As his eyes took in the scene around him — the dark, heavy looms and stilled atmosphere of industry — he recalled her distaste for all that he represented. Time and again, she had made it clear that she found Milton a repugnant place of suffering and struggle, and the cotton mills the very center of all that bode ill. He let out his breath as a deadening of hope descended over him.
She did not understand him. She did not know of his trials and struggles, the inner yearnings that she had instilled in him to be a better man. Instead, she threw all her thought and care to those who toiled beneath him in the factories.
It pained him that she would disdainfully dismiss the position which he had so assiduously earned, thinking him a hardened taskmaster and perpetrator of disparity. He had sought with all diligence and resolve to establish a worthy name and home for his mother and sister. This he had accomplished. It was all he could offer her.
He felt the paucity of his worth in her eyes. Would she deign to become a manufacturer’s wife in this rough-hewn northern city, far from the refined circles of London or the pastoral scenes of her childhood home? The taut muscles of his body slackened and his eyes dropped to the cotton waste that stirred in the shadows as he strode past with heavy footfall.
Wearied and distraught, he headed for home. He was not good enough for her. He had known it from their first meeting, but he could not suppress the fierce desire that ached in his chest. The vision was now clear before him — without her, his life would fade into meaningless routine, void of the warmth and purpose which only she could bestow. Was it too much to hope, that a woman as glorious as she could find it in her heart to love him?
As he walked through the house, the remembrance of what had happened that day swept through his mind with exhilarating force. She had sat close to him, gently caring for the wound near his temple. He had been transfixed by the sight — her soft skin and full lips so tantalizingly near him. He had been unable to resist, grasping her wrist and slowly drawing closer to her cherub mouth. And, to his utter amazement, she had not shrunk from him! His heart pounded as he relived that moment. His hope once again soared to dangerous heights.
He shook his head to quell the swelling exhilaration. Had he been delirious? He thought he had sensed a willing compliance in her response. Perhaps he had frightened her with his approach. She had not resisted, but her eyes had been soft and wide as they locked with his, her body as still as a statue.
It was sweet torture to his soul to imagine that she would welcome his affectionate ministrations.
His thoughts continued to fluctuate from expectation to anxious despair as he prepared for bed and finally lay down to rest. The slight ache of his head warned him of his exhaustion and the blow he had sustained. He knew it would be difficult to find sleep. The utter darkness of the room induced him to close his eyes, yet his mind would not find solace. The clock on the mantle irreverently marked the passing hours as he writhed in a silent agony of hope.
Chapter Three
Mr. Thornton woke the next morning at the prescribed hour, stirring himself to life at dawn as was his habit. He opened his eyes, at once alert to the impending import of the day. Today his future would unfold with imperishable brightness or collapse beneath him with blighted hope.
The humid air seemed thick with an eager energy as he made his morning ablutions. He shaved with careful precision, staring blankly at his reflection in mute amazement at the hand that fate had played. Only yesterday morning, he had believed himself consigned to a life of solitude — a life in which he would be destined to bury himself in his work to evade the hollowness that would never be filled.
Now, there was hope that he might not live alone — that the woman who so beguiled him might become his wife.
He could scarcely believe that he should be standing here today, endeavoring to conjure the words that he would use in confessing his heart. His breath came quickly in anxious consternation of his inadequacy. He was neither eloquent of tongue nor practiced in speaking of love. He had no knowledge of the precise words that might be acceptable to a lady of her standing.
He let out an exasperated sigh as he crossed the room to fetch his shirt. With the end of the strike and the probable return of many of his workers, he would have scant time to allow his thoughts to wander. It would be a strain to his schedule at this time to leave the mill and go to see her, but see her he must. He could not wait another moment to know what she might make of him, and was resolved to go to Crampton by mid-morning.
He snatched his frock coat from the wardrobe and shrugged it on as he headed out. He stopped and glanced quickly around his room before stepping into the hallway and closing the door. His hopes were tremulous, but potent. He did not know what this momentous day would bring, he only knew that when he returned at nightfall, he would be a different man.
*****
Mrs. Thornton studied her son’s agitated demeanor with a furtive glance as he stepped into the breakfast room. He made no motion to partake of the simple breakfast that was laid out on the table. “Will you not eat, John? It is certain to be a strenuous day with the return of the strikers,” she remarked in an attempt to care for his health.
The Master glanced at the table before relenting to her motherly admonition and seating himself to quickly consume eggs, toast, and tea.
“What will you do with the Irish if all the hands wish to return?” she asked, wondering how much thought he had given to his current predicament.
“First we must see who will return,” he replied with easy logic. “It seems most of the Irish will be satisfied to return home. I will pay them for their troubles and they will be no worse for the wear,” he concluded with a low sigh. He took one last draught from his teacup and rose to depart.
“I will go to Crampton at eleven or thereabouts,” he announced. The words, almost casually spoken, stilled the atmosphere like a solemn edict. Their eyes locked together in a meaningful glance before Mr. Thornton turned to take his leave.
Hannah Thornton sat rigidly in her chair listening to the scuffle of her son’s footsteps as he descended the stairs until she heard the final thud of the outside door.
