*****
At evening’s end, Margaret sat stoically on her bed. Dinner with her parents had been painfully silent; her father’s attempts at conversation had thinly veiled the disconsolate mood of those gathered.
Dixon, too, had tried to cheer her with a fond remembrance as she had helped her prepare for bed. A faint smile had come upon Margaret’s lips as the family servant recalled how faithfully Margaret had tended a robin’s grave as a young girl. “You’ve a tender heart for all the weak and poor creatures on this earth, Miss Margaret. God bless you for it,” she had told her gently.
Alone now in the darkening shadows, she felt drained of all emotion, her tears all spent. The shock of grief and abandonment had come in unpredictable bursts of anguish that had shaken her fragile hold on stability.
She rose and walked trancelike to the open window to gaze over the stone and brick landscape of man’s making. How she yearned to smell the sweet night air of Helstone and hear the soft rustling of leaves amid the crickets’ song! She closed her eyes to transport herself for a moment and imagine the kiss of a country breeze on her cheek.
She opened her eyes to scan the heavens questioningly. She had tried to make a home here in Milton, finding a kindness and comfort in coming to know more of God’s people. Everything had been taken away from her! Bessy, Nicholas ...
Turning from the window, she padded toward the solace of her bed, endeavoring to push away the remembrance of Nicholas’s awful abandonment. But as she sat down again on the soft mattress, she could not forget the piercing look of betrayal her friend had given her upon his discovery of her betrothal to Mr. Thornton. His hasty rejection of her friendship left an aching hollowness in her breast.
She felt tears begin to gather again, and her throat swelled with sorrow. Oh Bessy, what am I to do? She pleaded silently to her departed friend, wishing desperately that she could hear the assurances of Bessy’s wise judgments. But she would never hear her voice again.
A bitter anger rose within her to think that her friend’s life was cut short by the deplorable conditions of working in a cotton mill. It was unjust that the masters should make profit while these people slowly suffered and died. Was not this what the union was fighting for — to have the workers treated with more consideration for their well-being and intelligence as human beings?
Nicholas’s accusation of betrayal rang in her ears, and she winced at the memory of his pained expression. How could she align herself with the masters when Nicholas struggled so hard against their arbitrary and demeaning ways?
She knew she could never forfeit her close relation to Mary and Nicholas and felt increasingly trapped between two worlds. How little sympathy masters and men seemed to have for each other, she mused in distress. If only they could overcome their pride and stubbornness and reach some understanding! Did they not see how they needed each other?
But her heart could not conceive of any hope of reconciliation between the classes at present. She recalled with growing indignation the shock and cold disdain with which Mrs. Thornton and the others had discovered her liaison with the strikers. The icy rebuke she had received from Mr. Thornton and the controlled, unfeeling manner with which he had spoken to her, convinced her that he would hardly smile upon her continuing friendship with the Higginses as his wife.
Defiance swelled within her at the thought of being controlled and directed by his strong opinion to give up her cherished alliance with Milton’s struggling poor. How could she have agreed to marry him, she wondered in agitation? It would never do to be bound to one who would belittle her compassion and constrain her to tepid acceptance of the deep divide between rich and poor. They were too far apart in mind and spirit to make a happy union!
All her thoughts now began to gather ominously against the promise she had made. Warm tears began to prick at the corner of her eyes as confusion and weariness overwhelmed her. She recalled with anguish how pleased her parents were with her engagement and remembered, too, the look of earnest hope in Mr. Thornton’s eyes at her acceptance. But it was no use to think on it now, she determined. “I cannot marry him,” she cried out at last as she threw herself down onto her pillow with choking sobs.
Chapter Six
A beam of morning sun angled into the open window as Margaret drowsily opened her eyes. She watched the suspended dance of illuminated dust for a moment before lifting her gaze to trace the light heavenward. Slowly drawing in her breath, she raised a hopeful prayer that Bessy had found a peace beyond the woeful cares of this earth.
She kept her swollen eyes fixed on this promising vision until the steady light slowly faded as Milton’s murky clouds swallowed up the fleeting opening to the sun. The room fell instantly into a dim pallor of gray and Margaret felt the bleak despair of loneliness descend upon her once more.
The shaft of light that pierced the gloomy sky illuminated the high street where Mr. Thornton navigated his way past morning shoppers, intent upon his purpose.
The granite curb sparkled in the brilliant light and sunshine glinted off the shop front windows. The colored garments and hats of the women in front of him took on more vibrant hues as the sun’s rays bathed everything indiscriminately in its yellow light.
Mr. Thornton glanced upward to see the source of this uncommon illumination and prayed that Providence would similarly smile upon his heartfelt desire — to keep the favor of the woman he loved so that he might secure a place in her heart. Taking a deep breath, he scanned the heavens hopefully before turning to enter a store. The Master pushed open the door and stepped inside, where he was at once surrounded by the exotic fragrance and myriad colors of the florist’s shop.
*****
Margaret moved with a heavy heart through her morning routine. Disbelief, grief, and confusion wrung deep sighs from her as she wondered if Nicholas was truly so sorely set against her. She dreaded the thought of facing her parents and renouncing her engagement, and wished desperately that she could crawl back into her bed and let the world go on without her for a time.
