Long shadows from the lantern mocked his agitation, as the Master paced the floor of his office. He was trapped in a press of circumstances that threatened to strangle the mill’s recovery. Today’s work had been botched, and he would be forced to have it redone, negating his profit and occupying the machinery for days. He could not take new orders until all current obligations were satisfied. The stagnant looms during the festering weeks of the strike had thrown all his schedules and plans for progress to hell.
He passed an ink-stained hand over his tired eyes and felt the bristling coarseness of his unshaven face. He lifted his eyes to the clock on the wall. It was after ten.
How he had longed to escape his responsibilities and enjoy the exquisite pleasure of basking in the presence of one who could banish his cares with one look from her soul-filled eyes! How many times he had almost dropped his quill in frustrated agony to follow the path to her home!
It was too late now. She would be preparing for bed.
The images conjured from this silent pronouncement came swiftly, overpowering the twinge of guilt that urged him to retreat from this forbidden path. He should not indulge in fantasy. But this fantasy might someday come to life, for she would be his wife. He reasoned thus as a bewitching image began to take form in his mind.
She appeared before him as some angelic vision in white garments, standing demurely with her chestnut tresses, unbound, falling loosely about her shoulders. The gauzy fabric of her nightgown draped tantalizingly over shapely curves now free from corsets, slips, and petticoats.
The blood rushed madly through his veins as he dared to imagine himself being bestowed an alluring smile as she drew nearer, wrapping her arms lovingly about his neck and pressing her soft form to his.
He shook his head and began to pace the room in a frenzied attempt to halt the delirious progression of his thoughts, the sweet torment of pleasurable feeling now becoming a searing pain.
He raked his fingers through his dark hair and cursed his weakness, ashamed and bewildered by his utter inability to rein in the passion that consumed him. Could he not now govern himself as he had all the preceding long years?
He moved to gather his coat, slinging it over his arm, and bent to turn out the light on his desk. It was of no use. All the patience, forbearance, and self-denial he had practiced for fifteen years was reduced to naught at the mere thought of a woman — a woman who had beguiled him since the moment he had first laid eyes upon her.
He locked the outer door and crossed the dark mill yard to the stone house that he had lived in for years. He watched as the lights in the drawing room windows were suddenly snuffed out. How long would it be before she would be there, waiting for him? A vision of the future flashed into his mind, and he imagined being greeted with tender kisses in the soft candlelight of his bedroom. The thought of it gripped him with a longing so intense, his body trembled.
A cry of despair escaped his lips as he climbed the darkened stairway, grateful to avoid his mother’s prying eyes this evening.
He laughed in self-derision as he reached the sanctuary of his own room. He had been content to live in solitude for many years. It was difficult to fathom that only a week ago he had suffered the pangs of hopeless desire to share his life with a woman he thought would never have him — Margaret Hale. Now that he had won her promise, should he complain? He had only to wait, and all that he had ever wanted would be his.
But no amount of reasoning and determination to be content with his present lot would ease the constant ache to hold her in his arms. As he laid his head upon his pillow, he hoped to find refuge from his troubles in sleep and wished most fervently to meet his love in the temporal realm of blissful dreams.
*****
The following morning brought no particular gleam of glad hope. Even the sky, so often clouded with Milton’s industrial soot, seemed more mercilessly dark and gray than usual.
Margaret felt strangely at one with the gathering gloom. She scolded herself for her temperamental mood as she went about her morning routine, and could not concentrate on the verses she read to her mother. Like a mountain stream precipitously wending its way to the steady river below, her thoughts were drawn relentlessly to the man who had spoken so tenderly to her on the long train ride home.
She sought distraction in performing her daily tasks, but found that nothing could soothe her persistent longing. She was readily able to keep her body in employ, but the whisperings of his voice and the remembrance of his touch filled her mind in the surrounding silence of the house. If only he had come last night, she thought, she would not feel so strangely alone today. Wary of building up false hopes, she told herself it was very likely he would once again be too much occupied with the mill’s concerns to come this evening.
It was a welcome relief to leave the house later that afternoon to accompany her father to the Lyceum Hall. Climbing the broad stairs to the grand stone structure, she raised her eyes to the upper window of the adjacent building where she had once seen Mr. Thornton sternly surveying her. A chill traced her spine at the memory of it.
She had thought him harsh and unyielding in his governance of his workers, a man unaffected by the wordless cries of the human heart.
How wrong she had been! She had not known him then. The years had made him stolid in his convictions, but she was certain he had a tender heart. She had seen it. He was not indifferent to the suffering of others, although he felt it was not in his power to do otherwise than run his mill according to the strictest principles.
Margaret was pleased that he had asked Boucher and Higgins to work for him. It made her glow with an odd pride to think she had played a part in bringing a more compassionate view to his awareness. She hoped it was of his own true will that he sought to act upon it.
