In Consequence: A Retelling of North and South

by Trudy Brasure

  Mr. Thornton endeavored to listen patiently to Mr. Hale for another quarter hour, straining mightily against the impulse to turn his head in Margaret’s direction, still uncertain if she would grant him pardon for his impulsive behavior hours before.

  Although to outward appearances, she was serenely intent upon her needlework, Margaret could not control the fluttering in her stomach. She had seen the contrition in his eyes. Her stitches were uneven and sloppy, and she knew that she would have to unpick the work she was now doing.

  At last, Mr. Hale concluded their session with a summary of what they should discuss next Tuesday. “Margaret, why don’t you see Mr. Thornton to the door,” he encouraged with a warm smile, granting the newly betrothed couple a little time to be alone.

  With a nervous smile, Margaret rose and silently led their guest downstairs. When they reached the hallway, she turned to face him, lifting her eyes to meet his briefly and then dropping them again as she felt the tingling charge of tension between them. “I’m sorry for thrusting such an unexpected request upon you. It was only that I had seen the children at Mary’s and....”

  “There’s no need to apologize,” he interrupted gently, his heart lifting with glad relief to hear her own contrition. “It is I who must ask your forgiveness. I … behaved in a manner....”

  “Please, let us not speak of it,” she begged him, wringing her hands distractedly as she kept her gaze on the floor. Her heart beat wildly at the memory of it all.

  He gulped in swift agreement, pressing his lips closed so that he would utter nothing to distress her. Silence enveloped them and he groped for something to say.

  “Would you ... I ... perhaps you might care to join me for a walk this Sunday,” he offered falteringly, hoping to find every opportunity to see her in the coming days.

  She smiled sweetly at his hesitancy. “I would be pleased to accept your invitation, but I believe I will be on my way to London,” she replied.

  “London?” he repeated vacantly, perplexed by her answer.

  “Yes, my cousin Edith wishes me to come to the Great Exhibition with her, and my mother is much convinced that I should go. I believe arrangements are being made for Captain Lennox, Edith’s husband, to come for me on Sunday,” she explained meekly, looking up into his eyes when she had finished.

  His brow was creased in wary concern. “How long will you stay?” the bewildered lover asked, disconcerted by this unexpected development. He did not relish the thought of her surrounded by the dazzling splendor and finery of London with which Milton could never compete, nor was the image of her entertaining the attentions of London gentlemen comforting.

  “Just a few days, I suppose. I don’t wish to be away from Mother for any length of time.”

  He nodded his head faintly with some relief, but felt the impending emptiness of the coming days at her absence. “I will look forward to your return, then,” he told her with a forced smile and moved to retrieve his hat. He glanced at the delicate hands resting gracefully against her soft gown but suppressed the urge to take them into his own rough hands, remembering the boorish way he had treated her the last time they were alone.

  “Good night,” he uttered with a stilted nod and quickly turned to leave.

  Margaret’s kindly smile faded. She felt her hope deflate with his departure, and stood alone for a moment in a haze of strange confusion. He had made no attempt to kiss her hand or take her into his arms. Was he displeased, she wondered anxiously? Her mind raced frantically to their afternoon encounter. Had she said or done something to make him shrink from her?

  She had not known how much she had anticipated his touch until he was gone. An uneasy feeling of discontent began to settle over her, leaving her with a tender ache inside.

  *****

  A light west breeze stirred the night air. Mr. Thornton took a deep breath and expelled it slowly. It had taken every ounce of his willpower to leave her like that.

  A sense of gloom descended upon him at the thought of the lonely stretch of time before him. Every day that held no promise of seeing her would be a torture. How quickly he had become enamored of her, not wanting to spend a day without some glimpse of her! He had recently found himself conjuring up every possible reason for making a daily visit to Crampton.

  His mind grasped for something to save him from the despair of her impending absence. As if in answer to this unspoken request, a string of forgotten utterances and mentioned possibilities tumbled into his thought.

