He touched her chin, lifting her eyes to his. “I think I can handle it. Come, let us go in to everyone.”
~
“We need not walk all the way to the park if you are too weary, Mrs Thornton.” Henry Lennox paused solicitously at the door as the family were donning their outer clothes. “I understand you had a late evening, and we shall have another again tonight.”
Margaret glanced at Henry in slight confusion as John drew near to take her arm. “I am quite well, Mr Lennox.” She looked away quickly, hoping John would do the same, for he was beginning to glare at her old friend.
Henry backed away in surrender, but Margaret could see from the corner of her vision that he did not stray far. John’s jaw was clenched as he buttoned his own overcoat. He had moved to help her, but the manservant had already done so. He stepped back and offered her his arm to lead her down the steps of the house.
“Henry means no harm, John,” she reassured her husband as the family’s steps separated them along the walk. “And he was always very considerate.”
He jerked his head to glance at her with a look of consternation. “Yes,” he agreed through clenched teeth. “I imagine he was.”
She glanced up at his profile, and could see the muscles in his cheek working, even his nostrils flickering, but he kept his eyes straight ahead. Perhaps she ought not to have used Henry’s given name in John’s hearing.
“Mr Thornton—” Henry fell back from the larger part of the party to walk beside John. “Have you been much in London?”
“Often enough,” he answered evenly.
“Excellent. I do not know if you can have been to Regent’s Park before, but it is a favourite among our family. Is that not right, Mrs Thornton? I believe we have been coming here for two or three years now as a regular thing whenever we are all together. Have you seen it before, sir?”
“I have.”
“A fine thing it is, that all in London may now come whenever they choose. Why, when I was a boy, it used to be that only…. Well—” he stopped himself, looking somewhat abashed. “I suppose that it is a new world we live in, is it not Mr Thornton?”
“How do you mean?”
“Why, you remember how it was, surely. Only certain days were open to the public, but the classes mingle more freely than they have ever done before. This industrial era of ours has seen the rise of a large middle class of persons, and the distinctions have become rather blurred. I think that a fine thing, do you not?”
“I think a man’s worth ought to be determined by his merits, not his birth.”
“Truer words were never spoken, sir! Do you know, Mrs Thornton and I were speaking of this very thing just a few days ago. How do your workers stand in Milton, Mr Thornton? Is their status somewhat higher than the common labourer?”
Margaret tightened her grip upon her husband’s arm, wishing she could warn him off from some harsh comment he might regret, and equally frustrated with Henry for provoking him. But John was annoyed and would not now step back.
“The experienced weaver has employable skills. He will always be in demand because he knows how to do something that others have not learned. Naturally, his pay is somewhat higher.”
“So, his wages are better than a common dustman or farmer? Do not they work equally hard, and does not each occupation require some expertise? What then of judging a man by his merits?”
“The workers in the factories are paid better than other trades because the profit potential in manufacturing is greater. I would recommend it over many other positions, particularly for the women. A woman can earn half again in the mills what she might as a seamstress or a domestic, and she still has some hours to herself after her work is done for the day.”
“Most interesting. Are the women paid as well as the men? I do not see how they could be, for a man could do two or three times the work, and for longer hours, according to the law.”
“I have not implied that they are, but as I have said, they are paid better in my mill than the gentry pays for household service, and they do not rise to their work so early as your own kitchen maid.”
Henry laughed. “Very well, Mr Thornton, I see you have an answer for all my questions! I hope someday to tour one of the mills. It is fascinating what you lot have done for England.”
John lifted his chin in acknowledgment, but he glanced to Margaret. He did not speak a word to her, merely offered a tight smile then raised his eyes again to the park they neared. For Margaret, it was an ironic moment. Only a few days ago she had walked the same path and had such a similar conversation with Henry, all while missing John. And now he had come, and so little was different!
“Ah!” Henry was behaving nonchalantly now, and he gestured ahead. “There is the tree! I have always loved looking upon that old oak. Do you remember, Mrs Thornton, I believe it was two summers ago, just before my brother and Mrs Lennox were married. We came here for a picnic, and it was such a hot day—do you recall? What a nuisance the squirrels were! I had not known they were so bold, demanding little bits of bread and titbits of fruit. Yet you continued to encourage them, Mrs Thornton. My, how cross Mrs Lennox was with you for that!”
Margaret smiled hesitantly, chuckling at the memory of Edith’s frustration, but then she looked up at John’s face. He had gone quiet again, his jaw tense and his gaze fixed straight ahead. Margaret cleared her throat and fell silent.
~
The visit to the park lasted a great deal longer than John would have expected for such unreliable weather. He had become agitated by the colour in Margaret’s cheeks, concerned by the cold rigidity of her hands despite her gloves, and frustrated by the oblivious Mrs Lennox who thought only of her own delights. He was most greatly annoyed, however, by Henry Lennox. The man seemed ever at his left hand, always eager to make some witty remark calculated to make Margaret smile and to imply a former intimacy—or worse, to impress upon him his own status as an outsider to their previous revelries.
