“Since I first came to Milton!” she supplied in a broken voice.
His hand stiffened. “Even since then?”
“I miss my family! I miss my father and my mother, and Fred… I miss Edith, and my aunt!”
His hand slipped from her shoulder. “I see.” There was a long pause, and then; “Perhaps… perhaps you… you should go to London for a visit. After… after Mother is married.” He turned away, so she could not see his face, but his voice cracked. “Write to your cousin.”
~
John paced his study, his fingers tearing through his hair and his stomach in knots. It was true—all his nameless dread and all the doubt inspired by broken communion. The light of day had tempted him to deny it all, to pass it off as the natural product of fear and distress, but he could do so no longer. She wanted to leave.
He could not—no, he would not—stop her. What better way to make her despise him irrevocably? For now, perhaps she had seen too much of him, of this house. A short respite; a holiday from Milton, from the smoke and disease—from him—perhaps it would be enough to restore her strength and allow her to again face the life she had chosen.
He had to hope. John prowled to the window, then restlessly to the desk and again to the bookshelves. He must hope… for if he could not… an almost animal groan shuddered in his chest. If he could not, then everything he was, all he had ever desired, was a sham.
There must be some way to mend her spirits, to reassure her that all she once loved was not lost to her. The queen of his life would be no deceived and ensnared Persephone, forced to divide her loyalties! Would that she could belong entirely to him… but why would she? What good had he ever brought her?
He rounded the study again, growling under his breath with every step. One thing he knew, of a certainty—she was his strength, even at her weakest, and he could not endure all he must, could not devote his energies anywhere else, while she was miserable. And if even his mother intended to leave him… why, what then!
He dropped to his chair, drumming his fingers over the dark wood of his desk. Something, there must be something to bring her even the least measure of happiness! He hissed and lurched from his chair again.
Her brother! She said she missed her family. He could take her to Spain—his heart sank. No, it was impossible. And bringing Hale here was even more so… was it not?
Perhaps he ought to write to Hale, to learn more of his case. He was pacing again, his mind an agitated tangle, but he halted before the bookcase. Where was it?
Ah. His fingers reached to extract the slim, nearly forgotten volume of maritime regulations from between two others. If nothing else, he could learn more about the magnitude of the problem before he endangered a man by trying to defend him. Of all the directions his churning thoughts could take, at least this one did not scorch his own conscience.
~
27 March 1856
The marriage of the widow Hannah Thornton to Doctor Robert Donaldson of Milton was a quiet affair, little attended. Donaldson had no family of his own, save a brother who lived too far away to justify the journey, so only the bride’s children and their spouses, along with a handful of others from Milton’s better families, were in attendance. The most notable feature of the ceremony was that it marked the first time in over seventeen years that the bride had appeared in public wearing a colour other than black.
They held a modest breakfast at the stone house on Marlborough Street, with provisions enough for the handful of neighbours and the servants of the house. Only a few neighbours could be troubled to pay their respects, for most were keeping to their homes. Over a month had passed, and the sickness plaguing the city was no less potent than it had been—indeed, Donaldson would be called out on his very wedding afternoon to tend a young girl whose parents feared for her life. Upon his arrival, he found her writhing with fever and her three younger siblings all displaying the early symptoms of illness.
This much he would confide upon his return to his new bride, who would receive the intelligence with due gravity. She would employ herself during his absence in settling a few more of her belongings and learning to wait, as all doctor’s wives must, for the next call, the next word.
Most of the items she desired to bring to her new home had been sent over the previous week, but there remained a few curios, clothing trunks, and her tea service. Margaret had her own mother’s china, and after the wedding breakfast, Hannah’s would no longer be needed in this house.
Jane was to accompany Hannah to her new home, and her leave-taking of the house was far more verbose and tearful than that of its former mistress. She was outside on the box of the waiting carriage now while the new Dr and Mrs Donaldson bade their parting greetings at the door. Any tender sentiments between mother and son had already been shared in privacy, and now both couples stood facing one another on the step. The groom beamed, the bride’s countenance reflected calm satisfaction, and the host and hostess seemed at a loss.
“Thornton,” Donaldson put out his hand, “I must thank you again, for… for everything.”
John took the doctor’s hand, his voice stirring in his throat, but he could not seem to find the proper words for his mother’s new husband.
Margaret caught Hannah’s gaze, covering smoothly for John’s discomfort. “Congratulations to you both. We wish you every joy.”
“Thank you, Margaret. John.” The mother covered her son’s hand with her own, her dark blue eyes dwelling lovingly upon his face for one moment more, then she turned. This was to be her home no longer, and as its remaining residents entered once again through the door, the house seemed sterner and more forbidding even than when she had dominated its centre rooms.
Margaret followed her husband’s leading for a few steps, then halted as his arm fell from her and he began to walk away. “You do not go back to the mill, John?”
He stopped, meeting her eyes for a faint second before his gaze dropped to the floor. “It cannot be helped. If we are to leave for London tomorrow, I must look to certain matters.”
“But you will not work late?”
She watched the knot at his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “It is likely. Do not wait up for me.”