  Oblivious to the shadows cast by the glowing street lamps, Mr. Thornton strode past rows of darkened houses as he began to formulate a course of action. He resolved to meet with his banker the very next morning.

  Chapter Eight

  Margaret swept her fingers along the familiar marble of the dressing table and fondly touched the white linens of the carved oak bed where she had slept for many years. The room smelled of lemon water and candle wax. Everything within was the same as she had left it a year ago, she mused. A low sigh escaped her as she walked forlornly to the window to look out over the rooftops of Harley Street. But so much had changed since then, she thought, with the wistfulness of one who was yet uncertain of the future.

  Aunt Shaw would never understand the strange appeal of the industrial north — the unpretentious ways of her people, the earnest pace of life, and the hopeful struggle of men to forge their own future.

  Her eyes dropped to the windowsill where her diamond and emerald ring glinted in the late afternoon sun. She had known her aunt would not approve of her engagement to a Milton manufacturer. Edith, too, had cast a look of despair at her mother upon hearing the news.

  Margaret looked out again and watched well-dressed passersby stroll along the cobbled streets below. She had held the same views once herself; it had not been long ago when she had felt that tradesmen were an unseemly set, pretentious in their desire to be accorded respect for their accumulation of wealth. She had supposed their kind to be far too preoccupied with money, and undisturbed by their lack of proper education.

  She bowed her head in shame, disconcerted by the surge of sorrow that swept through her as she contemplated how harshly she had judged the man who now fascinated her. She felt her indignation rise at the thought that others should evaluate Mr. Thornton by his occupation in trade, instead of his fine character.

  But what did she truly know of him, she wondered still? His rise to power from adversity had required remarkable tenacity and determination. What principles he held, he held firmly with resolution. She knew, too, that his thirst for higher learning was sincere. He was widely admired in Milton for his intelligence and judgment.

  Underneath this strong and confident exterior, he had shown to her a tenderness and vulnerability that she had not known he possessed. And yet, there seethed within him such force of feeling that he occasionally burst forth with an unguarded vehemence that alarmed her.

  A shiver ran down her spine and she closed her arms around her as she recalled the way he had roughly taken her and pressed his lips to hers. It frightened and bewildered her to think that she had aroused him to such action.

  A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. “Margaret?” she heard Edith’s tentative voice call.

  “Come in,” she answered, bracing herself for whatever her cousin had come to say.

  Edith’s pretty face was contorted with worry as she slipped into the room. “Margaret, I fear I was not prepared to receive your unexpected news. It’s only that I had hoped that you would return to London one day,” she began apologetically. “You must own that it is surprising for us to discover that you would choose to marry a tradesman from the north. Why, you have said yourself in your letters how gray and dirty and cold it is up there, and you have not cast a favorable light on these cotton mill owners! Is it any wonder that I should be aghast at your announcement?” she asked quite innocently.

  “No, I own it is not,” Margaret reluctantly agreed, ashamed of her earlier letters now and uncertain how she
could explain her engagement when she hardly understood herself how she had become entangled in this situation.

  The urge to defend her choice rose up, however, at her cousin’s words. “I have learned that there is much to appreciate in Milton, despite its harsh appearances. I wish you could meet Mr. Thornton. He has a force of character which is to be admired, quite unlike what I had deemed a ... a man of business capable of,” she explained in flustered bursts.

  Edith regarded Margaret with confusion. “Oh, I do hope you do not feel compelled to marry this Mr. Thornton because no other offers were forthcoming. You know, Henry is very fond of you...."

  “I could not marry Henry, Edith,” Margaret interrupted, irritated by her insinuation. “I am fond of him, but ... not in that way ...” she clarified haltingly, gazing down at her hands as she recalled how mortified she had been to receive a proposal of marriage from Henry the previous summer.

