In Consequence: A Retelling of North and South (6 page)

At dinner with his family, he appeared subdued, answering absentmindedly his mother’s questions as to the settling of affairs and listening to Fanny’s ceaseless chatter about the excitement of the day.

“I believe I have heard enough,” he announced at last when he had finished eating. “The reality of it was enough for me,” he added, standing up from the table and moving to a seat in the drawing room. He picked up the newspaper and opened it with much rustling, but truly could not read a word.

Fanny went to her room to write the day’s events in her diary, while Mrs. Thornton took a seat across from her son and picked up her embroidery.

The stillness of the room gnawed at his agitation. Silently, Mr. Thornton bore the rise and ebb of his hopes and doubts until the growing conviction of what he must do became all-consuming. He set aside his paper and moved to take a seat next to his mother with somber import. “Mother ...” he uttered, the word heavy with a low, earnest imploring.

Hannah Thornton shivered at his call, her body tensing in foreboding for what he might say. She raised her eyes to his and drew in her breath at the kindling of passion in his eyes.

“I must go tomorrow and ask for Miss Hale’s hand,” he confided, searching her face for her reaction.

“Yes, you could hardly do otherwise,” she allowed, sagging in defeat.

“What do you mean?” he asked quizzically, his brow creased in confusion.

“You are bound in honor,” she emphasized slowly, with dignity. “Did she not shamelessly reveal her feelings for you for half of Milton to see?” she asked with brusque contempt for the girl’s behavior.

“Mother! She wished to save me from violence ...” he exclaimed, though her words stirred the fire of desperate hope within him.

“Then she should not have sent you as a lamb before the wolves!” his mother returned, deftly surmising why he had evaded her earlier questioning. She was quite certain that the girl had somehow goaded her son into facing the mob.

The Master turned his face away, the color deepening on his cheek.

Mrs. Thornton let out her breath in disgust. “I only hope that you will take care, John, not to follow her every edict. She may well have won your heart, but I hope you will keep sovereign rule over your mind,” she exhorted earnestly. She will be a lively one to manage as his wife, she thought to herself.

“But, Mother, I dared not believe she would have me ...until today ...” he revealed, the image of her eyes, her lips — so close to his — coming before him and quickening his breath.

She watched his eyes grow distant as some powerful force swelled within him, removing his power of speech. “She will take you from me, I am certain of it,” she declared with reluctant confidence, uncomfortable with the strength of emotion that seemed to carry him away from her even now.

Bewilderment clouded his face at her surety. “I know she has never approved of me. We have always spoken at odds ... yet, I cannot contain my hope. I must ask her.”

“Don’t be afraid, John, she has already shown her feelings for all to see,” she assured him with a weak smile as she reached out to tenderly stroke his roughened cheek. Her mother’s heart bled to see her son so conflicted as to his worthiness to be loved. How she prayed that this girl would truly love him, not with fleeting fancy for his outward success, but with fervent affection for all that he truly was! She would not find a better man in all of England.

She retracted her hand and bowed her head slightly in conciliation. “I think I may learn to like her. She has swallowed her pride and recognized your merits,” she admitted quietly. Lifting her gaze again, she saw her son’s eyes sparkle with hope even as his brow remained creased in anguished confusion.

*****

In the
Hale’s more humble home, Dixon helped her ailing mistress to her bedchamber shortly after dinner, leaving Mr. Hale with his daughter in the dimming light of the drawing room.

“It was very kind of Mrs. Thornton to send the water mattress so promptly. I had thought it would be too much trouble. I heard from one of my students that there was some violence at Marlborough Mills today,” the kindly gray-haired man relayed in ignorance as he looked to Margaret.

“Yes, let us hope mother will sleep well tonight,” she responded with a forced smile, ignoring his latter remark. She quaked with fear at the thought that her father might learn of her role in that violence.

“I’m sure she will, Margaret,” he said with conviction. “I will go read to her until she falls asleep. You look quite pale, my dear. You have done enough for today. Why don’t you retire for the evening?” he suggested with a comforting smile.

“Thank you, papa, I think I shall. The heat is wearying, and I am tired,” she replied, giving him a small smile in return.

She climbed the stairs to her room with open relief and hidden trepidation. No longer obligated to maintain a facade of calm composure, she felt a weight lift from her shoulders. She could allow her thoughts to flow more freely, although she feared she must be alert to redirect any errant wanderings from probing the deeper, uncharted waters of her mind.

No sooner had she shut the door then a faint trembling made her limbs feel unsteady as she walked to the wardrobe to undress. Why did she quake, when all danger was long passed and the frightful events of the day mere memory?

She had been terrified to think that he might have been gravely injured. How foolish she had been to send him to quiet the unruly mob!

Her fingers clumsily fumbled with the buttons on her blouse. Had he even tried to speak to them, she asked herself? Should she bear all the guilt for what had transpired when he had done nothing to mollify the crowd? Indeed, there would have been no riot at all if it were not for his stubborn refusal to find the means to reach across the divide of masters and men and find a common understanding.

She felt her anger rise at the coldness of his manner with his workers. Had he not also struggled against poverty to bring himself to his current position? Had he no heart to consider the hardship of those now beneath him, who depended on his good judgment and fair management for their very livelihood?

She tugged vehemently at the laces on her boots. How could he have brought innocent foreigners into the midst of this trouble to replace the hard-working men he had employed for so long?

But it was not anger that she felt as she recalled his pale, unmoving face. A cold chill descended over her and stilled her hands. Although she believed his methods were misguided, she could never condemn him to pain ... or worse. How helpless he had appeared for those few, perilous moments when he had lain before her — no longer the proud master and governor of fortunes, but simply a man who, like any other, was vulnerable to the cruel whims of fate.

