“But, mother, I was so frightened! They could have stormed in to murder us all!” she cried out, her eyes wide in horror as her blond ringlets bobbed with the movement of her head.
“Oh, Fanny! They would have done no such thing!” Mrs. Thornton chastised her daughter in exasperation.
Fanny huffed at her mother’s dismissal and observed her mother’s expert fingers dart and pull her needle with uncommon brusqueness. Eventually sitting up, she shunned her mother’s silent company to find calming distraction in playing her favorite piano pieces.
Hannah Thornton let out a small sigh. She felt that the proud, predictable life she had led up to this time was fast slipping away. She had always known, of course, that John would marry, but he had never taken an interest in the fairer sex before, so consumed by his work had he been. She had grown accustomed to being the most important figure in his life and had not been prepared for the abrupt change in her son’s behavior since this young southern woman had arrived in Milton.
Mrs. Thornton had sensed a disturbance in the air from the very first time she had spotted the girl wandering the mill yard below. Her son had been overly keen to impress these Hales — as if they were visiting gentry! He looked up to Mr. Hale as a man of learning and intellect, and sought his company often – this disgraced preacher!
As for Miss Hale — the light that sparked in his eyes at the mention of her name had not escaped his mother; she had noted all the signs of his attraction to this lively beauty — his small smiles and half-hearted protestations of indifference. She had hoped it would prove a passing fancy, for although she had been surprised at his awakening interest in Miss Hale, she reasoned that even should her son fall captive to the charms of womankind, his business would soon absorb him once more. But, much to her chagrin, he showed every alarming sign of falling in love with this haughty young woman.
The proud mother tugged her needle forcefully from the underside of her embroidery. It had galled her considerably when, weeks before, the girl had scornfully laughed when she had mentioned John’s privileged status as the most sought-after bachelor in town. How quickly she had seemed to change her mind!
Mrs. Thornton gave a huff of incredulity at the girl’s fickleness. Perhaps the pretty newcomer had soon discovered how well John was respected in this town. To be chosen by her son would elevate a kitchen-wench to the esteem of the world. A wry smile crept over her lips. No doubt the well-bred girl had also realized that his wealth and position were not to be scoffed at, although he was not the feckless, dandified sophisticate that she might aspire to in a London gentleman.
Miss Hale was a spirited, outspoken girl, quite unlike her mild and harmless father. Mrs. Thornton was quite shocked, however, that a gentleman’s daughter would act so shamelessly as to embrace her son in public. She halted her sewing, her hands resting limply in her lap. It was of no use now to censure the girl. She had won her aim. John must offer her his name to secure her reputation. She would be his wife, and must be accorded the respect due her as such.
The troubled widow cast her eyes about the immaculate room. She would be replaced soon enough as mistress of Marlborough Mills and fade into the shadows of her son’s life. Margaret would reign over his heart and home.
A dissonant chord sounded from the neighboring room, jarring the stalwart matriarch from her reverie. Unfortunately, Fanny’s skills as a pianist did not match her enthusiasm. Mrs. Thornton inhaled deeply and took up her sewing again. For now, it was just the three of them. She would endeavor to hold on to these days, and keep them close to her heart. She would bear the change, whenever it fell upon them. For John’s sake, she must.
*****
“Mr. Thornton ... Mr. Thornton? Are you quite all right? Perhaps you should sit,” the constable urged, studying the distracted Master with some concern. The man looked dazed, he thought, though whether from the injury he had sustained or from the sheer enormity of events he did not know.
“No, I am well,” Mr. Thornton replied, tearing his gaze from the barren platform across the yard, the same platform where she had stood with him amid the furor of the masses not an hour ago. It seemed a thing incredible to him now — that she had dared to come down to save him. She had used her body as a shield, and had wrapped her arms around his neck....
He shook himself from these thoughts and looked with furrowed brow at the sturdy, uniformed man in his mill office. “You were saying?” Mr. Thornton prompted, determined to offer his full attention to the matter at hand, though his heart beat strong with unfettered exhilaration.
“We will seek out the perpetrators and bring justice to those who caused you bodily harm ...” the constable began solemnly.
“I will not press charges,” Mr. Thornton interrupted. “The guilty parties will become known and they will find it difficult to obtain work. Their own actions will give them punishment. That will be justice enough.”
The constable raised an eyebrow at his decision but returned not a word. Mr. Thornton was not a man with whom to quibble.
Before the constable had departed, Mr. Hamper and Mr. Henderson, masters from nearby cotton mills, arrived at Thornton’s office to speak to him. They related to Mr. Thornton the word on the street as well as their own boastful predictions.
“The strike is over. The Union has lost its stance with the outbreak of violence. Mark my words, they’ll be at the mill gates with hats in hand come tomorrow morning. We’ve won, Thornton!” Hamper exuded with triumphant grin.