She was relieved when Dixon informed her that her mother was sleeping late this morning, and resolved to take the opportunity to visit Mary, remembering with sudden urgency that Bessy had asked to be buried with something of Margaret’s in her hand.
Burrowing through her chest of drawers, Margaret retrieved a fine embroidered handkerchief with lace edging that she had received as a blossoming girl. She folded the delicate fabric, carefully placing it in her reticule, and was soon on her way to the Princeton district.
When she emerged from the narrow alleyway into the open space near the Higgins’ home, she was disconcerted to see a fair gathering of neighbors in their tired and worn Sunday best at Nicholas’ open door.
Margaret nodded ceremoniously as she bypassed them all, ignoring their curious scrutiny of the lady in their midst. Inside, a small procession of people were paying their respects to the dead girl who lay upon the white cushions within the fine-looking coffin of polished elm.
“Oh Miss, yo’ve come!” Mary blurted, hurrying to her side from her position at the foot of the coffin. “I knew yo’d not forget,” she said with grateful relief as Margaret pulled out the embroidered handkerchief from her reticule and handed it to her.
Margaret watched as Mary gently placed the fabric in the still hands of her sister. “She looks so fine,” the younger girl whispered as her eyes gazed upon Bessy. “It was very kind of yo’ to send such a beautiful coffin. I know it lifted Father’s spirits to see her so grandly cared for.”
Margaret opened her mouth in confusion at her words. “But we ...” she faltered as she stole a glance at Nicholas, who was surrounded by sympathetic neighbors across the room.
Higgins caught her gaze. His eyes pierced hers with cautious appraisal before he inexorably melted at the sight of her contrite expression. He turned away to hide the tenderness of his heart. Margaret thought she discerned a glimmer of warmth in his eyes, and her heart lifted in hope that she might regain his f
avor.
Turning back to Mary, Margaret hesitated to explain that neither she nor her father had provided the coffin. But before she could find the proper words to explain, a young man entered the room to announce that it was time for them to go to the graveyard.
Mary began to sob as she took one last look at her sister before the lid of the coffin was reverently closed forever. Margaret put her arm around the bereaved girl and helped her take the first few steps behind the bearers out the door. Upon exiting the house, Margaret felt herself swept up in the slow procession toward the graveyard as Mary gripped her arm for comfort and support. The vicar’s daughter ignored the stares of the gathering crowd and quickly dismissed her own qualms in breaking formal custom as she continued to guide Mary forward.
*****
“Almighty God, with whom do live the spirits of them that depart hence in the Lord, and with whom the souls of the faithful, after they are delivered from the burden of the flesh, are in joy and felicity. We give thee hearty thanks, for that it hath pleased thee to deliver this our sister out of the miseries of this sinful world....”
As Margaret listened to the final words of the funeral service, she swept a tear from her eye and bade a silent farewell to her friend. As she glanced up, she caught Nicholas’ gaze, and the helpless father gave her a faint nod, a gleam of gratitude in his tear-filled eyes. In the next moment, as the somber crowd began to head back toward the dwellings of the living, Margaret gave Mary’s hand a squeeze and whispered that she must return home to her mother.
Stepping onto the path toward Crampton, she felt a pang of guilt for not having revealed that her family had not provided the coffin. Still baffled as to why Mary had assumed the gesture had been from her family, she gathered that the coffin had arrived unannounced.
Surely, the union leaders must have scrabbled their funds together to give their comrade’s daughter a fitting burial, she quickly concluded. But as she continued to muse upon this, it seemed unlikely that such a deed from them could have remained a secret.
A startling possibility flitted into her thoughts, but she dismissed it as quickly, telling herself that there must certainly be another explanation for such a generous gesture.
However, the wavering doubt and quickening sense of wonder that took hold of her determined the truth, for it was Mr. Thornton who had ordered the fine elm coffin to be sent to the Higgins residence with strict orders that his name not be mentioned.
Margaret considered all of the implications of the choice that still lay before her as she headed toward her home. The morning’s events had given her hope that all was not lost concerning Nicholas, and she began to ponder if she had been too hasty in her decision the previous evening. But a bewildering fear still gripped her at the thought of marrying the Master of Marlborough Mills. She did not know what force of control he might wield over her as her husband, eclipsing her cherished freedoms.
Confusion and indecision once again threw her thoughts into turmoil as she tried to weigh in her heart and mind whether she should break her engagement to Mr. Thornton. Trepidation whispered that this was the only chance she might have to escape her obligation, yet a bleak wave of emptiness washed over her to think that she might abandon some evolving good.
As she turned the last corner toward her own street, each step reminded her that she must soon face her mother; the moment for equivocating would soon be past and she would need to bravely decide her future. If only she could be certain of the path she should take! She prayed for guidance as she mounted the stairs and opened the door with anxious resolve.
“Margaret, is that you?” she heard her mother’s bright voice call out as she hung up her bonnet in the hallway.
“Yes, Mother,” she answered warily as she stepped into the parlor.