She thought of the misfortunes he had endured — his father’s suicide had sent him down a path in which there was no recourse but to strive and work to alleviate the hardship of poverty and shame. He had borne it well and had gained stature in his diligence.

After hanging her skirt, she pulled her muslin nightgown from the drawer. Slipping it over her head, she recalled how she had wrapped her arm firmly around his waist to help him up the stairs. She blushed anew at the remembrance of how their bodies had been pressed together.

She scrambled into bed and tried to banish any further thoughts of him, recalling the comforts of childhood, when her existence had been happy and secure. She closed her eyes to shut out the world around her, but she could not escape the images that floated through her mind, despite her mental protests and endeavors to distract herself to other contemplations.

Her heart quickened as she remembered the dizzying clarity of his blue eyes as he had held her wrist. She had never been so close to a man’s face before. A heated flush flowed from within her breast and warmed her face. Why had she not stepped away at once?

She tossed her head to the side to shake the vision away, feeling the beating of her pulse as her chest rose and fell in flustered confusion. She would not think of it — she would not! She had done only what she felt was right, tending to him as any good Christian woman would.

With a rustle of sheets, she turned to her side and slid her hands under her cheek, resolutely shifting her contemplation to her mother’s health and the hope that she would find relief from her r
ecent sufferings. Weary from all the tumult of the day, she eventually slipped into a fitful sleep.

*****

Gathering darkness steadily consumed the fading rays of twilight as Mr. Thornton paced the confines of his office. The lantern on his desk cast long shadows along the wall. He paused at the window and narrowed his eyes to discern the dim form of the portico across the way where he had awoken in a haze to the sight of her angelic face. He had thought it a dream: her eyes alight with earnest care as she called his name — she who had castigated him forcefully for his inhumanity! But it had not been an
illusion, for she had risen instantly to steady him when he had swayed, grasping him firmly with her own delicate hands.

His breath came slowly as he recalled how she had clasped her arm tightly around his waist. He had never imagined that she would touch him in that way. He felt a shudder of rapture as he remembered how her body had securely nestled against his. His heart throbbed with a fierce longing to feel that close contact once again, to gather her in his arms as his very own and press her firmly to him.

He whipped around to stride to his desk, sweeping his fingers through his hair. What strange force had come over him that he could no longer concentrate on matters of business at such an urgent time? What power was it that she held over him, that his whole body should fairly shake with palpitating energy when he considered how tenderly she had ministered to him?

Could she truly care for him?
How long he had yearned to receive from her a look or a word of kindness that might belie some kindling regard or affection! He had been captivated by her bold spirit and uncommon beauty from the moment he had laid eyes upon her months ago. He had guarded his attraction well, knowing that she walked in higher spheres to which he could only aspire. He had never known such a woman, who by her very disdain for his upbringing and position sparked within him a furious desire to prove his worthiness.

He saw well now his plight, although he had valiantly refrained from admitting it. He wanted her in his life. It would no longer do to pretend it would be enough to see her on occasion, to be satisfied with the knowledge that such a wondrous creature existed within his realm. He wanted her to fill his days with her exalted presence, to enliven the dreary world in which he lived and banish the solitude that confined him — tortured him — now that he had glimpsed what life could be. The thought of her consumed him.

In his restlessness, he snatched the lantern and strode through the corridor to the vast weaving shed, where rows of silent machinery slumbered in the darkness.

He had never loved any woman before: his life had been too busy, his thoughts absorbed in other things. Now he loved and would love — to the end of his days. He burned to know if she could love him in return. The promise of the possibility drove him half mad with the desire to have all his dreams of happiness fulfilled. To be loved by her would throw his life into dazzling light.

As his eyes took in the scene around him — the dark, heavy looms and stilled atmosphere of industry — he recalled her distaste for all that he represented. Time and again, she had made it clear that she found Milton a repugnant place of suffering and struggle, and the cotton mills the very center of all that bode ill. He let out his breath as a deadening of hope descended over him.

She did not understand him. She did not know of his trials and struggles, the inner yearnings that she had instilled in him to be a better man. Instead, she threw all her thought and care to those who toiled beneath him in the factories.

It pained him that she would disdainfully dismiss the position which he had so assiduously earned, thinking him a hardened taskmaster and perpetrator of disparity. He had sought with all diligence and resolve to establish a worthy name and home for his mother and sister. This he had accomplished. It was all he could offer her.

He felt the paucity of his worth in her eyes. Would she deign to become a manufacturer’s wife in this rough-hewn northern city, far from the refined circles of London or the pastoral scenes of her childhood home? The taut muscles of his body slackened and his eyes dropped to the cotton waste that stirred in the shadows as he strode past with heavy footfall.

Wearied and distraught, he headed for home. He was not good enough for her. He had known it from their first meeting, but he could not suppress the fierce desire that ached in his chest. The vision was now clear before him — without her, his life would fade into meaningless routine, void of the warmth and purpose which only she could bestow. Was it too much to hope, that a woman as glorious as she could find it in her heart to love him?

As he walked through the house, the remembrance of what had happened that day swept through his mind with exhilarating force. She had sat close to him, gently caring for the wound near his temple.
He had been transfixed by the sight — her soft skin and full lips so tantalizingly near him. He had been unable to resist, grasping her wrist and slowly drawing closer to her cherub mouth. And, to his utter amazement, she had not shrunk from him! His heart pounded as he relived that moment. His hope once again soared to dangerous heights.