobbled streets toward Crampton. Unable to bear being abandoned in the barren spaciousness of her new home, Margaret accompanied her husband in her best black crape, determined to offer her father her aid as far as it was required.

Mr. Hale moved in a haze of helpless despair under Margaret’s fluttering attentions. A gentle entreaty from Mr. Thornton, stating that the hour had come, seemed to penetrate the mist of self-inflicted suffering. The former vicar’s eyes rose to follow the calm behest of his son-in-law. The older man leaned on the arm of the younger, as John led him to the waiting carriage.

Margaret watched them leave partly in relief but with a whisper of discontent to be banished by custom from the ceremony that would be the last acknowledgement of her mother’s brief part in this earthly existence. Nevermore would she see her mother’s face. All alone in the quiet parlor, she sank to her knees and covered her face with her hands as she allowed the flow of tears, so bravely withheld, to come freely.

Between the anchoring support of his new son-in-law and his old Oxford friend, Mr. Hale endured the ritual proceedings, softly muttering the vicar’s lines in time, the cadence of words giving meager comfort even if their import rose beyond the grasp of desperate grief at the moment of this official sundering.

Margaret was dry-eyed and composed when the mourners returned. Standing in the window with her Bible in hand, she set it aside to go to the door.

With Mr. Bell on one side, and her husband on the other,
her father was guided into the house by his loyal friends. The internment of his wife had stricken him nearly blind with grief, and he now tottered between the stronger men as some frail old man. Margaret’s face paled to witness it.

With glances of worried thanks given to his helpers, she kissed her father and led him to his easy chair, forthwith busying herself preparing refreshments.

When all had eaten, very little having passed through Mr. Hale’s lips, he expressed his desire to retreat to his chambers.

“Why don’t you go home,” Mr. Bell proposed to the careworn daughter, when her father had disappeared up the stairs. “I will stay here as long as necessary. Do not overburden yourself today, my dear,” he finished, receiving a grateful glance from the newly married husband.

A knot of sadness pulled tight and heavy in Margaret’s stomach as their carriage returned to Marlborough Mills. Torn between caring for father and husband, she felt an oppressive futility in rising to fulfill the role of serving either with the wholehearted devotion she desired to give. She swallowed to fend off the tears of despair that sprang to her eyes.

John escorted her into the drawing room, where Fanny and his mother offered their appropriate condolences to Margaret. Aggrieved that duty called him to leave her in her suffering state, he explained to his wife in his most tender voice that he must tend to a few things at the mill and would return as soon as he was able.

The new wife nodded her compliance, reluctant to let him go, but knowing all the while the burdens of his obligations. Ever gentle with her, he had patiently born the weight of compounded responsibility for days. How could she object to his faithful accomplishment of every task? Loneliness wrapped around her like a shroud as soon as the echo of his footsteps faded away.

When he returned later to the same room, his wife was not in the room. “Where is Margaret?” he asked with an anxious tone that pricked his mother with annoyance.

“She has just gone to her sitting room. She wished to write to her cousin in London, I believe,” Hannah answered pointedly, letting him know the girl had not been abandoned by his family. Indeed, he would never know what a trial it had been to keep company with the grieving girl for the hour or so he had been gone. When to speak, what to say, how to keep her engaged and yet give her time alone with her thoughts? All of these concerns had become a hard-worn chore for the normally taciturn matriarch. All her efforts were unmarked by him, she supposed as he rounded past her with a scant acknowledging word before he made haste to his bride.

The door to Margaret
’s sitting room was ajar. He spoke her name as he pushed it gently open and entered the room where pink and mauve flowers blossomed on the walls in patterned profusion and green carpeting imitated the lushness of a garden setting. Elegantly wrapped wedding packages of various sizes were arranged in piles by the walnut secretary. But there was no occupant in the expected seat.

His heart leapt as he saw standing as still as a statue, head bowed, in the middle of the room. “Margaret!” his whispered in panicked concern, sweeping to her side to discover her cheeks wet with tears. “Margaret,” he said again, this time in comforting tenderness as he wrapped his arms around her. She melted, sobbing, into his embrace.

He cursed himself for leaving her, damning all the obligations that would keep him from tending to this one precious object of his life. “What is it?” he asked with helpless gentleness, feeling a fool for knowing, in part, the answer.