“Look at these flowers!” her mother exuded cheerfully, gesturing to an enormous arrangement of white blossoms standing on the low table. “I’m certain they’re from Mr. Thornton,” she added with girlish enthusiasm.
Margaret’s senses reeled and her heart skipped a beat as her eyes took in the sight of white roses, lilies, and gladioli that filled the room with their scent. Purple irises and a few purple lilies, interspersed among the calming white, burst forth with vibrant color. She was stunned by their beauty and felt a trembling in her limbs at the clear message they conveyed. He was in love with her — there could be no denying it.
“There’s a note for you,” her mother prompted eagerly.
Slightly dazed, Margaret hesitated before recognizing the meaning of her mother’s words. She stooped to pick up the small letter, studying the sweeping script of his hand which had addressed the outside with a formal ‘Miss Hale.’
She longed to take his missive upstairs and read it privately, but knew her mother was anxiously awaiting her reading of it. Gingerly, she opened the note to read the words that he had composed for her.
Margaret,
I hope you will understand if I do not write to you with bland formalities, for it is my wish that we may communicate freely with one another, without pretense or trepidation. Have we not always spoken plainly with one another?
I fear that I may have appeared indifferent to those you cared for when I spoke to you so unkindly at the dinner party. Please forgive me; I have been too consumed with the mill’s concerns to discern your motives aright. Perhaps it will please you to know that your words and compassionate logic have remained with me ever since.
Nothing I say may assuage your sorrow at this time, and perhaps you will not quite believe me, but I will tell you that my pain is great at hearing that you have lost a friend. I, too, have known loneliness, and am aware of the strain it must have been for you to come to this strange city without friend or relation to give you aid. It matters not to me whether your friend was of noble or lowly birth — only that you had deigned her worthy of your affection. In that, I am certain she was most fortunate. I am truly sorry she has been taken from you.
My heart aches to think of you in any sorrow. I wish that I might be a comfort to you. Will you accept my love, even though you may not feel the same toward me?
Margaret, if you will be my wife, I will count it as a blessing all of my days. No one will cherish you as much as I, nor care for you as I promise to do. I do not claim to know how or why, but I believe I have loved you from the very first. No one else has ever laid so bare my failings nor has any woman ignited such a powerful yearning in me to become worthy of her love.
You must know that I will do everything within my power to ensure your happiness. I do not wish to possess you as some acquisition — to bind you to my will and crush that spirit within you that so enthralls me. Henceforth, your joys and sorrows will forevermore be linked to mine. I cannot be joyful if you are in despair. Neither is it possible for me to remain in gloom if you will only gift me with your enchanting smile.
I beg of you to call upon me if there is any service that I may offer you or your family. I am entirely yours,
John Thornton
Margaret lifted her eyes to stare at the flowers in dumbfounded amazement. His devotion was sincere. Her stomach churned with the uncertainty of ever matching his intensity of feeling. Could she come to love him with the same fervency of devotion? She could not fathom it at present, but his words had moved her in a way not altogether unpleasant, and she could not discredit the thoughtfulness of his beautiful gift.
“What does he say?” Mrs. Hale asked impatiently, startling Margaret from her reverie.
She took a breath to steady herself before replying. “He is sorry for my loss and asks that we call on him if there is ever a need,” she deftly summarized.
Mrs. Hale settled back into her chair with a contented smile. “He is so very considerate — so gentlemanly. I’m certain you will not lack for anything. He seems quite wealthy and willing to oblige you. Why, I believe he has a real fondness for you, Margaret,” she told her daughter with a tinge of amazement that she had so effortlessly won his affections.
>
Margaret bowed her head in discomfiture. She did not covet the privileges of wealth as her mother did, but could not understand how she had earned such intense admiration from one who seemed more and more genuine in character.
“You remember of course what his mother said about being sought after by all the girls in town. It seemed so droll then, but I’m beginning to believe it was quite true. And to think that you are the one to capture his attention — I cannot help but feel a little motherly pride,” she elaborated. “It lifts my spirits to think that something good is to come from moving to this dismal place,” her mother finished with a dramatic sigh, allowing her bitter burden of complaint to be lifted from her for the moment.
“We must ask him to dine tomorrow night,” Mrs. Hale added decisively. “Surely, you cannot wish to postpone him any longer, Margaret?” she gently but firmly posed.
“No, Mother,” Margaret consented, her voice barely above a whisper.
The decision had been made. Beyond her grasp, all the forces of nature and circumstance seemed to align themselves in perfect accord with this design. She felt carried away again by the relentless tide of fate, which drew her ever closer to the harbor of his strong influence.
*****
With his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows and a film of perspiration on his brow, Mr. Thornton helped unload the mountain of cotton that had been delivered to the hot, dusty mill yard that afternoon. His occasional bellow of instruction to those who aided him alerted the arriving messenger boy to distinguish the Master’s familiar form from the other laborers.
“A message for you, Master,” the lad announced with faltering voice, as he bravely attempted to gain the mill owner’s attention. “From the Hales,” he added with a gulp as the steely gaze of the Master fell upon him.
In Consequence: A Retelling of North and South Page 10