Margaret of the North

by EJourney

  "It's a nice day to be out. When winter comes, it will be too cold for Elise." He sat down as he replied and Mrs. Thornton regarded him curiously, wondering why he did not hurry out of the room to seek out his wife as he had always done after greeting her with a perfunctory buzz on the cheek. She was finally used to him seeking out Margaret right away when he came home instead of taking some time to talk to her.

  He sat still for a while, looking through the conservatory and out into the garden as if he wanted to escape to it. He stood up, poured himself a drink and sat down again. Mrs. Thornton became more puzzled and, unable to restrain her curiosity anymore, she asked, "Is anything wrong? Did you have a fight with your wife?"

  He shook his head, "No. No. Actually, I wanted to talk to you about the mill but I don't know quite how to."

  "Just say what's on your mind."

  "I wish it was that simple."

  "Is there trouble at the mill?" She prompted. "Another strike? Orders you can't handle?"

  "No, none of that. We're doing quite well." He paused, hesitant, anxiety written on his face as he looked at his mother. "But there are some concerns that workers have."

  "I am not surprised. All these things you have been doing for their benefit—they are taking advantage of your goodwill. Are they asking for more? That would not surprise me."

  "They are asking for something but not higher wages or anything else that will cost money."

  "Whatever it is, you should not give them anymore. You have done more than any other master in Milton. You do not know if what you have done will stop strikes or increase your production."

  "No, we do not yet know about strikes. It will take time to see such results but I do know that workers at Marlborough Mills are more likely to stay working for me, to work harder to fulfill orders or even stay after work hours to finish a job."

  "They have always preferred working for you because you have more modern machines. What could they possibly want now that worries you?"

  John glanced at his mother, quickly averted his eyes but forced himself to direct them back to her face. Then, in a quivering voice he tried, without much success, to steady, he plunged into what must be said. "They have requested that I ask you to stop going to the mill." It seemed to him that the words tumbling out of his mouth were like darts he was flinging at his mother.

  Mrs. Thornton was dumbfounded, mystified by the request, unable to comprehend how her presence could matter to the workers, unless they slacked off on their work. "Take care, John. They have their ways of bringing you down if you let them and this may be one of them. They do not want anyone watching to see if they are doing their work."

  "That is not it exactly because they suggested more supervisors for that if I saw the need. Besides the level of production is at its peak considering how many hours they have worked so efficiency is high."

  "They have no right to ask me to stop coming," she protested vehemently but she fixed her eyes anxiously on her son and felt somewhat shaken by what she saw in his demeanor. He avoided her eyes and it was obvious to her that he did not share the outrage she felt at what the workers asked of him.

  "Mother," he began hesitantly as he reached out to press her hand. "This is an extremely difficult decision for me. I know only too well that I would not be where I am without you. This mill has been your life as well as mine and, to some extent, you grasp its worth more than I have."

  She snorted and retorted, "You used to but Margaret has brought you farther away from it with her fancy southern notions about workers and their rights. What does she really know about them? Then, there are those distractions with classics and Parisian trips."

  John clenched his jaw to suppress an instantaneous irritation at her remark. It did not surprise him but it did vex him and he replied only when he felt in better control. "This has nothing to do with Margaret."

  "Well, you changed after you met her," she answered bitterly.

  He decided it best to ignore this remark and he continued as if she had not said it. "Mother, please. It pains me to tell you this because the mill means so much to you."

  "You told them, of course, that you won't do it?" She asked, searching his face but when he could not answer right away, she repeated, "They have no right!"

  "Actually, mother, they do because, by law, you are not the mill owner. And you are not an overseer who can tell workers what to do." He answered regretfully, sadly.

  "You—are you asking me to stop going to the mill?" She asked more weakly, helplessly, admitting her inevitable defeat. "I always do as you ask."

