In Consequence: A Retelling of North and South

by Trudy Brasure

  In Consequence

  A Retelling of North and South

  by Trudy Brasure

  Cover design by Heather Siemon

  Copyright @ 2013 by Trudy Brasure

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-1492895183

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Introduction and Acknowledgements

  The characters and themes of North and South still fascinate and inspire me four years after my discovery of Elizabeth Gaskell’s love story. Like many others, I was first captivated by the BBC’s stirring adaptation of the novel starring Richard Armitage and Daniela Denby-Ashe. However, although the powerful images and emotions of the film remain emblazoned on my mind, I now happily turn to the book when I wish to immerse myself in the story and deepen my understanding of the characters Gaskell has so brilliantly drawn.

  Please note that I have quoted a few lines of dialogue from Gaskell’s book in some of the preliminary scenes of my novel before my tale takes its deviation from canon.

  In Consequence inevitably draws on inspiration from both the BBC production and Gaskell’s novel, blending together elements of each as a testament to the indelible impression both of these great works of art have made upon me. This novel is an imaginative exploration of how Gaskell’s love story might have evolved if events had unfolded a little differently….

  I’d like to acknowledge my dear friend Lori Sheppard, who understands my fascination with North and South and loves the book as much as I do. Lori was my sounding board for this story at its inception and throughout the whole project. The value of her contribution to my end product and my relative sanity is unspeakable.

  I also owe a debt of gratitude to Nancy Klein, who was the first to encourage my writing and continues to support me as an editor and a friend.

  Thanks go to Jane Dallimore, who is my British editor and was an invaluable resource in sending John and Margaret to the romantic honeymoon site of Scarborough. And thanks to Blithe Hogan for her editing expertise and her willingness to step in to help in a pinch.

  This time, I will not be remiss in thanking all the wonderful people at C19 who supported my first writing endeavors and helped to cultivate and broaden my love of great literature.

  Long may the interest in and appreciation of Gaskell’s beautiful book continue!

  Trudy Brasure

  October 2013

  Prologue

  Margaret studied her reflection impassively as the family maid swept her auburn hair up into thick coils upon her head. Her usually expressive blue-gray eyes were placid as she regarded the generous scoop of her neckline, which made her look much older than her nineteen years.

  The last time she had worn the pale green gown, she had been eminently pleased with how it had snugly fit her form and fell in easy elegance to the floor. Edith had enthused over it so that she had felt almost as beautiful as her glamorous cousin when they had appeared at a London soiree over a year ago.

  It would be her first formal occasion since moving to this rough industrial city in the North, but she could not muster any enthusiasm for dressing in such finery tonight. Not when she had heard and seen the suffering and struggle she had witnessed this week. She could not forget the gaunt figure of her new friend Bessy, who was fast succumbing to the disease sapping her strength, caused by years of breathing in cotton fibers that lingered in the air of the mills where she had worked.

  Bessy had never participated in grand dinners or balls in her short life. Margaret had been pleased to observe her friend rally this afternoon as the pale girl had eagerly admired the dress that Margaret intended to wear to the Thornton dinner party.

  Dixon teased the last strands of her mistress’ hair into place and gave an exasperated sigh as a few errant curls escaped their bounds to teasingly fall at her temple and at the back of her neck. Margaret smiled faintly in approval at the sight.

  “Come now,” the rounded woman urged as she laid the brush and pins down, “let’s show your mother how you’ve turned out,” she directed, shuffling the young miss toward her mother’s sitting room.

  “Miss Margaret looks well — doesn’t she, ma’am? I’m sure they’ll not be a finer young lady in attendance,” Dixon declared as they entered the room where her mother was sitting.

  Too ill lately to attend any social outing herself, Mrs. Hale was pleased to see her daughter go to this formal affair. “Oh, Margaret, how I should have liked to take you to some grand assembly as my mother, Lady Beresford, used to take me,” she lamented with a smile of approval for her daughter’s becoming attire.

  Margaret bent to kiss her mother for her proud maternal instinct, and managed a sympathetic smile. “I would rather stay home with you — much rather, mama,” she answered. As her friend Bessy had often reminded her, it was an honor to be invited to the annual dinner at the wealthy cotton manufacturer’s house. Still, Margaret had a mind to avoid the loquacious talk, vain posturing, and glittering display of these affairs. She found them abhorrent to her more thoughtful, simpler nature.

  “Oh nonsense, darling! Be sure you notice the dinner well. I should like to know how they manage these things in Milton,” her mother admonished lightly. Born to a well-bred family in the South, Mrs. Hale was curious as to how cultured or resplendent a dinner party could be in a city so filled with toil, filth, and unpolished manners.

