by EJourney
Margaret raised her head and although her face was not wet with tears, her eyes were nearly bloodshot and her lips swollen as if she had bitten them hard. He peered earnestly at her face, his eyes deep with concern.
She tried to smile, "I will be all right." Then, aware for the first time that he was kneeling on the floor, she added, "But you must get up!"
"I will but will you come to bed? You look exhausted." He offered her his hands as he stood up.
She nodded, rose from her chair, and found herself suddenly lifted and being carried to the bed. He whispered against her hair, "Remember that, however trying things become, I love you more than anything in this world and I am here when you need me."
He laid her on the bed and sat next to her, looking deeply, tenderly, into her eyes. "Remember also that we will be seeing Frederick and Dolores in Paris, probably as early as next summer."
"We will take Elise along?"
"Of course. Dixon, too, to help you take care of her. Dixon would be happy to see your brother again, I'm sure."
That night, he held her in his arms where she fell asleep and remained until she awakened the following morning.
**************
The Thorntons and their household moved to the new house as summer began to wane. In Mrs. Thornton's new rooms, her beloved furniture and ornaments from the old house had been arranged to her specifications. She had to admit that Margaret showed sensitivity to her needs in designing her rooms to suit her preferences in color and austere trimming. Her only complaint was that too much light streamed into her sitting room in the morning but she solved that problem by keeping her drapes closed. When the clutter was cleared from unpacking boxes and the frenzy of moving and settling in had ceased, Mrs. Thornton felt sad and sorry for herself—left with all her familiar possessions, remnants from a life of complacency and content that she doubted she would ever have again.
She had a good view of the backyard garden with its trees, flower beds, a relatively large expanse of lawn, and the small vegetable and herb bed enclosed in a low fence just outside the kitchen. In the morning, she woke to the chirping of birds and in the tranquility of her new surroundings, she slept past her usual time for awakening during her first few days. Her days were generally calm and peaceful, occupied by hours of needlework in the afternoon.
The casual elegance of the house—its light moss green wallpaper, vases of flowers, Chinese vessels and pewter candelabras—was too fanciful for her tastes and she spent most of her afternoons in her large sitting room. With her spacious suite to while away her hours in, the tension between her and Margaret eased somewhat.
But Mrs. Thornton was not too happy. She missed all the big and little things that used to help her structure her day at the old house. She longed to hear the humming, whirring, and clanging of the mill machines, to watch the bustle of workers, to be surrounded by the white cloud of cotton fluff that floated from the mill into the courtyard, and to see John stride purposefully across the courtyard—everything that reassured her all was well with her world. Restless in the interminable silences of the house, she found it irritating that she could not readily walk out and, in a couple of minutes, enter the large door into the mill as she used to do. Not long after settling into her rooms, she insisted on going with John to the mill.
The mill was a good four kilometers from the house and it usually took John half an hour to walk to it. Mrs. Thornton, although sprightly, could not keep up with his pace so he had to slow down for her and nearly an hour later, they arrived at the mill.
They had walked without speaking so as not to impede their progress but within sight of the mill, John could not hide his irritation at being delayed and, as soon as they entered the gate, he said, "I have a meeting this morning, mother, and I am already late. They're probably waiting for me in my office right now." He hurried towards his office and left his mother to walk to the mill by herself.
At around noon, he met her inside the mill as she walked around, moving slowly, her shoulders drooping. She did not appear to have her usual vigilance.
"You are tired, mother. You should go home. I will tell Williams to fetch you a cab."
She protested, "I can walk home with you when you finish this evening. I will wait in your office. I can rest there."
"No, mother. You have never stayed this long and the walk here this morning has probably tired you out even more. Go home and rest, please."
Mrs. Thornton said no more and nodded her head, unable to protest, as she had often done, the wasted expense on a cab. She was, in fact, too tired to walk home, too exhausted in spirit by her disappointing morning. The walk to the mill was too long and although acutely conscious of her son's impatience with her pace, she had been incapable of going faster. By the time she had entered the mill, she had lost the enthusiasm with which she began her morning. Worse than that, with her flagging energy and guilt at delaying John from his tasks, the walk around the mill was not the antidote she had expected against the ennui of her quiet uneventful days at the new house.
**************
John returned home that evening to find Margaret in the conservatory off of the drawing room, humming a lullaby and rocking Elise to sleep in her crib. She sat on a chair facing the garden, absorbed for the moment in a world peacefully centered on her child, inattentive to the sounds and the stirrings that were the usual signs of life within a home. John paused at the door to watch his wife and daughter for an instant before joining them. Coming home to his wife continued to be the reward he dangled in his mind's eye that awaited him at the end of each day. He had thought at first that having a child would limit the precious sweet moments he had with Margaret. It was true that they did not always have as much time alone together before dinner as they used to but not much else had changed. Margaret was often waiting for him in their sitting room by herself or just ready to put Elise in her crib.