  Distressed as John was to see his mother so mournful and disconsolate, he had already gone too far and had no other choice, at this point, but to speak as plainly as he could. "I have mulled agonizingly, painfully, over this and I am exceedingly sorry that, in the end, I saw no other way but to ask you to stop coming to the mill. There is a good chance that, in deciding in their favor, the workers will trust me always to be fair on questions having to do with mill operations and it is reasonable to expect them, in return, to be more loyal to the mill. Who knows whether, perhaps, they will think twice about strikes?" He could not tell her then his concerns about the young children and their fear of her. It seemed to him too cruel, unnecessary.

  Mrs. Thornton listened to these words without much comprehension. It was not that she failed to literally grasp what he was saying. Rather, it was that these ideas were alien to her. Why should a master care to be perceived as fair? She thought workers were too ignorant to understand what fairness meant and had too much self-interest to be loyal. They were interested only in getting all they could from those who had succeeded, those of superior mind and work ethic.

  Mrs. Thornton despaired that she no longer knew how to reach her son and talk to him in ways that proved them to be of like mind. She had never felt him as removed from her as he was then. It was, in fact, this conviction that depressed her even more than her anger at being deprived of a role in the day-to-day operation of the mill. She had assured him that she would do as he asked but she could not resist one last question, the answer to which would render finality to her belief that he was no longer within reach of her influence. She tried to sound unconcerned. "So, you believe it is in the mill's best interests that I keep away from it?"

  To John, her question was laden with despair despite her attempts to mask it. It filled him with remorse and he could only nod, biting his lip as words failed him. This was the most difficult undertaking he had ever done and, in that instant, he wretchedly regretted having acceded to the request. And yet, in his heart, he felt he had done the right thing.

  Mrs. Thornton got up and announced in a voice as steady as she could muster, "I am tired and would like to rest. If I am not down at the usual time for dinner, do not wait for me."

  John watched his mother walk away, her head held high.

  **************

  John sat in the drawing room for some time, sorrowful and helpless, convinced that he had betrayed his mother. He sat, heavy, immovable, a lump insensible to his surroundings, to the activity going on far away from where he sat, and to the growing darkness into which he wished his darker figure would disappear. Eventually, he was roused from the black void he had sunk into by the lively sound of Margaret's voice. She had just come in from the garden, invigorated by the pleasant exertion of playing with her daughter, attended indulgently by Dixon and Mary. Margaret was talking to Elise, who seemed to be answering back in her own language.

  John saw his wife and his daughter pass by the drawing room. He wanted to call her name as she walked by but no sound came out of his mouth. When they were no longer in view, Margaret's footsteps suddenly stopped. She had caught, by the side of her eyes, the fleeting image of a dark figure in the unlighted drawing room. She retraced her steps and seeing him sitting there, desolate and wretched, she knew what had happened. She continued talking to Elise as she approached him, "Look Elise, Papa's home."

  Elise, mimicking her mother,
smiled at her father and extended one hand out to him. John got up wearily and absentmindedly greeted them both with kisses, his daughter, on her belly, which made her squeal at being tickled, and his wife, on her lips.

  Margaret peered at him with concern, "You talked to Hannah."

  He nodded and put an arm around her to lead her out of the drawing room. They walked up the stairs in silence. Sensing his distraction, Margaret placed an arm around his waist and headed for their bedroom. She deposited Elise on the middle of the bed, and gave her the hand mirror from the dresser to play with. She sat on John's side of the bed, tagged at his arm, and motioned for him to sit down next to her.

  "Do you want to tell me about it?

  "What is there to tell? She is extremely unhappy and disappointed and I let her down."

  "I am so sorry." She answered sympathetically, "You said yourself she has been through worse. So in time, she will come around, I am sure. She loves you and that fact will prevail."

  "Yes, but many things have happened and we have both changed." He was miserable. "She would never forgive me for this."

  Margaret, soaking in his sorrow, could not speak. He sat mournfully for some time and then said regretfully, "The fact is, much of what has been good for me this past year has been devastating to my mother. First you, and now, the matter about the workers and the mill. It is unfortunate but there it is."