Mr. Thornton acknowledged the truth of their reasoning, but felt no impulse to rejoice over the trouble that had been wrought and the trouble still facing him concerning his Irish hands. Completing his discussion with his colleagues, he climbed the stairs to reach the upper floor of his mill. He found the men and women from across the Irish Sea castigating him with frightened outcries and demands to return home. Mustering all his mental strength, he spoke to them with calm authority and endeavored to quell their fears. Impatiently, he bore his responsibility, when all he truly longed to do was quit the mill and follow the road to Crampton.
As he walked home later across the quiet yard hours later, images of Margaret flooded his thoughts and began to ignite the simmering emotions that he had endeavored to control these past few hours. A swell of hope rose as he recalled how gently she had tended to him, and the sweet look of care on her face was etched in his mind. Did she carry some affection for him after all? He burned to know if any fondness, any budding warmth of feeling might be ripening in her heart for him. If there was any chance at all, any possibility that she might feel toward him the merest part of what he himself felt for her, then he would risk everything to secure a place in her life.
At dinner with his family, he appeared subdued, answering absentmindedly his mother’s questions as to the settling of affairs and listening to Fanny’s ceaseless chatter about the excitement of the day.
“I believe I have heard enough,” he announced at last when he had finished eating. “The reality of it was enough for me,” he added, standing up from the table and moving to a seat in the drawing room. He picked up the newspaper and opened it with much rustling, but truly could not read a word.
Fanny went to her room to write the day’s events in her diary, while Mrs. Thornton took a seat across from her son and picked up her embroidery.
The stillness of the room gnawed at his agitation. Silently, Mr. Thornton bore the rise and ebb of his hopes and doubts until the growing conviction of what he must do became all-consuming. He set aside his paper and moved to take a seat next to his mother with somber import. “Mother ...” he uttered, the word heavy with a low, earnest imploring.
Hannah Thornton shivered at his call, her body tensing in foreboding for what he might say. She raised her eyes to his and drew in her breath at the kindling of passion in his eyes.
“I must go tomorrow and ask for Miss Hale’s hand,” he confided, searching her face for her reaction.
“Yes, you could hardly do otherwise,�
� she allowed, sagging in defeat.
“What do you mean?” he asked quizzically, his brow creased in confusion.
“You are bound in honor,” she emphasized slowly, with dignity. “Did she not shamelessly reveal her feelings for you for half of Milton to see?” she asked with brusque contempt for the girl’s behavior.
“Mother! She wished to save me from violence ...” he exclaimed, though her words stirred the fire of desperate hope within him.
“Then she should not have sent you as a lamb before the wolves!” his mother returned, deftly surmising why he had evaded her earlier questioning. She was quite certain that the girl had somehow goaded her son into facing the mob.
The Master turned his face away, the color deepening on his cheek.
Mrs. Thornton let out her breath in disgust. “I only hope that you will take care, John, not to follow her every edict. She may well have won your heart, but I hope you will keep sovereign rule over your mind,” she exhorted earnestly. She will be a lively one to manage as his wife, she thought to herself.
“But, Mother, I dared not believe she would have me ...until today ...” he revealed, the image of her eyes, her lips — so close to his — coming before him and quickening his breath.
She watched his eyes grow distant as some powerful force swelled within him, removing his power of speech. “She will take you from me, I am certain of it,” she declared with reluctant confidence, uncomfortable with the strength of emotion that seemed to carry him away from her even now.
Bewilderment clouded his face at her surety. “I know she has never approved of me. We have always spoken at odds ... yet, I cannot contain my hope. I must ask her.”
“Don’t be afraid, John, she has already shown her feelings for all to see,” she assured him with a weak smile as she reached out to tenderly stroke his roughened cheek. Her mother’s heart bled to see her son so conflicted as to his worthiness to be loved. How she prayed that this girl would truly love him, not with fleeting fancy for his outward success, but with fervent affection for all that he truly was! She would not find a better man in all of England.
She retracted her hand and bowed her head slightly in conciliation. “I think I may learn to like her. She has swallowed her pride and recognized your merits,” she admitted quietly. Lifting her gaze again, she saw her son’s eyes sparkle with hope even as his brow remained creased in anguished confusion.
*****
In the Hale’s more humble home, Dixon helped her ailing mistress to her bedchamber shortly after dinner, leaving Mr. Hale with his daughter in the dimming light of the drawing room.
“It was very kind of Mrs. Thornton to send the water mattress so promptly. I had thought it would be too much trouble. I heard from one of my students that there was some violence at Marlborough Mills today,” the kindly gray-haired man relayed in ignorance as he looked to Margaret.
“Yes, let us hope mother will sleep well tonight,” she responded with a forced smile, ignoring his latter remark. She quaked with fear at the thought that her father might learn of her role in that violence.
“I’m sure she will, Margaret,” he said with conviction. “I will go read to her until she falls asleep. You look quite pale, my dear. You have done enough for today. Why don’t you retire for the evening?” he suggested with a comforting smile.
“Thank you, papa, I think I shall. The heat is wearying, and I am tired,” she replied, giving him a small smile in return.
She climbed the stairs to her room with open relief and hidden trepidation. No longer obligated to maintain a facade of calm composure, she felt a weight lift from her shoulders. She could allow her thoughts to flow more freely, although she feared she must be alert to redirect any errant wanderings from probing the deeper, uncharted waters of her mind.