Margaret searched for something—anything—to say that would keep him with her. She would have offered to help, or at least take him some supper, but he had expressly forbidden her to enter the mill just now. It had been a long while since he had brought his account books home with him, as he used to do… but certainly if his business could be done at home, he would have already said as much.
She raised her hand to catch him, to embrace him for just a moment, but he was already turning to go. “Do not stay too late,” she murmured to his retreating back.
Seventeen
“Margaret! Oh, my dear, look at you, how pale you are!”
John stood at his wife’s shoulder, a little behind her as her cousin rushed to greet her. Mrs Lennox reminded him a great deal of Fanny upon first impression, with her prim curls and excessive flounces. She was embracing Margaret now, somewhat possessively, if he were forced to give his opinion, and whispering something into Margaret’s ear. He thought he caught the word “brute,” but surely, he was mistaken.
Margaret stiffened, then pulled back a step to gesture to him. “Edith, this is my husband, John Thornton. John, my cousin Edith Lennox.”
He had already removed his hat at the door, and now he stepped forward to offer his hand. “I am pleased to meet you, Mrs Lennox.”
She glanced down as if he were offering her a snake and shrank somewhat. Chastened, he dropped it as she offered a short bob of her head. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr Thornton.”
“The honour is mine, Mrs Lennox. Thank you for receiving us.”
She smiled—a patent, tight expression—and then turned her attention back to Margaret. “Oh, darling, I simply cannot wait until you see my little Sholto! He is napping just now, and one must never interrupt a child’s nap, you know. Maxwell has been ea
ger to see you as well, and I am certain he will be back from his club within the hour. Oh! Mamma, there you are. Look, our dear Margaret has come back to us!”
John felt himself the object of the woman’s scrutiny as she entered. Margaret had told him of her aunt Shaw, her mother’s sister, but he could not for the life of him trace a resemblance to Maria Hale. Rather, she was of a kind with her daughter; a confectioner’s vision of tucks and bows, round cheeks and dimpled arms. She stopped a couple of paces away, her hands linked over her skirts, and scanned him in a manner which was hardly discreet or optimistic.
This time, he caught himself before offering his hand. He dipped his head graciously and allowed Margaret to perform the introductions. “I am very pleased to meet you, Mrs Shaw,” he answered when prompted.
“Mr Thornton—” she lowered her lashes in reply. “How kind of you to bring my dear niece all the way from Milton. It must have been difficult for you to leave your mill.”
“Not at all, Mrs Shaw.” A miserable lie. He could scarcely afford half a day from the mill, and for this trip he proposed to take three or four—if he was welcome for so long. He smiled, or made some approximation thereof. “I have been eager to meet Margaret’s family, and it was most considerate of you to extend the invitation.”
Mrs Shaw simpered, a mirror of her daughter’s cold brush-off, and took her niece by the hand. “Margaret, dear, how thin you have grown! I think it is this dark gown—I always did fancy lighter colours for your complexion. But there, I suppose that such fabrics would not be suited for the streets in Milton, would they?”
“Papa always liked this gown,” Margaret objected. John was watching her cheeks, and how the colour rose from her neck. Why would she not simply tell her aunt that she was still wearing half-mourning for that dear old gentleman?
“You always did favour him in your looks and taste,” Mrs Shaw smiled warmly. “Well, come my dear, for you must be weary to the bone after coming so far!”
“Milton is but three and a half hours, Aunt,” Margaret protested. She then cast him a glance—was it embarrassment or pleading he read there? “We were quite comfortable.”
Another lie. It had been the most uncomfortable train ride of his life. Oh, perhaps they had sat side by side, sharing the lap rug because she had desired his warmth in the cold car, but scarcely a word had passed the entire journey. Margaret had read a book while he stared blankly out the window, consumed by all the troubles he left behind in Milton.
“Mr Thornton—” Mrs Lennox drew his gaze from Margaret’s back as they moved to the drawing-room—“perhaps you would like to be shown to your room? I fancy Mamma has all manner of gossip for Margaret. Surely, French fashions and talk of her darling grandson will seem rather tedious to you.”
As a matter of fact, he would have greatly preferred to remain at Margaret’s side, but he was not fool enough to wedge himself into a conversation where he was not welcome. His mouth tightened. “Of course, Mrs Lennox. You are most kind.”
~
“Mr Thornton, I had not the opportunity to ask you about your business.” Maxwell Lennox flicked out the twist of paper he had used to light his cigar, then lifted his Havana in a rich cloud of decadent smoke. His lips formed a faint puff as he raised his eyebrows to his guest. “I had heard that cotton is quite the thing; a sure means of prosperity, they say.”
John straightened his waistcoat as he shifted in his chair. They were alone in the dining room now, the ladies having deserted them in favour of the drawing-room fire. “There is no sure path to prosperity. There is great potential, but as in such cases, equal risk.”
“Risk? Oh, I had heard very little of that. I suppose you must refer to strikes and whatnot. Surely there is much a clever master can do to prevent them.”
“Not so much as I would wish. I think we will never see the end of strikes, but a careful manager can do somewhat to alleviate the general complaints. Fair wages, better conditions to encourage long-term employment—these are essential to the honest and efficient working of a mill.”
