A week passed in this way, and then another. John looked for even a wavering sense of equilibrium, some indication that she had come to the bottom of her grief. Perhaps, after some days, it could be said that her emotions had regulated, if only for the simple reason that she had slipped into a constant state of numbness. From this, she did not appear to improve.
John, if it was possible, was more lost during these days than when her life was in danger. Her heartbreak pained him, it was true, but the injustice done to her, and the recognition that he was still powerless to ease her pain, filled him with such fury and such grief that he could barely speak. How could the heavens have permitted such a wrong and nearly cost her life in the process? And how could she, the woman who soothed the weary and set down the powerful, have so little to say on the matter?
On one such an afternoon, he had agonised in silence for longer than he could bear. He had tried, and largely failed, to tempt her with some sweet berries, and now they both stared at the same wall—she on the bed, he on the chair at her side. “What are you thinking of?” he asked abruptly.
She turned limpid, innocent eyes to him—eyes wide in astonishment that he would break her precious reverie. She fingered the lace at the edge of her sleeve. “Nothing in particular,” she murmured vaguely. She must have thought she had answered him adequately, for she looked away, but there was nothing she could do to disguise the far-off quality to her expression or the choking noise in her throat.
“Margaret, will you not speak to me as you used to do? What can I do to bring you back to me?”
She fluttered her lashes in a vain attempt to blink away the tears that threatened. “I am here, and I was speaking to you, John. I have not ceased. Do you believe I am vexed with you?”
“No….” He looked down to his hands. “It seems that you have withdrawn, lost all interest in anything of life. I can think of nothing more hopeless. I would rather have you vexed with me, even arguing with me. Come, Margaret, I have been hardly perfect throughout this affair; you must have your grievances against me.”
“But I do not—” she lifted her shoulders softly. “I… I feel the same as I always have. You have done nothing wrong. How could I be angry?”
“How can you not be? Was it not my own doing that caused you such pain? I wish you would, Margaret. I wish your eyes would come alive again, even if it was I who provoked you to indignation. I wish you would find the strength of feeling once more, to give you some definition. Some direction! You are not yourself.”
“Myself?” Her gaze wandered to the window. “Who is that? I cannot be myself, for I do not know… everything is different now, John. I do not know how to be, or how to act, where to go next.”
“It will take time. You have been ill and grieved. But you—” he growled, clasping his hands in his hair and jerked to his feet. “Forgive me. Forget I said anything. I asked too much of you.”
“Where do you go, John?”
He paused at the door, gazing back at the pale face he loved so dearly. “To my office. I have some papers to begin sorting.”
“Will you not bring your work home, so we may go over it together as we used to do?”
He hesitated, allowing a soft look of adoration to linger on her. She seemed so intent upon his answer, so desirous of hearing he wished to include her, that he could not disappoint her. “When you are strong enough, Margaret. I would not have you trouble yourself yet.”
Her gaze fell. “How long shall you be?”
His head was down, his hand on the latch. “Some hours. I have much to do.” He opened the door and missed the quiet look of sorrow in her eyes.
~
The numbers looked bad. John had scanned and parsed and recalculated until his eyes burned, but there was no help for it. The mill was simply falling farther behind on its obligations. Orders were shipping out, some of them paid for, but there was too much ground to recover.
There must be something he had overlooked! Some buyer he could pressure for faster payment, some investor who might be more patient… he felt as though he were a tug at sea, trying to push apart two behemoths, but the larger ships were rolling over him.
A part of his mind scolded him for the days spent at Margaret’s bedside. So much time he had lost in tracking orders and staying abreast of each detail… but even could he have torn himself from her for an hour, it would have mattered little, and he knew it. Williams had done a remarkable job in his place, but no one could have performed a feat of alchemy. Cotton simply was not bank notes, and even if it were, there was not enough of it.
“Master?”
John turned from his pacing. “What is it, Higgins?”
Higgins stepped softly into the mill office, treading as one who wishes not to cause the floor to squeak, and rumpled his hat in his hands. “Mr Williams said to ask wha’s to be done wi’ th’ order for Bakers? Yo’ said to hold it, bu’ tis up next.”
John sighed. Bakers had not paid for their last two orders, and he had pushed this one back ten days already. However, their last letter had promised full payment next month, if only they could meet the demands of their own buyers. “You may as well run it, Higgins. We shall test our luck and see if it holds.”
“Sir,” Higgins nodded. He looked at the floor.
John permitted the ghost of a smile. “Margaret’s strength is improving today.”
Higgins looked up in glad relief. “Thank yo’, Master. Hoo’s a fine lass. Me an’ th’ childer’s been frettin’ o’er hoo.”
“She is… not quite herself yet.” His hand fell to the back of his office chair and tightened, his face turned away as his jaw worked. “I…” he shook his head. “Miss Mary’s visits have done a deal to brighten her spirits.”
Higgins looked pleased. “Thank yo’, Master. The mistress, hoo’s made o’ flint an’ steel.”
John tried to smile, and almost succeeded. “See to that order, Higgins.”