No sooner had she shut the door then a faint trembling made her limbs feel unsteady as she walked to the wardrobe to undress. Why did she quake, when all danger was long passed and the frightful events of the day mere memory?
She had been terrified to think that he might have been gravely injured. How foolish she had been to send him to quiet the unruly mob!
Her fingers clumsily fumbled with the buttons on her blouse. Had he even tried to speak to them, she asked herself? Should she bear all the guilt for what had transpired when he had done nothing to mollify the crowd? Indeed, there would have been no riot at all if it were not for his stubborn refusal to find the means to reach across the divide of masters and men and find a common understanding.
She felt her anger rise at the coldness of his manner with his workers. Had he not also struggled against poverty to bring himself to his current position? Had he no heart to consider the hardship of those now beneath him, who depended on his good judgment and fair management for their very livelihood?
She tugged vehemently at the laces on her boots. How could he have brought innocent foreigners into the midst of this trouble to replace the hard-working men he had employed for so long?
But it was not anger that she felt as she recalled his pale, unmoving face. A cold chill descended over her and stilled her hands. Although she believed his methods were misguided, she could never condemn him to pain ... or worse. How helpless he had appeared for those few, perilous moments when he had lain before her — no longer the proud master and governor of fortunes, but simply a man who, like any other, was vulnerable to the cruel whims of fate.
She thought of the misfortunes he had endured — his father’s suicide had sent him down a path in which there was no recourse but to strive and work to alleviate the hardship of poverty and shame. He had borne it well and had gained stature in his diligence.
After hanging her skirt, she pulled her muslin nightgown from the drawer. Slipping it over her head, she recalled how she had wrapped her arm firmly around his waist to help him up the stairs. She blushed anew at the remembrance of how their bodies had been pressed together.
She scrambled into bed and tried to banish any further thoughts of him, recalling the comforts of childhood, when her existence had been happy and secure. She closed her eyes to shut out the world around her, but she could not escape the images that floated through her mind, despite her mental protests and endeavors to distract herself to other contemplations.
Her heart quickened as she remembered the dizzying clarity of his blue eyes as he had held her wrist. She had never been so close to a man’s face before. A heated flush flowed from within her breast and warmed her face. Why had she not stepped away at once?
She tossed her head to the side to shake the vision away, feeling the beating of her pulse as her chest rose and fell in flustered confusion. She would not think of it — she would not! She had done only what she felt was right, tending to him as any good Christian woman would.
With a rustle of sheets, she turned to her side and slid her hands under her cheek, resolutely shifting her contemplation to her mother’s health and the hope that she would find relief from her recent sufferings. Weary from all the tumult of the day, she eventually slipped into a fitful sleep.
*****
Gathering darkness steadily consumed the fading rays of twilight as Mr. Thornton paced the confines of his office. The lantern on his desk cast long shadows along the wall. He paused at the window and narrowed his eyes to discern the dim form of the portico across the way where he had awoken in a haze to the sight of her angelic face. He had thought it a dream: her eyes alight with earnest care as she called his name — she who had castigated him forcefully for his inhumanity! But it had not been an illusion, for she had risen instantly to steady him when he had swayed, grasping him firmly with her own delicate hands.
His breath came slowly as he recalled how she had clasped her arm tightly around his waist. He had never imagined that she would touch him in that way. He felt a shudder of rapture as he remembered how her body had securely nestled against his. His heart throbbed with a fierce longing to feel that close contact once again, to gather her in his arms as his very own and
press her firmly to him.
He whipped around to stride to his desk, sweeping his fingers through his hair. What strange force had come over him that he could no longer concentrate on matters of business at such an urgent time? What power was it that she held over him, that his whole body should fairly shake with palpitating energy when he considered how tenderly she had ministered to him?
Could she truly care for him? How long he had yearned to receive from her a look or a word of kindness that might belie some kindling regard or affection! He had been captivated by her bold spirit and uncommon beauty from the moment he had laid eyes upon her months ago. He had guarded his attraction well, knowing that she walked in higher spheres to which he could only aspire. He had never known such a woman, who by her very disdain for his upbringing and position sparked within him a furious desire to prove his worthiness.
He saw well now his plight, although he had valiantly refrained from admitting it. He wanted her in his life. It would no longer do to pretend it would be enough to see her on occasion, to be satisfied with the knowledge that such a wondrous creature existed within his realm. He wanted her to fill his days with her exalted presence, to enliven the dreary world in which he lived and banish the solitude that confined him — tortured him — now that he had glimpsed what life could be. The thought of her consumed him.
In his restlessness, he snatched the lantern and strode through the corridor to the vast weaving shed, where rows of silent machinery slumbered in the darkness.
He had never loved any woman before: his life had been too busy, his thoughts absorbed in other things. Now he loved and would love — to the end of his days. He burned to know if she could love him in return. The promise of the possibility drove him half mad with the desire to have all his dreams of happiness fulfilled. To be loved by her would throw his life into dazzling light.
In Consequence: A Retelling of North and South Page 4