As she followed her father into the main hall and took a seat in the back of the sparse class, she continued to contemplate what her role might be as his wife. She wondered at once if she might be too forward in proposing her opinions on what ought to be done, for truly she had little understanding of how much was at stake in running so large and far-reaching a business as Mr. Thornton’s. She felt suddenly ill-prepared and unworthy to become the model of gentility and grace that would be expected of her as John Thornton’s wife. She imagined that he deserved someone of sweeter temperament and subdued nature than what she herself possessed.
He would need a wife who could happily tend to his needs and offer respite from his daily burdens, which must be great. She felt a stirring in her breast, a pang of earnestness, to hope that she might be able to fulfill that role.
The clouds overhead had darkened ominously when Margaret and her farther emerged from the Lyceum in the late afternoon. They walked briskly to evade the coming rain. Margaret did not think it prudent to ask her father if he’d had any message yet from Mr. Thornton. The sky above dampened her hope that Mr. Thornton would come to his lesson, and she let out a silent sigh as her father’s and her hurried footsteps kept a matched pace.
*****
The clouds broke and the rain still poured after dinner as Margaret sat with her mother in her room. The persistent pattering at the windows dissolved the sullen girl’s remaining hope that Mr. Thornton might call tonight. When her mother sent her to fetch Dixon, she descended the stairs with a melancholy tread.
Margaret might have readily mistaken the rapping on the door as she passed by, so closely was it followed by a clap of thunder, but her ears were keenly tuned for such a sound and her heart leaped in glad hope that the man she had so fondly yearned to see had come.
She rushed to the door as fast as her skirts would allow and opened it to find him standing under the overhang, the water still coursing in rivulets off his umbrella. “You’re here,” she exclaimed with unguarded pleasure, receiving a brilliant smile in return.
“I didn’t think you would come in this inclement weather,” she admitted as she flung wide the door for him to enter, taking his dripping umbrella as he doffed his
hat.
“It would take more than a rain storm to keep me from my purpose,” he answered in a meaningful tone.
She caught the glimmer in his eye and averted her gaze, blushing at the warmth of his voice. “I will hang your coat to dry in the kitchen,” she said nervously as she helped him slip out of his dampened overcoat. She felt her every nerve tingle at the exhilaration of being so close to him.
She hastened to take a few steps toward the basement. “Father is in his study,” she directed.
“Will you join us?” he asked eagerly.
“I must tend to my mother’s needs first, but l will bring you some hot tea,” she answered with a flustered smile. Her eyes fell to the floor and she noted the traces of water his footsteps had left. “You must take care to remove your boots and sit by the fire to dry yourself,” she instructed, the words tumbling out of her mouth in anxious concern.
“Must I?” he quizzed her with a twinkle in his eye, taking great delight in how she had cosseted him since he had entered the house.
She blushed anew at his teasing, unable to hide the glow of joy she felt at being caught tending to him.
*****
Margaret’s heart pounded as she opened the door to her father’s study and slipped into the room with the tea tray.
Mr. Thornton turned his attention to her at once, and she caught her breath to meet the intensity of his flashing blue eyes for a second. It took all her concentration to pour the tea without spilling a drop, feeling his gaze upon her every move. The sight of his stockinged feet eased the tension in her bearing, and her eyes sparkled to meet his as she served him his tea.
Margaret silently took her seat in the corner and grasped for the embroidery in the basket at her side as her father continued his discourse.
The fire crackled while flickering shadows danced upon on the walls. Margaret smiled to note the Master’s boots on the hearth as she listened to his deep tones as he made some reply to her father. His presence seemed to fill the room. The firelight cast a warm glow on his chiseled features. In fascination, she studied the profile of the man she had once thought of as so cold and unfeeling. Her eyes traced the firm line of his jaw, then traveled upward to note the soft look of thoughtfulness that emanated from his eyes and rested upon cheek and brow as he listened with interest to her father’s words.
This is who he really is, she thought in dazed wonderment. The realization of his true essence broke upon her forcefully, banishing at once all notions of his stubborn intransigence. He had a kind and understanding heart; he was strong and true in everything he did. And yet, for all that he had accomplished, she saw in him a noble, humble desire to better himself and seek the right.
Her heart twisted with a pang of deep emotion. And suddenly, she knew. She loved him — and would love him fiercely all her days.
The impact of this truth staggered her. Her body froze in amazement as this realization seeped into the deep recesses of her soul. It was as if it had always been, so profound and natural was this conclusion.
As though alerted to the silent utterances of her heart, he turned to look at her, his soft searching eyes locking with hers for a timeless moment.
She could not breathe, so intense were the feelings that swept through her. She returned his gaze with awe-filled wonder before casting her eyes to the work on her lap, afraid of revealing too much of what she had only just discovered.
With trembling fingers, Margaret endeavored to ply her needle with a semblance of skill while the men finished their discussion of Plato’s dream. She drew long, deep breaths to steady the wild clamoring of her heart.
Her eyes watched helplessly from beneath demurely flickering lashes as their guest gathered his boots from the fireside and returned to his chair to put them on.
Tossing her needlework clumsily aside, she glanced nervously at her father as he congenially bade her to show Mr. Thornton out.