  Reminded of her part in depriving Mrs. Thornton of what was most precious to her and already sad for John, Margaret was struck with guilt once more. She bowed her head to hide eyes brimming with sadness and cheeks flushed from the strain of holding her tears back.

  John raised her face and said in a clear but soft voice. "Still, as much as I have disappointed my mother, I want you to know that I would not change a thing and would always be most grateful that I have you."

  Margaret was bewildered. Such words calmed her own turmoil and gave her a warm glow all over. She could listen to them endlessly but why had he thought it necessary to say them when he was the one in need of soothing words? He had spoken to her lovingly but his eyes were dark with pain and the muscles on his face were taut with the burden of his mother's misery. She regarded him earnestly and a pang of guilt hit her again, but this time, it freed her from her own anxieties so that she could set them aside to help him calm his.

  But Margaret felt helpless, at a loss for words in the face of his agony. She had learned from her own experience that words did not always help someone freshly and totally absorbed by sorrow and remorse. But he might find solace, she thought, in the presence of someone who empathized and understood what he was going through. Margaret placed her arms around his neck and pulled his head gently down on her shoulders. She stroked the back of his head and down the nape of his neck. After some time, she whispered into his ear and he lay down on the bed, his head on her lap. She ran her fingers soothingly through his hair and, with the lightest caress, on his face, tracing its outlines. Soon, his already drooping lids closed slowly.

  That night, Margaret asked Mary to put Elise to bed after Margaret had nursed her. When she and John were finally alone, she rang for a light supper to be brought to their bedroom. Mrs. Thornton had made a similar request and the household wondered and speculated about what might have happened.

  John and Margaret did not see Mrs. Thornton for a few days. She stayed in her room and only Jane, who brought her meals and attended to her requests, was allowed to come to her. John tried on the third day to see her but Mrs. Thornton did not answer and later sent a message through Jane that she was not to be disturbed. She would come out when she was ready.

  **************

  More than a week later, Mrs. Thornton finally descended from her room after John had left for the mill and Margaret was in the drawing room talking to Dixon. Margaret and Dixon heard the characteristic rustle of Mrs. Thornton's crinoline as she entered, her face resolute and unsmiling, her eyes blazing in the way Margaret had seen John's eyes do in profound anger.

  "Leave us Dixon. I want to talk to Margaret. Close the door behind you."

  Dixon glanced first at Mrs. Thornton and then, with concern, at Margaret. She hesitated and stayed rooted in place until Margaret, with a slight nod, gave her leave to go.

  Margaret turned towards Mrs. Thornton. "I am glad you are feeling better. Have you had breakfast?"

  Mrs. Thornton ignored her question, "We need to talk."

  "What about? Perhaps, we should sit." Margaret, determined to be as agreeable as she could, smiled and ignored the hostility that was obvious in the older woman's tone.

  "I prefer to stand." Mrs. Thornton's voice was both tense and icy.

  Margaret remained standing and, bracing herself for a contentious encounter, she resolved to remain calm, reasonable, and patient. But she was totally unprepared for what came next.

  Mrs. Thornton, eyes narrowed and gritting her teeth, unleashed the resentments she had been nurturing for a long time, "I never liked you with your airs and southern graces. I find them pretentious and annoying. I never understood what my son saw in you."

  Margaret was too stunned to answer and Mrs. Thornton continued, "You have changed him and he has lost his focus. I do not recognize him much anymore. A Milton girl would have known better than to interfere as you have. You……"

  Margaret, regaining her composure, interrupted in a strong, cold voice. "Mrs. Thornton, please take heed of what you are saying. John is still the John you knew, doing what he believes the best way he can. If you want to credit me for something, I would own up to nurturing his compassion but he has always had that. It is what has made him fair to his workers and conscientious about keeping the mill productive. His workers depend on it, you depend on it."

  "And you do not?"