  *****

  Margaret kept up with her father’s quick steps as they walked the quieted streets of the city in the last hour of daylight. She did not mind in the least that they would not arrive by carriage. Since renouncing his position as a country vicar, the family had had to manage their money very wisely. Margaret admired her father for his intellectual fervor as well as for his kind-hearted ways, and although she was not pleased that his religious doubts had pressed him to give up the cloth, she respected his decision to take up work as a private teacher in this bustling new place.

  She knew his swift pace was congruent with his eager honor to have been invited as a friend of Mr. Thornton’s. The powerful cotton mill master had been her father’s first pupil, and the elder gentleman had grown to respect and admire the stern-looking manufacturer for his intellect and forthright reasoning. Mr. Thornton’s lessons often exceeded the allotted time, the conversations between them extending beyond the realm of literary themes and philosophy. Margaret was pleased that her father had found a friend amongst the strangers of their new hometown, although she was not as readily able to sing his praises.

  Tall and dark-haired with strong chiseled features, Mr. Thornton was a formidable figure whose sober expression seemed to suggest that he knew little of gaiety or leisure. Margaret admired the self-discipline and unremitting determination that had enabled him to raise his family from poverty, but she had grave reservations as to his methods in dealing with the working classes. She held him and the other masters’ hardened stance largely responsible for the outbreak of the strike that currently held Milton’s cotton industry at a standstill.

  They were among the first guests to arrive at the stone
mansion that stood by the mill. While Mr. Hale conversed with Mr. Thornton’s mother, Margaret chatted with Fanny, who elaborated on the physical comfort she had discovered in using a water mattress for her delicate constitution, and wondered if Mrs. Hale might derive some benefit from borrowing it.

  Margaret’s attention was diverted at this moment by the entrance of Mr. Thornton into the room. He was resplendent, dressed in dark coattails with a gold brocade waistcoat and matching cravat that fitted his commanding frame perfectly. He moved easily amongst his guests, greeting them and smiling as a perfect host would do.

  She watched with fascination as he was introduced to an attractive young lady. He took the proffered hand with a simple elegance. There was no affectation of feeling or gleam of arrogance in his eyes, as she had often seen in the gazes of Edith’s London acquaintances. As the beauty bowed and smiled at his attentions, Margaret realized how strikingly handsome he was.

  She caught her breath when he turned and saw her, and smiled as he made his steady approach toward her. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to clasp his hand in greeting on this occasion.

  His features warmed as he returned the gesture. He spoke of her mother's absence in a low, silken voice of genuine feeling. His tone resonated within her, at once awakening her to the allure of his virile masculinity. She felt his eyes fervently search hers as if he would discern her thoughts and intentions. As she reluctantly pulled her hand from his grasp, his fingertips brushed lightly along her palm and fingers. The sensation sent a flutter through her stomach and she blinked in mute surprise at her reaction.

  She had never felt such a strange stirring within her and wondered what it could portend. She had not yet taken anything to drink and yet she felt almost tipsy. Her limbs quaked slightly to stand so closely before him.

  She was both relieved and chagrined when his attention was diverted by a fellow manufacturer who compelled him to leave her side. He gave her a penetrating look of sincere regret and excused himself with apparent reluctance. Somewhat stunned and forlorn, she stood alone until Mr. Bell, a close friend of her father, guided her about the room to mingle with other guests until all were called to dine.

  Her mother would have been astonished at the opulence of the table settings and the quantity of dishes prepared. Mrs. Thornton’s dinner rivaled any that Margaret had attended in London. She would have been honestly impressed, were it not for her feeling of unease that the surfeit of food and grand elegance seemed incongruous to the lack with which the larger portion of Milton were currently struggling.

  But such inequities did not seem to disturb the consciences of the other diners. Conversation drifted comfortably among the men from the cotton industry, while the women listened quietly to their discussion of profits and future opportunities. Margaret observed with great interest that, although he was the youngest master of the assembled group, Mr. Thornton’s opinion was sought by all the others for his sound judgment.

  The evening might have proceeded more pleasantly than the newcomer had imagined if Fanny Thornton had not so inconveniently pointed out to all in attendance Margaret's attempts to alleviate the starvation of the strikers’ families.

  Her charitable efforts had been rebuked by Mr. Thornton as a detriment to the strikers’ cause and she had burst out to scold his inhumanity in front of all his guests. Margaret’s chest had risen and fallen heavily at the tense interchange. She had felt the impulse to abandon the table so that she might indulge herself in a few tears. Her pride, however, had dictated that she remain and so she had continued to eat her soup with composure, betraying little of the turbulence that swelled in her breast.

  The remainder of the evening could not pass swiftly enough for Margaret. She silently bemoaned having attended at all. Her father and Mr. Bell kept up pleasant conversations with several others after dinner, but she lost all heart in making talk, feeling very much alone in the company of these people who seemed to bear no compassion for those who dwelt beyond their own walls.

  Mr. Thornton neither spoke nor seemed to acknowledge her presence until formal good-byes were given at their parting. Their eyes met briefly with a glimmer of discomfort and he nodded stiffly, his smile somewhat strained. Margaret felt a pang of painful regret to discern it.