Margaret gripped the balustrade for support as she floated down the stairs, aware of every footfall of his approach close behind her. “It was good of you to come. You must be very busy. I confess, I was beginning to worry I would not see you for another week,” she said in forced conviviality as she reached the landing. No sooner had she turned around, than she was pulled into his firm embrace.
“I was hard pressed to tend to my work last night — and today — when all I can think of is you,” he rasped in dark, throaty tones as he hungrily drank in the sight of her.
“I ... I’ve ... been thinking of you as well,” she faltered weakly as she rested her trapped hands upon his chest and raised her luminous eyes to his.
Her words washed over him, bringing a joyous relief, and his heart contracted with a strange new hope as he discerned the glimmer of earnestness in her eyes. He needed no further encouragement. Slowly, he lowered his mouth to hers, famished to claim her as his own. With determined effort, he tremblingly distilled his desperate passion into tenderness, carefully tasting over and over again the bliss of her soft lips against his, while the wild hunger for her churned deep within. He felt her faintly melt in his grasp and gripped her tighter, sending a surge of desire coursing madly through his veins. Temptation rose to perilous danger; he swiftly tore his lips from hers.
Margaret was at once bereft. His kisses had sent tremors of sensation through her body, awakening in her a powerful yearning to experience more of him. She cleft to him helplessly with trembling arms, her limbs weakened. She wished never to leave his embrace.
“May I call on you tomorrow?” he asked as his quiet panting slowed, slackening his hold on her by force of will.
“Yes ... yes, of course,” she answered at first feebly and then with increasing strength as she stepped back to recover from the spell of his power. “Perhaps we could take a walk together if the weather permits,” she added with nervous cheer.
“I would like that very much,” he replied with a devastating smile.
The warm intensity of his gaze made Margaret’s insides flutter, and she averted her eyes.
He moved toward the door.
Margaret was grateful to discover that Dixon had returned the Master’s overcoat to the rack on the wall. She watched in a somewhat dazed stupor as he prepared himself to leave. “The rain has stopped,” she uttered to fill the silence.
“And I hope that the storm has dispersed, for I will not be dissuaded from our appointment tomorrow,” he said with a gleam of humor in his eye.
She smiled at his stubborn promise.
He stepped toward her and took her hand in his, carefully brushing his thumb over her fingers before suddenly sweeping them to his lips to place a lingering kiss on the back of her hand.
Margaret held her breath and let it out when he slowly relinquished his hold and let her go.
“Good night,” he murmured, his eyes kindling with the passion that he kept at bay.
“Good night,” she managed to return before he turned from her and was gone.
She gravitated to the window, nearly pressing her head to the glass as she watched his figure disappear in the darkness. Her heart beat steadily with new purpose. All her former life, the past struggles and old dreams, seemed vague and distant. Her world — her future — would revolve around him. And she knew now with astounding conviction that she was ready to begin it.
Chapter Eleven
Margaret sat alone in the half-filled church on Sunday morning. The grand vaulted ceilings and massive stone columns made the mortals quietly seated within the cavernous structure seem small and insignificant. Stained-glass windows illuminated the walls with intricate patterns of color and light, brightening the somber atmosphere with multi-faceted rays of hope.
For the first time since she had moved to this dark, soot-tarnished town, she felt a semblance of peace. Weary of trying to make sense of the changes thrust upon her by her father’s own doubts, she began to believe there had been a purpose to all of the struggles she had endured. A strain of gratitude swelled in her breast and her feature
s lifted in glad response. She had been brought to Milton to find him. Amid all the eager ambition and bleak striving of this place, she had been led to John Thornton — a man as sturdy and solid as the granite hills, but with a heart as true and noble as any she had ever known. She would not have found him in London or Hampshire. It was Milton that had molded him to the man he was, where he had struggled and grown into the full stature of manhood. She would not find his like in all of England.
She loved him. The thought of it struck her anew, filling her with awe. How it had all unfolded to her she could scarcely describe. And when she considered how all of the Milton girls must have undoubtedly cast their eyes his way, it seemed a thing incredible to her that he had chosen her to be his wife.
A shiver traced her spine at the thought of becoming his — body and soul. She shook herself back from her distraction and with mighty effort endeavored to bring her attention back to the vicar’s echoing speech.
*****
Mr. Thornton sat in impassive stillness on the long wooden pew next to his mother’s rigid form. From the corner of his eye, he spied Fanny’s gloved hands fidgeting restlessly in her lap. His lips twitched. Everything was the same as it had been for years. His family occupied the same seat each Sunday, following the same familiar routine with every passing season. His existence had been an undeviating pattern of work and obligation, and he had been satisfied to build a respectable home for his mother and sister.
He could no longer endure such an existence. All his former peace, his staid plans and hopes had been upturned and tangled with the appearance of one who revealed the promise of a life so beautiful he hardly dared believe it might be his.
With Margaret’s acceptance of him, the future lay bright before him — days and years in which his home might be filled with tender affection, joy, and laughter. And someday, perhaps not so very far in the future, he might be surrounded by the boundless energy of children.
In Consequence: A Retelling of North and South Page 19