  Edith studied her cousin with increased interest as a new and wholly unexpected possibility dawned on her. She had never imagined Margaret to be the romantic type, having been ever so reasonable and level-headed all their years growing up together. It had not occurred to her that Margaret might fall in love with someone so unlikely as a manufacturer from the dreary North. Her heart softened, although she still felt a tug of disappointment that her vision of cozy companionship with her cousin would not be realized. “Of course, if you are in love, that is entirely a different story,” she said gently.

  Margaret blushed. “Oh ... I ...” she stuttered helplessly as she spun around to face the window, feeling a fluttering in her breast as she turned the notion over in her mind.

  Edith regarded her long-time companion curiously. Now she was truly eager to meet the northern manufacturer who so easily discomposed her. “I only hope that you will be happy, Margaret,” she concluded, when no answer seemed to be forthcoming from the silent figure in front of her.

  “I believe I will be,” Margaret answered shakily, as she turned to face her cousin with a smile that offered middling reassurance.

  Edith nodded. “I will say no more, then, and let you rest. I will see you at dinner,” she said before quietly exiting the room.

  I believe I will be. The words she had spoken echoed in her mind, gathering with it the growing conviction of its truth. The fear of marrying him that had assailed her days ago now seemed largely diminished. Despite the uncertainties that still lingered in her thought, she felt an underlying sense of assurance that she was following the right path. She could not explain it, but she felt her future was secure in his hands.

  *****

  Mr. Thornton scanned the milling crowds under the exalted pane-glass ceiling of the Chrystal Palace as Mr. Lawrenson explained the finer details of investing in cotton to the mass of interested Londoners before him. The Master chastised himself for clinging to the romantic notion of finding Margaret amongst the thousands that visited the exhibits every day.

  Fanny had been delighted at his quick turn-around in deciding to attend the Great Exhibition, having pestered him for weeks about attending; Mr. Lawrenson was hopeful that new capital might be poured into Marlborough Mills by enticing southern gentlemen to participate in the growth of industry whilst they were agog at the impressive display of the modern looms’ power and precision. Mr. Thornton also had wary hope of gaining financial interest at this time, for the mill was struggling to regain its steady profits after the blundering strike. He knew, however, his real reason for coming, and steadfastly condemned himself as a lovesick fool for abandoning the mill to come to London.

  He craned his neck once more in search of her. As if guided by some omniscient power, his eyes were instantly drawn to a figure some distance away who walked serenely amidst the bustling crowd as one above the mortal fray. Margaret! He watched entranced as she glided slowly forward, her regal bearing and natural elegance giving her the air of a queen. He would gladly pay obeisance to her all his days! His heart wrenched in longing to take her under his care, to protect her from any untoward experience and keep such unalloyed goodness and purity free from the bitter toils and sorrows of this world. She deserved flowers to be strewn in her path....

  His thoughts were interrupted as he watched a handsomely dressed young man come to her side. A scowl darkened his face as the gentleman assumed to accompany her on her walk with an easy familiarity.

  “Thornton!” he heard Mr. Lawrenson’s voice, tearing his attention back to the group surrounding him.

  “We have read of the recent strike in Milton. Has this not harmed your business?” a querulous man dressed in the latest attire demanded of him.

  *****

  Margaret stared at the ornate silver urn before her with waning interest. Henry’s vapid appraisal elicited from her the faintest of smiles. It was the second day they had attended the exhibition, and although she had enthusiastically enjoyed the amazing displays of goods that were both beautiful and useful, she was eager to see the more practical wonders of British dominance in the form of the machinery which had given birth to Milton’s rise in power and wealth. Slowly, she had tried to lead their small entourage towards the cotton looms that were listed in her catalogue, so that she might learn more of her future husband’s work.

  She allowed that she had never held much interest in the noisy and massive apparatus of industry, but she was gradually becoming more curious as to the workings of the mill where Mr. Thornton spent so much of his time.