“Ta, Master.” He shuffled out.
John fell into his desk chair. How was he to help his Margaret recover her spirits if he could barely promise her a home for the next year? Before, he had found comfort in sharing each of the mill’s struggles with her. Perhaps there had been little she could do to resolve his troubles, but she was brilliantly capable of showing him new perspectives.
Now… no, he could not risk disclosing his fears to her. Her way had been dark enough already. She ought to have only tender words, the gentlest of care. Every consideration was due her, for had it not been his own selfishness and coarseness which had brought her such pain? Would that he could have borne some of it for her!
His elbows pinned the ledgers to his desk as he cradled his head in his hands. She must not be troubled by this. Surely there was something…
A quick rap sounded on his door and he abandoned the thought. Assuming it to be Williams, come to ascertain that Higgins had spoken the truth, he beckoned entry. To his surprise, it was not Williams but Watson. He rose… and then nearly fell back to his seat when another entered behind him.
“Thornton,” Watson grinned, “I hope I’m not interrupting anything. I have just learned that we’ve a mutual acquaintance, and—”
“Harold Wright.” A shiver pierced John’s spine and shot through his forearms. “What are you doing in Milton?”
“Not a very cordial greeting, Thornton.” The other drew near and offered his hand. “What has it been, ten years? Twelve since I saw you in Weston?”
“Sixteen,” John replied through clenched teeth. “What brings you to my door?”
“The very best of things,” Wright answered smoothly. “Business and friendships, eh, Watson?”
“That’s right, Thornton,” the other agreed. “Wright here has just offered me a chance at a most promising rail speculation. We met in London last month, introduced by my banker, of course, and I do say our prospects are marvellous.”
“Ah, yes, the possibilities are endless, as they say. Why, Thornton, you do not look at all p
leased to see me. Were we not old friends?”
“Aye, we were friends.” John turned his back as he walked around his desk, then drew near, unblinking. “As were our fathers, if such is your definition of friendship.”
“Oh, come, Thornton, you cannot still be soured about that nonsense. It was seventeen years ago!”
“Eighteen, last October.”
“Yes, yes,” Wright waved impatiently. “But we are men of business, not boys playing at boxing and what-not. It is we who settle affairs now, is that not right, Watson?”
“Indeed! That is why we came to speak with you, Thornton. We are wishing to broaden our partnership. With one enterprise so handily underway and promising such an excellent profit within the year, we are seeking out other opportunities. None can be quite so large, you understand, but we had thought to invest in some local ventures—four hundred pounds here, three there, that sort of thing.”
Three or four hundred pounds! What such a figure could purchase him just then. John swallowed, but his face remained a mask. “Are you seeking recommendations?”
Watson cleared his throat, and a look which might have been described as amusement passed between them. “No, Thornton, not precisely.”
“We would like to invest in Marlborough Mills,” Wright announced. “You must be in some straits after all the strikes. Come, Thornton, it is no secret. Your sheds are practically bare, and have been so for months, from what I understand. My own advisers have heard talk among your men that you may have to cut hours. Now, I know you for a practical fellow. Surely you would consider any honest offer of the kind we are prepared to make.”
“Honest?” John turned away to pace back around his desk. “I am not sure you know the meaning of the word.”
“Come, now Thornton, there is no cause for insult,” Watson objected. “He makes a fair point, and you and I are brothers, after all. Would I see harm come to my wife’s brother? No, indeed! That is why we thought of you first, as we have both some connection with you.”
“I have no connection with you.” John retorted, glaring at Wright.
The men exchanged a glance. “Thornton, be reasonable. Surely you can see the advantages!” protested Watson.
“And what are your terms? First lienholder? I am afraid you are too late, as the bank holds that honour.”
Wright stepped nearer. “What if we were to pay off your loan? That is your largest debt, is it not? I’ve an arrangement with the bank myself, and I am certain they will accept some of my other accounts as security. Then with the additional loan of… oh, perhaps a hundred? If I am to work with the bank on your behalf, of course I could not offer as much liquid cash.”
“What benefit would it be to me if you took over my loan? You offer what I have no interest in accepting.”
“Well, perhaps we could ease your terms. What do you think, would that be of interest to you?”
“I cannot think why you would bother.”
“Thornton, we are family now,” interjected Watson. “Surely you cannot think your welfare might not be of interest to me.”
“It has never been so with your partner.” John abruptly turned his back on the affronted stares, the gaping mouths, and crossed his arms to sulk out of his window.
“Now, Thornton, is that any way to repay me for my family’s kindness to you? My father put you in school, got you advantageous introductions—”
“And squeezed my father for every farthing he could leverage! Do you think I did not see it then? How he forced favours, manipulated his partners, bled men dry until they had naught but debt and disgrace to call their own? And what happened to Daniel Wright after that affair?”
Wright’s face had flushed, but Watson was looking rather pale. “Thornton, do you dare accuse—”
“Watson, you are a damned fool for listening to this swindler. It will be you back at my door in a year’s time begging a roof over your head, mark my words!”