John had not anticipated either that he would dote on his daughter, now as lively as any baby could be, but as individual as any adult in the house in expressing her needs as well as her delight and frustration. Every morning, Mary brought her in to nurse and on weekends, he and Margaret played with Elise in bed before all three of them went down for breakfast. In the dining room, Elise was entertained by the greater variety of voices and sounds and the larger, brighter surroundings. She usually lay in her baby carriage, her eyes alert, adding her babbling to the usual ambient noise of breakfast, and occasionally playing with the colorful objects hanging from a string tied between the carriage handle and cover.
John approached his wife as noiselessly as he could and bent down to press his lips against the nape of her neck. Margaret, happily surprised by the warm soft sensation, extended her arm behind her and around his head as she turned to kiss him back.
"Good evening, love." He said, smiling at her. Then, he bent over the crib and kissed his sleeping child.
Margaret rose from her chair and joined him as he stood watching Elise for a few moments. "It would be wonderful if we could all sleep as peacefully as she does."
Margaret smiled, "Wouldn't it? But having no care in the world would bore you, I think."
He chuckled a little and placed an arm around her shoulders as he led her away from the crib. "Did you see mother when she came back from the mill this afternoon?"
They sat on chairs farther away from the crib and talked in hushed tones. "Yes, she seemed very tired and went straight to her room. She asked Jane to serve her lunch there. First time I have known her do that."
"I think the walk to the mill this morning was too much for her. That and going around the mill, making sure workers were not slacking off, exhausted her by noon. She was probably hungry, too, but I know she would have starved rather than come with me to lunch at the dining hall."
"Next time, you could take a cab. Or we might think of buying a barouche for our use. It would be useful to you when autumn and winter come."
He looked at her thoughtfully, the hint of a sc
owl playing on his forehead. "That is a possibility but we'll talk about that another time."
She peered closer at him. "Is anything the matter?"
"I had a meeting with worker representatives this morning—another one of my attempts to understand where my men are coming from. I figure if we resolve problems and disputes before they pester, we can go longer without having to deal with strikes."
"What a marvelous idea. Maybe you could even prevent them this way."
"I have no illusions about that. Something can always come up that may make one inevitable. These strikes have often been about wages and working conditions and resolutions are sometimes complicated and difficult if not impossible, particularly when market forces are not favorable."
"Did something particularly difficult come up in the meeting?
"Something quite sensitive and I do not know, at the moment, what to do about it."
He paused, frowning, and she waited patiently.
"It is about my mother."
"Hannah! What has she to do with it?"
"Most of the workers object to her coming to the mill. They had hoped that with our move to a house away from the mill, she would stop doing so but when they saw her with me this morning, it was the very first topic they brought up."
He hesitated and Margaret prompted, "And?"
He recalled vividly what was said and repeated it almost verbatim. "According to Higgins, most of the workers claimed she disrupts work. Not intentionally, of course, but she watches them so closely that they get nervous. The children are terrified when she comes near and one woman said she nearly smashed her fingers once."
"Do you know if any of these is true?"
"Higgins has no reason to lie. He gave an argument hard to dispute: that how much and how well workers do their job can be seen in the product and the time it took to finish."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning that the amount of cotton they produce, its quality, and whether it is on time to fill orders show how well and how efficiently they work. So, they do not need someone scrutinizing so closely how they do their work."
"That does make a lot of sense. But there must be good reasons to have overseers."
"Of course, there are. Actually, the workers do not object to having an overseer who knows and has had experience with mill operations and can give them specific instructions and guidance on doing the work. They also must trust him enough that they can report problems to him."
"They mean someone who used to be one of them?"
"Not one of us "masters," surely, although my mother is technically not one."
"And she is a woman."
He scowled at her remark. "True. Women are expected to leave such matters to men. But there is something more to the point here. She does not and cannot do what overseers do. She does not know the machinery nor the modern methods of cotton manufacturing."
"I see. You do think that her being there is good."
He frowned. "She sees things that I may not. She has made helpful suggestions based on what she has seen. And the workers do work harder when she is around."
"This is a very difficult situation for you." Margaret shook her head helplessly, hesitated for an instant and then added. "But my guess is the workers would not think so."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, it seems to me the workers think the solution is simple and obvious: you ask your mother to stop going to the mill. But you know you will break your mother's heart if you did that."
"What would you do in my place?"
"I don't know. I do know that the mill has been her life as much as yours. To her, it is everything, especially now." She stopped, uncertain if she should say anymore.
He looked at her expectantly, "There is something more you have to say."
"Well……" she began, still uncertain. Before she could answer, Mrs. Thornton came into the dining room and the two of them paused uneasily, and smiled ruefully at her.
Mrs. Thornton stared back at them, "You two are early for dinner. What have you been up to?" She asked suspiciously.