  She was surprised how often her thoughts drifted to the man she had left behind in Milton. Since she had arrived in London, she had felt keenly the difference her year in Milton had made. She compared everything here more critically to the energy and honesty of the North. She told herself that the subtle longing to return home that unsettled her was due to her mother’s unstable condition, but in truth she found herself just as often wondering about the Master of Marlborough Mills.

  Edith’s probing words had never left her. Was she in love with him? The question recurred to her at importunate times, driving from her all ability to concentrate on whatever was before her as her mind rushed to comprehend why the very thought of it should send her pulse racing.

  She admired him. This she was comfortable accepting. But, surely, love was something that took time to develop and would have a comforting, cheering effect on both parties, much like the warm happiness she remembered of being in her parents’ presence in her youth.

  She felt nothing of this expected calm when she was in Mr. Thornton’s presence. In fact, when he was near, her whole body was alert with palpitating awareness of his every move. She had never felt such nervous anticipation before, but then she had never before received the attentions of a man so foreboding in power and stature. A part of her was inclined to admit that is was not an altogether unpleasant feeling to imagine that he was in love with her.

  Margaret wandered alone towards yards of colorful cotton fabrics, which heralded the display of Britain’s textile wonders. But before she could examine them closer, her ears caught the familiar tones of a Darkshire accent. Her breath quickened and she instinctively searched through the crowd until she glimpsed the source. He was here! Her countenance beamed in glad surprise as she edged forward to see Mr. Thornton addressing a gathering of distinguished-looking men.

  “We are pressing forward to fulfill the numerous orders that were delayed by the interruption. So, you see, gentlemen, business continues despite the occasional interference,” he declared with easy authority.

  “Don’t you think we can bring about an end to strikes?” a gruff-voiced gentleman returned with curiosity.

  A stern look crossed his brow. “The lines are starkly drawn, and we cannot control men who have little knowledge of the broader spectrum of business. However, there may be hope that we can persuade them of our common purpose if they will quell their bitterness enough to listen to reason,” he explained evenly just as he caught sight of Margaret.

  His expression brightened and the corners of his mouth l
ifted in pleasure. “Miss Hale here knows something of the suffering caused by strikes. Perhaps she will offer her opinion,” he invited her, with a twinkle in his eye.

  Flustered for a brief moment, she gathered her courage to respond to the faces now turned in her direction. “I believe there is great hope that strife can be stilled if men will only treat each other as men, not as enemies, and come to understand each other better,” she answered resolutely.

  Mr. Thornton’s face glowed with admiration for her spirited reply. No other woman would have spoken up so bravely. “Excuse me,” he muttered as he swept past the London gentlemen to stand mere inches before the woman who would be his wife. “You have spoken well,” he commended her, his eyes drinking in the loveliness of her upturned face.

  “You’re here!” she answered with unguarded pleasure, still incredulous that she had found him in London.

  Her smile enchanted him; he wanted nothing more than to pull her to him and kiss her soundly right here in front of the surrounding crowds. “I had a compelling reason,” he remarked with a telling grin, his eyes smoldering with the passion he must restrain.

  Margaret blushingly bowed her head.

  “Margaret?” A familiar voice interrupted their exchange.

  “Henry,” Margaret exclaimed somewhat guiltily, turning to see his suspicious regard of the stranger towering over her. “This is Mr. Thornton,” she announced awkwardly, remembering the look of distinct displeasure Henry had worn when she had revealed the startling news of her engagement.

  “Mr. Thornton ... of Milton,” he returned with cold appraisal. “I must congratulate you on your engagement. How fortunate for you that the Hales moved north. I doubt that there are many girls in Milton of Margaret’s caliber,” he remarked smoothly with a cunning smirk.

  Mr. Thornton met Mr. Lennox’s challenging stare with his own steely gaze. “There is no one like Margaret. She surpasses all other women in beauty and intelligence,” he responded with unequivocal conviction, irritated at the young Londoner’s insinuation. “I am well aware of my great fortune in receiving her hand. I trust it would be the same for any man whom she deemed to marry,” he added civilly, a gleam of triumph in his eyes.