The light of love in her eyes took his breath away as she reached up to smooth his roughened jaw and curl a small hand possessively about his neck. She nodded almost imperceptibly, her eyes locked with his.
He let out a ragged breath before swooping down to crush his mouth to hers.
*****
The Master of Marlborough Mills strode through his factory with bristling energy. The muscles of his long legs slackened to be released from hours of desk-work. Now free from ledgers and accounts, his mind returned to those rapturous moments of fervent fusion in the day’s first light.
A pulsating thrill coursed through his veins as he remembered how she had clung to him, pulling him ever closer with a desperation for his touch that had torn at his heartstrings and urged him on to a feverous pitch of tender passion. He had loved her without restraint, and she had wanted him — needed him — to take her to that place where only they two existed and the world was set right.
The knowledge that it was he, and he alone, that could give her such comfort gripped his heart with a fervor of wild emotion that blazed through every portion of his being, leaving him stunned at the notion that he should be what she was to him: the reason for everything he did. For now, every task he performed, every decision he made — small or great — and every endeavor for the future rebounded to her safekeeping and comfort. That he should be her happiness….
The image of her face, glowing with peaceful contentment in the aftermath of their ardent lovemaking, sent tremors of feeling to his very depths. In the midst of all her distress, he had been able to erase every trace of sorrow, if only for a moment. The way her eyes lit with tender adoration would be seared in his memory forever.
The mere thought of her filled the air around him with vibrancy of purpose and power. He felt that constant, aching desire to hold her….
“Master … Master!” The insistent call cut through his mental wanderings, and he stopped to face his overseer, who looked aggravated in his endeavor.
“Yes?” Mr. Thornton returned, lifting his chin in authority as the clattering din of the factory continued around them.
“That man, Higgins, wants a word with you. Says he has important matters to discuss. Shall I tell him to meet you after hours?” Williams offered, hoping for a chance to berate the new mill worker for his impertinent intrusion upon the master’s time.
Mr. Thornton cast his eyes over the multitude of synchronized machines to meet Higgins’ inquiring gaze as he bent over his station. “No. I’ll speak to him,” he clipped, leaving Williams standing in the long aisle.
“I called out when yo’ passed, but yo’ head were elsewhere,” Higgins complained with a slight grin as the Master drew near.
A twinge of embarrassment flashed color into Mr. Thornton’s cheeks as he furrowed his brow in consternation.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” the worker offered in low tones, believing he understood his employer’s distracted state.
“Thank you.”
“I’ve got some figures for yo’ and a host of questions I need fair answer to afore we set to anything,” Higgins announced, training an eye on the moving arm of the loom in front of him as he deftly continued to work his station.
“Meet me at noon tomorrow, then … I’ll provide the lunch,” the Master added as an afterthought, with a slight lift to one corner of his mouth.
Higgins grinned and nodded in acknowledgement. “How’s Miss Margaret?” he continued, his face returning to solemn consideration.
“She bears up well.”
“And the parson?” Higgins asked.
The Master discerned the worried gleam in the worker’s eye with a warm glow of appreciation for his genuine care for the aging vicar. “Not as well, I’m afraid,” he admitted, feeling strangely free to converse openly with this man.
“It’s a sore trial to lose yo’r wife. I dun think the wound ever mends. I think on mine yet ever day, and it’s been these seven years,” Higgins related, maneuvering the loom in front of him all the while.
Mr. Thornton could only nod, absorbed as he was in how it could be that he had never considered the father of two daughters as a bereaved widow. He doubted he would ever look at Higgins in a callous manner again. And with these thoughts turning over in his mind, he strode away to continue his round through the mill.
*****
When the toil of the cotton mill had ceased and the masses had been freed until morning, Mr. Thornton followed straightaway the path to Crampton with an eagerness to see the one whose beguiling image had chased his thoughts all day.
He had taken only a few steps inside the house when she came rushing to greet him. Soft gleaming eyes told him of her own lonely longing. No words were needed as she willingly thrust herself into his waiting arms.
The anxiety of hours vanished as he felt the press of her form against his. She offered, and he received, sweet kisses of glad reception. Chaos might reign without, but this touch of lips, this assurance of her affection, stilled all the restless rattlings of his soul and chased away the contumelies of existence.
Relaxing his hold on her, he looked into her eyes with wonder, his arms wrapped around her waist in possessive pleasure. She was here, swathed in the requisite clothes of this era — his very own goddess of love and delight. The memory of the morning’s bliss stirred his desire. He pulled her close for one more kiss, staving off the urge to take her home at once.
Instead, he climbed the stairs to go to his grieving father-in-law whilst his wife stayed to sew in the parlor below.
Mr. Hale clung to these nighttime visits as a drowning man gropes for something solid to save him. The days he spent silently spinning doubts and flinging hard-wrought questions to the Divine, whom he was ofttimes more tempted to curse than praise. To his son-in-law’s patient ear, he delivered many of these doubts and fears, the dark and twisted knots of which seemed to unravel in the open discourse with one who was unmoved by the rough course of faith through the deep sea of grief. The younger man offered carefully reasoned words to steer the shipwreck back to chartered territory as one who has himself navigated such perilous waters.