*****
Margaret dressed with languorous movements, grateful to have put yesterday behind her and unwilling to hastily relinquish the quiet privacy of her morning. She determined that today would be one of peace and resolved to banish any unsettling thoughts. She would devote her attention to her mother and would visit Bessy, if time allowed.
She breakfasted with her father, who seemed relieved and cheered that his wife was feeling better. When he went upstairs to his study, Margaret followed, continuing down the hall to keep company with her mother.
Dixon was clearing away her mistress’s breakfast tray when Margaret entered the room. Mrs. Hale gave her daughter a slightly strained smile as she sat weakly but comfortably in the plush, rose-colored chair of her sitting room.
“Isn’t the mistress looking much better?” the stout and loyal servant asked Margaret, who nodded cheerfully in reply.
“I do believe the water mattress helped me sleep better. Margaret, you must thank Mrs. Thornton for her kindness in sending it. And was it not very thoughtful of Mr. Thornton to bring such exquisite fruit the other day?” Mrs. Hale remarked in her delicate voice. She was sincerely pleased to have been accorded such kindly consideration from people she had originally deemed rough and unpolished.
“Yes, Mama,” Margaret answered politely, fluttering her eyelids in embarrassed distraction. She watched silently as Dixon exited the room with tray in hand, giving Margaret coveted time alone with her mother.
“Shall I read to you this morning?” Margaret asked, laying her hand on a book of her mother’s favorite sonnets.
“Yes, my dear, and then will you read to me again the recent letter from your Aunt Shaw?” she asked meekly.
Margaret smiled in response and opened the leather-bound book on the tableside to begin reading some of Tennyson’s poetry. Her mo
ther listened with her eyes closed, her head resting against the crochet-covered chair back. The words tripped easily from the younger woman’s tongue, and the rhythm and meter soothed. But no matter how hard Margaret tried to banish it, the memory of her actions the day before stole into her thoughts, bringing an occasional blush to her cheeks.
*****
Mr. Thornton left the mill at half past ten, unable to concentrate on the matters at the factory any longer. His step was quick and his spirit light at the thought of seeing Margaret again.
Gray clouds moved slowly overhead and a light wind subdued the growing warmth of noon, stirring the grasses underfoot. Traveling the dusty path that led over a great hill, he took no note of the distant landscape that lay before him. With his gaze fixed ahead, he walked briskly toward his purpose. Exhilaration was tainted by trepidation as he vaguely rehearsed his lines and imagined her response.
He strode past vendors and workers in the busy streets as he drew closer to the rented townhouse that housed the former vicar and his family. With trembling eagerness, he bounded up the stairs to rap on the painted door. Removing his tall hat as the door opened, his pulse hammered furiously when the broad maid gave him entrance into the Hales’ house.
Dixon eyed the cotton manufacturer with aloof curiosity. Mr. Thornton was regularly received twice a week in the evenings to study the classics with Mr. Hale, but rarely came calling during the day. “The master is upstairs in the study,” she informed him curtly as she began to return to the kitchen.
“I would speak to Miss Hale,” he answered more hastily than he had intended. He swallowed to rein in his impatience and evened his breath with effort. “If you please,” he added with calm civility.
Her eyebrows rose faintly as she cursorily studied him. “Miss Margaret is with her mother. I’ll see if she is receiving callers this morning,” she answered haughtily. Gesturing him to the parlor, she lumbered up the stairs to make known his request.
The family servant quietly let herself in the room where Mrs. Hale was napping in her chair. Margaret looked up from the book she was reading. “Mr. Thornton is in the parlor,” she announced summarily in whispered tones.
The young miss paled and felt her heart skip a beat. “Is not father in his study?” she queried hopefully, her voice wavering slightly.
“He asked for you, miss. Your father remains undisturbed.”
“Very well, I will come directly,” she replied, endeavoring to sound composed.
*****
Mr. Thornton stood restlessly at the window, attempting to gather his thoughts, though his heart beat erratically in anticipation of Margaret's arrival. He dared to divine the full fruition of his fondest dreams — that his words would meet with her sweet approval and that with his beckon she would fall into his arms to find her rightful home and resting place.
A faint rustling alerted him to her arrival, and he swung around to watch as she silently glided into the room.
He moved forward with a tempered eagerness and, brushing very near her still form, closed the door behind her. What he wished to say would be for her alone.
“I trust your mother slept well,” he remarked in passing, feeling his mouth go dry as he assumed a position several steps across from her.
“Yes, my mother thanks you for your kindnesses on her behalf,” Margaret managed to respond with stiff formality, her eyes glancing at him briefly before lowering her gaze. She trembled inwardly to be alone in his presence, afraid of what he had come to say.
With a sweeping glance, Mr. Thornton hungrily took in the sight of her. She was beautiful in her queenly bearing, holding her chin ever so slightly aloft even as maiden modesty required that she avoid his gaze. Her small, delicate hands were linked gracefully before her. “I only wish I could be of more service,” he answered softly, the last words drifting from his lips. He stifled the urge to rush forward and take her hands in his.