“That sounds rather expensive!” Maxwell laughed. “Are you a bluestocking or a master?”
“I am not a charity. Many say I am the hardest master in Milton, but I treat my men in a manner that is fair to both them and to myself. I have not the time to squander on either petty worker’s complaints or philanthropic notions that do not produce cotton.”
“I suppose it is why you lot are always at work, eh? That is the reputation of you Milton men.”
“It is well-earned, I assure you.” John could not keep the note of pride from his voice. “The proper management of a mill comes at a cost.”
“I’d no idea! My brother Henry and I—have you met Henry? Yes, well, we had once talked of dabbling a bit in cotton. No harm, eh? I heard of a smaller mill out to let in Manchester. Had a trained overseer and everything, only wanted about a hundred fifty a month to begin operations. What do you think, Thornton, how much profit could a man turn on such an operation? We had estimated over eighty per month for each of us after expenses were covered.”
John could barely conceal the condescension in his voice. “Only a hundred fifty per month? It must have had but a handful of looms. With such a small operation, it is little wonder the place was to let. The former master must have struggled even to feed himself, to say nothing for paying the fifty or so hands it would take to keep the place running.”
“Fifty! I thought the mills were more modernised than that. How can a man possibly turn a profit, with fifty holding out their hands for ten shillings each week?”
“My men start at fourteen a week. Most earn closer to eighteen, and a handful earn almost twenty.”
“Why that makes…” Maxwell rolled his eyes backwards as his fingers twitched on his cigar. “Good heavens, man, what are you to purchase your cotton with? Is the hire of labour always so costly?”
“Always, but it is less of an impact with greater volume. For instance, a mill of any size requires two men to operate the boiler. My mill, large as it is, still only requires one full-time mechanic and one overseer. Yard operations, warehousing, dye baths—all these can be performed more efficiently than a small mill can possibly achieve. That is why the larger mills are more successful. The expenses are naturally higher, but with more machines, better equipment, and bulk price on the cotton, profits are improved. I have three hundred working for me, but forty-five looms against your handful. For an operation such as you describe, I imagine raw cotton alone would have consumed nearly seventy percent of the profits, which is far too high a figure to sustain.”
“So much! Well—” Maxwell stubbed out his cigar and uncrossed his legs, an indication that he had tired of the conversation and wished to remove. “I suppose it is as well we never took on that venture, would you not agree?”
“That would not be for me to say. I would never discourage a man from an honest effort at business, but not all are suited for it.”
Maxwell Lennox paused to stare at him with a curious, almost shocked expression, as if trying to decide if John meant his words as an insult. His eyes narrowed faintly, then his face smoothed into a smile and he stood. “Well, I expect our wives are wondering what has become of us. By the by, I have never seen anyone so altered as Margaret since I last saw her! It must have been a dreadful illness, the poor girl.”
John rose from his own chair but could not meet his host’s eyes. “It was.”
“You have brought her to the right place. Never fear, for my wife and her mother will fête her with tea parties and dinner parties and evenings out until her feet tire of it all. She will eat so much cake and glazed ham that in a month’s time, her cheeks will be bright pink and will dimple when she smiles. You won’t even know her!”
John followed, his eyes on the carpet as they walked. A month’s time. Indeed, he might not know her at all.
~
“Have you not missed our dear old rector, Margaret? I know how you always used to love listening to
him.”
Margaret, walking beside her cousin the short distance from the church, made some soft noise of agreement. John, following closely behind, heard the hesitation in her voice, but Edith did not.
“I thought you would wish to stop and speak to him as we were dismissed,” Edith continued reproachfully. “I remember you always used to do so, making observations about the sermon and asking after his family. How I used to dread your long discussions at the church door!”
“I am tired today.”
Indeed, it had been Margaret’s first real outing since… he shuddered. He had spent the entire service watching her in anxiety, nearly expecting her to faint from the exertions of walking and remaining attentive in public. She did not, but her cheeks were a little paler, her eyes glittered a little more, and she had spoken hardly a word.
“I imagine it must have been strange, coming back to a proper service again,” Edith observed. “Was not Uncle attending a Unitarian church in Milton? You do not still do so, do you?”
“Oh—” Margaret directed her gaze across the street, gesturing for her cousin to do likewise—“there is Mrs Hewitt. Do you remember how she always used to give us sugar mice?”
Edith was easily diverted, and she spent the remaining street until their own door reminiscing with Margaret about some of their neighbours.
Once within, John offered Margaret his arm and leaned near her ear. “Did you wish to retire upstairs? You are not looking well.”
She straightened self-consciously. “I feel well enough. I shall go up to change, but I would like to come back down for luncheon. Perhaps you could walk me up?”
He obliged, happily, since in two days at the Harley Street house he had been permitted scarcely ten minutes alone with her. Their rooms were even on different floors, with hers just below his and close to the mistress’ chambers. He had refused to make complaint but could not help observing that the door in his own room adjoined another vacant and perfectly well-appointed guest chamber.
Nowhere But North Page 34