Margaret remarked to her husband at the end of each of these long sequestered talks how much her father seemed altered for the better by his visits.
It was the third such evening, when Mr. Hale endeavored to apologize for keeping his daughter from her rightful home, that John discerned the moment was ripe to lay bare the path intended for the widower’s future.
“Margaret does not wish for you to be alone,” Mr. Thornton gently explained.
“I’m certain I can manage. I have my books …” the old man returned, casting a blank gaze to the volumes on his desk.
“There is no need for you to keep a separate house. Marlborough Mills has many empty rooms at present. You could have your own study as well, to which you could bring your pupils.”
“I should not like to interfere …” Mr. Hale protested, shaking his head as his brow crumpled in doubt.
“It is not an interference to welcome family under my roof. It would please me very much to be able to take up our conversations most every evening. And surely, you must know Margaret would be very content to have you near,” John declared.
The older man fumbled with his fingers, rubbing and interlacing them in dazed contemplation, his eyes vacantly trained upon this restless motion.
“You do not need to answer at present. But I hope you will consider it,” the son-in-law said softly.
More silence.
An image of the future’s promise appeared to John’s thoughts. He smiled at the possibility of the vision’s persuasive power and opened his mouth to share it. “I should like very much for you to be around to read to my children.”
Mr. Hale snapped his head around in questioning surprise.
John dropped his gaze for a moment as a rush of warmth gave a tint of color to his face. “Of course, there is no news at this time. But I expect it will not be long …” he s
tammered in a low voice.
“Of course,” his father-in-law echoed as he looked wonderingly about in wholly new contemplation. “Are you certain there are enough rooms?” he asked after several moments of pregnant silence, lifting a hesitant gaze up to his daughter’s husband.
*****
“He will come, then?” Margaret guessed eagerly from her husband’s triumphant smile as he descended the stairs.
“He has not given the precise word, but I feel certain it is settled,” he said, coming to where she stood and reaching out to draw her close.
She threw her arms around his neck, jumping into his embrace. “I knew I could trust you!” she breathed in joyous relief.
“I will take every opportunity to please you, for such reward,” he replied, only half in jest, unable to contain a broad smile.
Ignoring his teasing remark, Margaret slackened her hold as a contingent concern came to mind. “What of Dixon?” she queried, gazing up to him with cautious hope.
“What of her?” he echoed, wishing the subject away.
“We must take her on as well.”
“Must we?” he returned with a pained expression.
She nodded, her eyes dancing at his affected protest.
“Then, I suppose she must come,” he conceded with a sigh of defeat. She tightened her grasp around his neck once more in beaming gratitude.
“Now, I believe I am sorely in need of reward for my magnanimity,” he announced with a devilish grin, his arms tightening about her waist.
A matching smile spread over her face as she stretched up to oblige him with a kiss.
Chapter Twenty
By November, Mr. Hale had moved into the great stone house across from Milton’s largest cotton mill. Crates of books had been carried up to Mr. Hale’s spacious new study and favorite pieces of furniture and numerous treasures from the Helstone parsonage had been chosen from the Crampton house for placement throughout the Thornton homestead.
The anxiety of change could be seen in the flashing of Hannah Thornton’s eyes with every new alteration to her long established order and arrangements, yet she outwardly maintained her rigid poise, calling upon all the practiced forces of her self-control to steady herself from the shifting tides that swept away the old and thrust in the new. She had endured much more than these trifling matters in those long-ago days when she had struggled to lay clear before her son the path that had allowed him to rise to greatness. This was his hour in which he might reap the full reward of all his sowing. She would not stand in his way, nor reprove his choices. This was his house, and it was his right and privilege to fill it now as he pleased while she stood aside to play a lesser part.
Although unreasonable jealousy flared at times, and the fear of uselessness suffocated her will to continue on, Hannah bit her tongue when tempted to censure Margaret or her son for any indulgence in new practices that conformed to their unified sense of principle and family.
It was a certain ease to Margaret’s spirit that her father abode within the walls wherein the center of her affections would dwell. But not all at once would the burden of grief be lifted from the widower’s heart. During the first confusing days after his arrival, Mr. Hale largely remained shut up in the quiet sanctuary of his study, and Margaret worried he would swiftly form the habits of a recluse.
Fanny essayed to be politely patient amid the upheaval around her but could not understand the fuss being made over an old parson, and she told her mother so in whining tones whenever the two were alone. The proud young girl soothed her nettled thoughts with confident dreams of soon setting up her own grand household when she became mistress of Mr. Watson’s estate in Hayleigh.
So it was with simpering smiles that she received Adolphus Watson’s attentions when he came on Sunday afternoons to promenade along the high street with her in the crisp autumn air.