Wright’s veneer of calm snapped. He stormed near, his countenance red and finger jabbing towards John’s chest. “How dare you, Thornton! You accuse my father when your own was the one who over-extended himself. And then you assume that I would intentionally ruin my own partner!”
“I have heard enough, Wright.” John’s voice had lowered to a snarl. “There is the door. Take it, or I shall show you the window.”
Wright had already shoved his hat back on his head, and now Watson was reaching for the door. “You’ll wish you had listened, Thornton.”
John slammed the door behind them.
Fourteen
29 January 1856
Another hot tear slid down her cheek as she stared towards the window. She was not yet permitted to walk to it, and the view was far from scenic even if she did so, but she knew what was on the other side. If she leaned far enough to the right of the sash and peered to her left, the light of John’s desk lantern would wink across the mill yard on those evenings when he worked late.
Such nights had become more frequent—naturally so, since he had spent weeks watching over her. Somehow, he thought to make up for that neglect by working when he thought her to be asleep. Now, however, it was the middle of the day, and he had been obliged to resume something of his former routine.
That stinging sensation had returned to her eyes, the familiar burn to her throat, and with them, that new notion of resentment. His comment the previous week, that he wished for her to be angry with him rather than to remain quiet, had festered in her heart from a mere mystery to a distraction. How dare he ask her to feel? How could he imply that she was exerting herself too little? Did he not know that every sense, every stirring of her heart was anguish she could not explain? Could he not see what it cost her to check those feelings, so she did not spend all her energies in unruly displays of grief?
Margaret closed her eyes and counted… five seconds for the unbidden wave of anger to subside… ten seconds for the uneven thrum of her heart to still… twenty before reason claimed her thinking once more.
John was a man, after all. What could he know of the torrent of emotion that held her in its thrall, crashing her helplessly against the shoals of physical weakness and despondency? He only wished for her to be well, and she knew not the way to make him understand how very far she was from that happy estate, without causing him to worry anew. He had other concerns, and at least at the mill he could be more productive than in her bedroom… watching over her every breath and word.
Now that John had gone back to the mill, it was not uncommon that Hannah would spend her entire day sitting at Margaret’s side. This had rather the reverse effect of what the lady probably intended, for instead of finding peace in her mother-in-law’s sensible companionship, she grew restive, feeling that she somehow missed the mark—that her recovery was yet unsatisfactory in Hannah Thornton’s eyes. The woman never spoke so much, but Margaret felt the gravity of her expression pressing upon her.
To be fair, Hannah Thornton was not so stern and forbidding as she had once been. She was never so solicitous as Dixon, but mysterious kindnesses often found their way to Margaret which had not come from John—a particular shawl, a special blend of tea, the best serving ware. There were even those few blessed occasions when she had somehow secured for Margaret the company of Mary Higgins.
Welcome as these visits were, they also tended to fatigue rather than to strengthen her. Such had been the case once again today, and though Margaret strove to converse cheerfully for the benefit of her guest, she now nursed a pulsing headache. Nevertheless, it had been John’s wish that she should not be permitted to sit too long alone, and as though some invisible timing bell had sounded after Mary’s departure, Dixon appeared with the tea tray.
“I thought you might like something, Miss. There were oranges in town.”
Margaret attempted to smile. It was not Dixon who would have procured the fresh fruit, but John himself. It would have been selected by his hand, just as the cluster of grapes he had presented to her that very morning
and the exotic bananas he had brought to tempt her last week. She scolded herself as a wicked woman to have, for even a moment, chafed under his care for her. “Thank you, Dixon, an orange would be welcome.”
“And Miss… I didn’t want to say as much, but that Watson woman is here again. She’s come every day this week, but Mrs Thornton wouldn’t let her up to you.”
Margaret straightened on the pillows. “Fanny is here to see me? Of course, she must be shown in. Why would she not be permitted to come before?”
“I don’t know. Mrs Thornton is out just now so that Watson lady insisted that I speak to you for her.”
Margaret plucked at the quilt resting over her lap. She could not imagine Fanny having much of interest to say, but it would be pleasant to speak with someone new for a change. The aching behind her eyes would remain whether she sat in solitude or not. “Please, Dixon, show her in.”
A dark frown lined Dixon’s face, but she could do no more than she was bidden. In a very few moments, Fanny Watson breezed into the room, and another teacup was brought.
“My dear Margaret, at last! I was beginning to think I would never see you. John has been ever so particular, to say nothing of Mamma. You are looking so much stronger than they claimed!”
“I am well, Fanny,” Margaret smiled—almost convincingly. “It is wonderful to see you.” Margaret tried to straighten enough to perform a hostess’ duty, but Fanny waved her off and served herself.
“Well, now, was it not a splendid Christmas? Oh, I suppose it was a bad time for you. But the weather is not so very cold, is it? John must be pleased as it should be a good year for cotton.”
Margaret attempted a pleasant, neutral expression. “I have heard it is fine, but I have not… that is, I am looking forward to a fine spring. How are you, Fanny? I hope you have some news other than that directly related to the house, for I am in great need of something different to think upon.”
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