Margaret got up and walked towards the crib, "I have to take Elise to her room. John, could you ask Dixon to call the men to carry the crib back upstairs?"
"I can take it up for you."
She picked up her sleeping daughter from the crib and started to walk out of the room. "It's not heavy but it is bulky and needs two people. Anyway, you should keep your mother company."
At the doorway, she said, "I will be down shortly."
After the crib was removed and they were left alone, Mrs. Thornton sat on the chair vacated by Margaret and motioned for John to sit down. "You two looked so conspiratorial when I came in. Is there something you should be telling me?"
"No, mother," he answered evasively. "We were talking about going to Paris possibly next summer."
"Again? What is so special about Paris that you must go again? And so soon after?"
"It's not just Paris, mother. Margaret's brother Frederick will meet us there with his wife. Margaret misses him and wants him to see Elise."
"I see." She nodded and said no more.
They sat quietly, uncertain what to say to each other until John addressed her again. "You look rested. I am sorry about your visit today at the mill. We should have gone in a cab."
Mrs. Thornton shrugged, "next time."
XVIII. Dissonance
John had been distracted throughout dinner and Margaret struggled to keep some steady chatter going so Mrs. Thornton would not notice. As soon as he closed the door to their bedroom that night, he resumed the conversation he had with Margaret before his mother interrupted them at the conservatory. "What were you going to say before dinner when my mother walked in on us?"
"Perhaps, we should wait until tomorrow to talk about this. You need to rest."
"I cannot sleep because this problem will keep bothering me until I have some idea of what to do and perhaps what you intended to say could help."
"All right but let us at least get ready for bed." She answered as she pulled the pins out of her hair and started towards her dressing room.
Not long after, John found her sitting by the fireplace in their sitting room, staring at the low flames, waiting for him. He sat on the chair across from her, "Well?"
"I am not certain this will help you. In fact, it might make what you have to do a bit more difficult."
"Say it anyway. You never know." She still seemed hesitant and he leaned forward, took her hand in both of his and stroked it gently. He smiled encouragingly and waited for her to speak.
She threw him a glance and, after about a minute during which she did not take her eyes off the fire, she spoke. "Before you married me, your mother did everything for you at home—from running your household to organizing and giving dinner parties to help your business and social standing. She did all that very well and it kept her focused on something that meant a lot to her. Out of a sense of propriety, she relinquished those responsibilities to me when we married."
"She was right to do that." He interjected. "Those belong to you as my wife."
"Yes, I know, but don't you see?" Margaret faced him and looked directly into his eyes. "Her life revolved around you, providing you a home life that did not distract from your work at the mill but then, she lost that focus when you acquired a wife."
He straightened and sat back against the chair, frowning. "What does that have to do with worker complaints?"
"I am not sure exactly but since she could no longer structure her life around yours, the mill became more important to her. She shifted her efforts on it. Through the mill, she could continue to help you be the success in business she worked so hard for much of her life."
He nodded, "It's true. After we married, she came to the mill at least twice as often and the unfortunate consequence is her presence became more unbearable to the workers."
"That is it, you see, and I believe asking her to stop going to the mill would mean taking away from
her what matters most to her now. Is there anything else that she could do, in your office, for instance?"
"No, not really. Much of it is paperwork, more than half having to do with accounting, from supply orders to wages to profits. She would not have the skills to do those. Besides, I think those tasks will bore her."
"Well, I don't know what more to say. Can you bide your time about making a decision? Perhaps you can talk to Nicholas, tell him it is a complicated matter. Ask if he can explain to the workers that it will take time; your mother needs time to disengage from the mill that she helped build."
John was skeptical, uncertain if he had the courage to tell his mother that she could no longer come to the mill. He himself never thought about whether he really wanted her to stop getting involved since she had been an asset to him in the past. She knew much about manufacturing cotton and had made good suggestions that helped him run the mill more efficiently. How could he tell her now that she could be hurting the mill by her presence in it? He was not even certain that was true. He nodded and smiled at Margaret but he did not answer and she did not press him. They both sat silently for some time, staring at the fire, its yellow flame burning itself slowly to ashes. It was later in the night than John supposed and he was tired. He glanced at his wife, her eyes downcast, sadly pensive. She had obviously given matters that concerned his mother much thought.
Margaret, in fact, needed to make sense of Mrs. Thornton's persistent dislike of her, if only to satisfy a need of her own to know why. It perplexed her how the older woman could keep up her animosity—she who was now a mother to her, if only by marriage. Margaret doubted that any change in her demeanor could influence Mrs. Thornton's sentiments. But she thought that, having made her choice about her future, it was now up to her to try to reconcile herself to living with all that came with that choice, including the antipathy of her mother-in-law. The act of resigning herself to something she could not change was relatively easier than changing someone else's attitude—one that she could naturally realize by understanding the reason for Mrs. Thornton's resentment.