Margaret did not engage Lennox more than superficially, but the fact that the pair had once enjoyed a vibrant fellowship was apparent to anyone. That Lennox felt free to speak to Margaret about her opinions on a wide variety of subjects unnerved him. At one point, the man even lamented that the weather was still too cool for Margaret to bring her watercolours, else she could have captured the pond and the early ducks that walked so determinedly about its perimeter, searching for new sprigs of grass.
This caused John to stop and stare quizzically at his wife. “I did not know you painted.”
“Only landscapes, and occasionally flowers,” she admitted. “I am not skilled at painting faces, although I have in the past had some success with very young children. For some reason their faces were easier for me to capture.”
“Indeed, and you have not lost your talent, Mrs Thornton,” Henry agreed. Then to John, he explained, “Mrs Lennox at last persuaded her to try painting little Sholto two days ago, and the painting does credit to both the artist and the subject. I have often thought Mrs Thornton really underestimated her own talents. Perhaps one day soon, she will have ample opportunity to practice in her own home.” Lennox was distracted just then by his sister-in-law, and he walked away after dropping his innocent remark, but the darkness fell once more over Margaret’s face.
John watched her in concern. When she spoke nothing for several minutes, he turned her to face him and noticed that her eyes had regained that peculiar sheen. “I am afraid this week has not been as restful for you as I had hoped.”
“Do not be troubled, John. I am well—” she drew a shuddering breath, and then nodded jerkily. “Truly, I am.”
He continued gazing at her, unconvinced, but she looked away without granting him another opportunity to ask more questions. The party returned to the house after that, and upon their arrival Margaret went above stairs to change. He saw little of her through the afternoon, as the ladies of the house retired to rest before the evening’s dinner party. John kept to his room, preferring his o
wn company to that of the Lennox brothers.
~
Some hours later, after a most dissatisfying and forgettable afternoon, he found himself standing in the dinner receiving line beside his wife. She was attired in a gown he had never seen before—a silvery grey masterpiece of silk which was brightened only by her powdered cheeks and a dusky pink rose in her dark hair. She was… breath-taking. Married to her though he was, he had been parched for words when he had first beheld her.
He still felt the oafish fool, a brute standing beside a queen. She looked stately and elegant, the very image of the untouchable, but it seemed to him that the icy colour of the gown had drained the life from her beautiful features. Cool and serene, that was the sense she projected, and perhaps it was fitting, after all. A woman who yielded little in the way of warmth gave little of vulnerability, little of herself to strangers. And it was for him to stand beside her and attempt to be her match in the eyes of these London folk! He straightened his shoulders, smiled only when she did, and held his breath.
Henry Lennox introduced to him to a friend of his, a Mr Crenshaw and his wife. He also met a Mr and Mrs White; a widowed Mrs Harvey and her son Sterling Harvey, a man about his own age; and three younger couples whose names he did not remember. Regrettably, the social strictures of the evening forbade him to escort his own wife to dinner or to sit beside her at table. Before that, he was permitted to remain near her, but compelled also to mingle with people who spoke guardedly and surveyed him under arched eyebrows.
When the dinner bell rang, he offered his arm to Mrs Harvey as he had been instructed to do. Margaret walked ahead of him with Henry Lennox, just behind Edith Lennox and Sterling Harvey. She glanced over her shoulder once as she was led away, but she was speaking amiably to her dinner companion. It seemed she had no objections to the arrangement.
Once seated, he noted in dismay that she was far down and on the same side of the table as himself, so he could not even claim the pleasure of admiring her from a distance. He could hear her voice, though, and it burned his ears at every moment. For the first time in… a long while… she sounded light and gay as she spoke with the man she must have wished in his place. John forced a tight line to his mouth—hardly a smile—but he scarcely heard other voices and his dinner held no flavour.
After the second course was carried away and several bottles of wine had flowed, Crenshaw raised his glass from across the table, drawing John’s attention. “Mr Thornton, this is a most fortuitous meeting. I have been eager to speak with someone of your profession, and your reputation precedes you. I am hoping you can help me to understand a bit of your trade.”
John tried not to hear the tinkling of Margaret’s laughter down the table in response to some jest of Mr Lennox’s. How long since he had heard her laugh?
Aloud, he simply said, “I would be happy to oblige, sir. Of what did you wish to speak?”
“Well, a very good friend of mine has a seat at Parliament, and he has asked me to assist him in gathering information for a new law they are considering regarding the factories. Unfortunately, my experience has all been in tobacco, so I confess that I know very little of textiles or the mills. I wonder, sir, can you tell me about a typical day at your mill? What time do the workers arrive?”
“We have two shifts, but before the day begins, the engineer arrives to stoke the fires for the steam engines. Work begins at seven because that is when the overhead line starts, and everyone must be at their place. We have a half hour dinner break at eleven, and then the women and the children from the first shift go home by one-thirty. The second shift of women and children come on, with a supper break at five. The mill shuts down for the evening at eight.”