“Miss Hale, I’m afraid I was very ungrateful yesterday,” he declared, rigidly beginning his practiced lines.
“There is no need to be grateful,” she returned immediately, causing a flicker of confusion to cross his face.
“I believe there is. I must thank you for your kind attention....”
“Please, don’t speak of it,” she interrupted. “I only did what any one would to tend to one who had fallen. Surely, you need not thank me, when it is I who placed you in danger. I did not think...” she equivocated as a new wave of guilt bid her to imagine how horribly he might have been hurt.
“Are you well today?” she suddenly thought to ask as she stepped toward him, raising her hand as if she would inspect his wound. Her eyes softened in gentle concern.
The wall of his reserve crumbled at this sign of tenderness, and he swiftly grasped her hand between both of his. “Will you marry me? That’s what I’ve come to ask you,” he breathed, his husky Darkshire accent intensified by his urgency.
She stared at him with widened eyes for an instant before hastily withdrawing her hand and turning her back to him, her heart skittering in frightened confusion. “Mr. Thornton, you must not speak so!” she hastily rebuked him. “I am sure you feel obligated to rescue my reputation, but I assure you that is not necessary,” she answered in quavering tones, struggling to edify her voice with conviction, being overcome with the strange hope that he should be in earnest and not impelled by honor.
“I had no thought for your reputation,” he answered immediately with vehemence. “I would gladly lay down my all to save your honor, but I wish to marry you because I love you ... as I believe no man has ever loved woman before,” he declared with rising ardor, his breath coming quickly in his passion.
She did not move nor make a sound, unable to breathe or speak for the clamoring of her heart.
His body quaked in expectation of her answer. He waited. Clinging to the hope that her silence indicated consideration, he continued his plea more gently. “I know that I am not worthy of you, but my heart cannot remain silent,” he declared with a tremulous voice. “If you will only consider me, I believe I can offer you every comfort that you may desire. I offer you my utter devotion. There is nothing....”
“Yes,” she interjected with shortened breath, impelled by something deep within that swelled and ached at the honesty of his plea.
The world seemed to still around her. She could scarcely believe what she had uttered.
“Excuse me?” he asked in stunned amazement, doubting he had heard correctly.
Summoning the courage to reaffirm her impulsive answer, she turned to face him. “I said ‘yes,'” she avowed shakily, raising her eyes to his to see the expression of incredulous wonder frozen upon his face.
“Margaret!” he whispered hoarsely with trembling emotion. He stepped forward, stretching his arms out toward her, but stilled himself when she stiffened at his approach and hid her flushed face from his.
He dropped his arms and stood in awkward silence for a brief moment. “I must speak to your father,” he stammered, finding recourse in speaking the words that custom would demand as he stared at her in stupefaction.
Margaret raised her head to answer him, but could only meet his gaze briefly. “He is in his study,” she faltered, attempting to sound unaffected by the momentous weight of the occasion.
His limbs were leaden, for although he was eager to secure her word, he was afraid to leave her, lest the spell be broken and she decide against him. He studied her demure pose for a moment before turning to go. As he climbed the stairs, he raised a silent prayer that she had spoken from the heart.
“Mr. Hale?” he called out from the doorway of the study where the older man sat at his desk, pouring over some ancient text.
“Is that you, John?” he responded with surprise, doffing his glasses and rising to greet his favorite pupil with a broad smile. “I did not expect you until tomorrow evening.”
“I have come on a matter of personal business,” the Master stated with some apprehension.
; “Of course, of course ... come in,” said the former vicar, gesturing amicably. “What can I do for you?” he asked as he sat back down in his chair.
Mr. Thornton opened his mouth for a moment before he could formulate the words. “I have come to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage,” he announced with gravity, scarcely able to believe he was indeed asking his trusted friend for permission to marry his lovely daughter.
Mr. Hale’s pleased expression turned into one of considerable shock. “Margaret?” he asked vacantly, attempting to recover himself. “Why I should like nothing more, John, but...ahem…perhaps you might consider trying to court her first. I don't believe she is quite appreciative of your finer qualities...” he stuttered, not wishing to offend his friend with his honest fear that Margaret might reject the proposal.
“She has already given her consent,” the younger man answered with a growing smile.
If Mr. Hale had been surprised before, he now struggled with absolute incomprehension. He stared at Mr. Thornton for a lingering moment a creased brow and a slackened jaw. He had been quite certain that Margaret detested the man and all that he represented. How was it that she had suddenly changed her perception of him?
Despite his internal confusion, he mustered a pleasing smile for the man before him. “That is wonderful news, John! Wonderful indeed, I assure you,” he replied as he stood up to shake his future son-in-law’s hand. “But would you perhaps take the trouble to send Margaret to me? I would like to speak to her a few minutes,” he fumbled, half congratulatory, half wary.
Mr. Thornton’s smile faded at this request. He dreaded that Margaret might be given an opportunity to reconsider. “Of course,” he answered, and left to carry out his task.
His eyes sought her before he had even reached the last few stairs, anxiously wondering if she was still there — if she was still willing to stand behind the word she had given him, the one word that had the power to change his entire life.
In Consequence: A Retelling of North and South Page 5