  "On the mill? No, not in the way you do. It is important to me because it is a significant part of John's life. It is what you taught him and what fate threw in his path. If he was doing something else, he would still mean the whole world to me."

  "Fancy words. You did not even know what he was when you rejected him. Now, you speak as if you know him better than me. You have seduced him with words like those but you cannot do that to me. The truth is he would not have turned against me but for you."

  "He has not turned against you. He did only what he thought was in the best interests of the mill. It agonized him deeply that he made you very unhappy in doing so but he believed you were strong, resilient and would overcome this as you have other adversities before it. You told me yourself that you have faced setbacks, defeat, even tragedy—and he watched you ride them all."

  "I have always done what was best for him at the expense of my comfort, my own needs and wishes. He knows that and would never intentionally do anything to hurt me."

  "Yes, he does know that and, no, he would never hurt you on purpose. But you also taught him the mill is everything and he made a decision, as painful as it was, that he believed was best for it."

  "He knows! He knows! Of course, he knows! But you, what do you know? You are merely an ignorant upstart from the south with pretensions of book knowledge and aristocratic ideas and now, you think you know him better than I do."

  Mrs. Thornton was desperate. Margaret countered her attacks with an equanimity and forcefulness that she had not expected. All those solitary days in her room, Mrs. Thornton had nursed the pain of what, to her, was the ultimate proof of her son's rejection when he sided with the workers demand for her to stop going to the mill. It was the negation of what she had given of herself, the nullifying, it seemed, of what her life meant. She saw all those in her last conversation with her son and it devastated her. The pain of it all percolated in her breast until she feared it would burst out and destroy her unless she did something about it.

  She had felt betrayed by her son but she threw the blame for that betrayal on someone else. That person was in front of her now and Mrs. Thornton, disconcerted by Margaret's composure, felt she had no choice but to savagely perform an exorcism. "
Get out of our lives! You do not belong here. Get out of our lives! I want my son back." Her voice cracked and by the time she had flung her final insult at Margaret, her anger had drained her energy.

  "Mrs. Thornton, please, do not say anything more that you might regret. Like it or not, I am your son's wife and I have every intention of remaining so." Margaret's eyes were on fire and her tone grew from emphatic to challenging.

  Mrs. Thornton advanced towards her and retorted scornfully but her voice was now subdued, quivering, spent. "You are only his wife. I am his mother. Blood is thicker than water."

  Margaret lifted her chin high and declared, with blazing undaunted eyes directed at Mrs. Thornton, "We should end this conversation right now. You have made your sentiments towards me very clear and I can say no more that will make my intentions equally clear." She turned around and sailed out of the room, her jaw clenched and her eyes welling up with tears.

  When certain that she was no longer within sight of Mrs. Thornton, she ran up the stairs to her bedroom, locked the door and sat by the window. She dropped her face on her hands and she trembled from a chaos of emotions. Her shoulders heaved and shook but except for a few gasps of air, no other sounds came out of her struggle. She was enraged, that much she could tell. It was always her first response to the perception of being attacked. But stronger feelings that she could not grasp had also taken hold of her, a mix of sadness and desolation, of perplexity and even fear—of what, she could not identify. Mrs. Thornton declared she was not a Milton girl and she knew she was not a London girl and certainly no longer was she Margaret Hale of Helstone. What was she and did it matter where she belonged?

  It was a long time before she felt calmer and her body stopped shaking. She got up, walked into the sitting room towards the window, stared blankly out at the garden for a few more minutes—her body motionless but far from tranquil and her mind still in turmoil over the encounter with Mrs. Thornton. She wondered if she should say anything at all about it to John. He knew, as she did, that his mother did not like her so she reasoned that that fact did not bear repeating. And although the violence of Mrs. Thornton's declarations and accusations that morning troubled her deeply, Margaret tried to imagine what Mrs. Thornton had gone through the last few days when the remaining focus of her life was taken away from her.