“And the men work the twelve hours? Do they not grow tired of such a long day?”
“If I were to ask any of them to shorten their shift, they would be angry with me for cutting their pay. In fact, if the law permitted, many of the women would wish to work more hours as well.”
“And what of the children, how old are they? I have heard they work as young as eight.”
“In some mills, perhaps. I see no benefit in working with children who are so young. There is nothing a child of eight can do that a child of thirteen cannot do better, and I find they grow up healthier if they do not spend so many years of their youth inside a mill.”
“How very interesting! I am curious about something you just said, regarding the health of your workers. I have heard much of this horrible brown lung disease. What can you tell me about it?”
John glanced around, becoming aware that several of the other diners had ceased their own conversations to attend his. He was the curiosity, he supposed, the only member of the party who had laboured for his bread. He paused for a moment to gather his thoughts, then replied.
“It is a wasting disease. There is nothing that can be done, and it is still all too common. It was worse five or ten years ago, and there remain those who contracted the disease in their youth.”
The guests had quieted even more, and his ears could discern no conversation from Margaret’s end of the table. Undoubtedly, she was listening.
“But what is being done now? You say it was worse. How has it been improved?”
“I am certain you have heard of the wheels which many mill owners had installed in their sheds to blow the fluff away. I did so six years ago, though not all my workers approved, and certainly they came at no mean expense. There was no immediate benefit, but since that time, we have had less disease. That, coupled with refusing to hire very young children, has done a good deal to improve the health of my workers in the last ten years. There is little that can be done for the humidity and the temperature because the sheds must be kept warm and damp for the weaving process. There was some doctor a few years ago who suggested that all the workers wear a light cotton mask over their faces to protect them, but in such humid conditions, they all refused.”
“Mr Thornton—” this came from a voice a little farther down the table. John glanced to Harvey, who was seated directly opposite Margaret. “What of the influenza outbreak? Is it really spreading to the other cities?”
“I have not heard it has, but we have seen such things before.”
“How has it impacted everyone in Milton?” asked Crenshaw. “Has it crippled your mill? I keep hearing of how many are afflicted.”
“It has done no one any favours. My mill was working at half capacity this last month, simply because so many were too ill to work.”
“That must have been an economic windfall for you!” observed Crenshaw. “Half the labour to pay during a time of slow trade, without the bother of inciting a riot?”
John gritted his teeth. “I would far rather have all my workers at their stations, sir. However, I believe we are slowly mending.”
Mr Harvey spoke up again. “I heard there have been a number of deaths. Most of them were the working class, too poor for good food and proper care. Is that true?”
John drew a bracing breath and placed his hands upon his knees under the table. “It is.”
“I, for one, who would like to hear a lady’s impression of the epidemic.” This could only be Henry Lennox, down at the far end.
John leaned forward and found that Henry, at the opposite end of the table, was doing the same—looking at Margaret but frequently glancing up to make certain that John saw the intimate way he was leaning towards her.
“Mrs Thornton, you have many friends among the workers, do you not? How do you feel about their conditions? Has their situation been worsened by the way they live and work?”
Margaret touched a napkin to her mouth, refusing to look up at anyone. “I know those who have suffered.”
“But have the mills worsened their circumstances?” Henry Lennox insisted. “Do you think they would be faring so poorly if they were say, farmers in Hampshire?”
John watched his wife swallow carefully. “No. I think it is a good deal worse for the factory workers.”
This
brought a loud murmur from around the table, and several knowing, condescending glances in John’s direction.
“How so, Mrs Thornton?” Crenshaw asked.
She looked up, still reluctant to meet John’s gaze. “Their close living conditions. Sanitation is not what it is here in London, or even the country. They work for so many hours, and in such hard conditions, I cannot help but think that increases the spread of disease. The mills, do you see, are dreadfully stifling, and many of the houses are damp. And—” she bit her lip, still looking down—“their income does not stretch so far in the city.”
“Oh, but we spoke only today that mill workers often make better wages than other employees. Is that not true?”
“Everything costs more in Milton than it does in Helstone, to use your example of a farmer’s situation. Factory wages have raised the general price of living. Many families find it difficult to support themselves as they wish. I think of the families where a mother struggles to raise children on her own, or where one family has seven or eight children all too young for factory work. That is very common. Those years until the oldest children begin earning a wage can nearly starve a family.”
“So, do you not hold with Mr Thornton’s belief that the children should not be employed until they are older?”
John watched as Margaret surveyed Mr Crenshaw, bristling at the trap neatly set for her by her questioners.
She hesitated, her eyes flitting about the table at every person but himself. “I am not in favour of children working at all,” she answered in a low voice.
“But Mrs Thornton, you have just said yourself that until a family’s children begin earning a wage, they may suffer extreme hardship. What do you propose as a remedy? Higher wages? Forgive me for imposing myself upon a lady so, but I am earnestly interested in your opinions, Mrs Thornton. You are in the unique position of one who came to know industry rather intimately from the original perspective of an outsider.”
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