  As they started for home on the gas-lit, empty streets, Margaret fondly linked arms with her father. Their leisurely walk in the cool night air lifted her spirits and she enjoyed the pretty way her skirts rustled and swayed about her ankles, as if she were a grand lady.

  “I thought Mr. Thornton looked anxious tonight,” Mr. Hale remarked thoughtfully as they passed the first street corner. “I rather think that his mind is not quite at ease about all this trouble with the strike.”

  “I shouldn’t wonder that he might be troubled, but he spoke so coolly tonight. He stands so firm in his stance that I cannot detect in him any wavering fear that he will not prevail. He must know something of the growing anger of his workpeople and their suffering, but the manner in which he spoke of them made me wonder if he has any feelings at all,” she replied with a touch of reproach.

  Mr. Hale turned his head sharply in surprise to gaze at her. “I believe you are quite set against him, Margaret. You judge him too harshly, I fear. Remember that he has forged his way in this life with great determination, judgment, and self-control. I believe that he is too proud to show his feelings overmuch, but it does not signify that he does not consider such matters greatly in his mind. Truly, I should have thought him just the type of man you would admire, given his exemplary self-discipline,” he lightly admonished her.

  “Oh, I do admire his strong character, Father. His intellect and bearing exceed what I would expect for someone of his kind. Perhaps I just need time to understand these manufacturers. Their conversations are alive with ambition for accomplishment — which is not at all like the tepid, sophisticated talk one endures in London. I quite like their honest zeal, although I do not care for their shortsightedness in dealing with their own workers,” she remarked. “I don’t imagine I made a very good impression tonight,” she added with a rueful smile.

  Her father gave her a sympathetic grin and patted her arm.

  When they finally arrived at their house, Dixon met them at the door, her face white with fear. “Thank God you are come! The doctor is here. She’s better now, but an hour ago I’d thought she would leave us!” she exclaimed in agitation.

  Mr. Hale gripped his daughter’s arm for support, his own face now still and pale. Father and daughter rushed into the house.

  *****

  Mr. Thornton walked into his darkened bedroom, lit the lamp, and shut the door behind him. After all the bustle and conversation of the evening, the house was eerily silent. He let out a long breath and removed his cravat. His mother would count the evening a success. It had begun very well, he thought. There had been such promise in the manner in which Miss Hale had received him. She had never before bestowed such a welcoming smile or warm clasp of hands upon him. He had begun to hope that her opinion of him had undergone a favorable change.

  But whatever warmth he had detected had chilled at the dinner table when he had condemned her compassionate motives and she had seen fit to castigate him in return for his heartlessness.

  He muttered a curse for his sister’s malevolent remark and for the way Mr. Bell had played his hand. But it did not change the facts. Miss Hale was of a different mind, and did not view him or his like in any high regard. He was angry and vexed that she should think him cruel and uncaring.

  He endeavored to brush off the feelings of ill-ease at her disapproval, but was confused and not a little annoyed that he should have to expend so much effort to do so. He had much more important matters to think of at present. He sighed in defeat as he sat on his bed and wearily reclined himself for sleep.

  He had managed, for the evening, to put off the worries which weighed on him more pressingly every day since the strike had begun. His plans to hire Irish replacements were u
nderway — he could no longer wait for the union men to return to work. His profits were sliding, and the machinery lay idle.

  He knew the risks involved in this move, the anger that would arise from those whose places would be filled by the Irish. They had made their choice and now he would make his.

  Mr. Slickson had voiced frightened concern that the strikers would riot and the violence spill to other mills. All these things he had taken under consideration. Had not these concerns swallowed up his every conscious thought these past weeks?

  The thought of Slickson caused his mind to return to the beautiful woman to whom he had been speaking when Slickson interrupted.

  Her presence had entranced him the moment his eyes had taken in her exquisite form. He had been aware of her all evening — noting who she spoke with, when she was unattended, how the other men had appraised her for her startling beauty. It had taken great strength of character to act indifferently toward her, when all he had longed to do was let his eyes follow her or bring himself to her side.

  He quickly withdrew from the indulgence of such thoughts. It was fruitless to harbor any hope of winning her hand or imagine that such a woman would consider him an acceptable match. She would not have him. Was that not evident by the way she had so pointedly rebuked him in front of his company? No, it was best to put her out of his mind entirely.

  And so he directed his thoughts to matters of money, and workers, and cotton production. However, her image persistently returned, and he found himself recalling every expression, every gesture, and every word she had spoken that evening as an enchanting torment to his soul.

  Chapter One

  Margaret lay motionless upon her bed, her arms outstretched in surrender to the sweltering heat of an August night. The clatter of a lone pair of clogs on the cobblestone street below rose through the stilted air, jarring the torpid silence of the hour. As the echoing footsteps faded, a solemn solitude filled the room.