John and Margaret would chaperone the couple, strolling some distance behind them and enjoying the opportunities to take pleasant walks together. Husband and wife would exchange knowing looks glinted with mirth during Fanny’s frequent stops to exclaim over some trinket or luxurious fabric on display in the windows of Milton’s finest shops.
“I do believe Mr. Watson would make a gift of anything she sets her sights upon!” Margaret whispered to her husband on one such occasion as she watched Fanny fawn over a fur-lined coat of extravagant style.
John smirked at Watson’s besotted admiration of the loquacious beauty at his side. “Then it’s fortunate for him the shops are closed today,” he quipped in lowered tones.
Margaret smiled in agreement. “But surely, she wouldn’t allow him to buy her anything so costly,” she added dubiously as she watched Fanny’s antics.
“His pockets are deep; I have no doubt Fanny will seek to find out how deep,” he answered, shaking his head at his sister’s petty interests.
“John!” she chastised him as a grin stole over her face.
“Providing Watson takes care to retain some spending sense, I see no harm in it. If they both enjoy the game, it may well be a perfect match,” her husband surmised.
Fanny fluttered her lashes with beaming pleasure at some word from her attending beau and happily threaded her arm with his to resume their ambling walk.
Margaret looked up into her husband’s face. Soft smiles traced both their lips. His eyes met hers with a glittering intensity of feeling, the look passing between them silently acknowledging the depths upon which their marriage was founded.
After reaching home, the foursome put up their coats, cloaks, and bonnets before entering the large drawing room, where the fireplace worked assiduously to keep at bay the chilled outside air.
Margaret was pleasantly surprised to find her father still seated across from Mrs. Thornton in his easy chair, just as they had left him after luncheon. At their arrival, Mrs. Thornton put her sewing away, and Mr. Hale closed his book and smiled warmly at the younger set.
The room soon filled with casual conversation. From the prospects of this winter’s severity to Watson’s travels on the continent, Fanny sprinkled every subject with animated frivolity. Although the newlyweds occasionally added their say, they were content just to be seated together in this relaxed family atmosphere. The day passed very pleasantly, despite the dreary weather out of doors.
Margaret stepped into her father’s study later that evening to wish him good night. Books lined both walls surrounding a broad mahogany desk. A loved painting from the parsonage preserved the green hills of Hampshire amid the brick and stone of industry that loomed outside this refuge. Gold-toned patterns in the wallpaper shone in the angled light from the brass lamp that lit the scattered pages and volumes spread out before the vicar’s bowed head. Seated in the old leather chair Margaret knew from childhood, Mr. Hale looked comfortably at home in this private space. As well he should, Margaret smiled to herself, for John had seen to furnishing the room much like his own study, ordering the shelving to be built along the walls, much to Fanny’s annoyance as it resulted in days of incessant hammering and sawing near her room.
“I am glad you joined us downstairs this afternoon, papa,” Margaret enthused as her father turned to greet her. “You stayed even while we went out on our walk. I know Mrs. Thornton is not always very conversant …”
“No, no … quite the contrary! I happened to ask her something or other concerning Milton, and we proceeded to talk. I believe she and I learned a great deal about each other. I told her a bit about the struggles of village life and she, in turn, told me some of the things she has seen in her days here in Milton,” he related. “Why, you know, they did survive for years on naught much else than water-porridge. Truly, she is a remarkable woman,” the vicar declared with thoughtful reverence.
“Yes,” the young bride vacantly acknowledged. The knowledge of her mother-in-law and husband’s earlier deprivation speared her with a deep admiration and sympathy whenever her thoughts fell upon this history in later days. But at the moment, Margaret
was surprised by her father’s account of easy conversation with the tight-lipped widow. Tension released from her shoulders as she took a breath of gratitude. Something in the manner of his expression told her he would no longer play the part of a stranger in this house.
Despite the dampening blow of Mrs. Hale’s death and all its ensuing challenges, John could not contain an inner glow of deep contentment. He accounted himself well suited for married life. His house was full, giving it new energy and life that alleviated the dull routines of years. John exulted in it: his wife greeted him eagerly every day when he returned home at dusk, conversation at dinner was more engaging with new participants gathered around the table, time for reading and discussing the classics regularly with his father-in-law was increased, and his last waking moments of the evening — as well as the first of every morning — were spent in the presence of the one who had transformed his home life into this glorious effusion of living love.
Therefore, his heart was light even when there came a period of days when he was pressed to return to his office after dinner. With the machinery of industry dormant in the dark corridors of the closed mill, Mr. Thornton pored over ledgers and accounts to ascertain his financial position. Higgins’s aid in amassing workers to finish the large order that had been stalled by the strike had helped the Master evade the crippling penalties and lost revenue that would have accompanied the delivery of a product well after schedule.
New business was stagnant. The strike and the ensuing riot at his mill had unsettled many of his regular customers. But connections in London had sent a potential new buyer his way, and he was intent upon assessing his production capacity so that he could propose a viable schedule for an order of such magnitude. He would need to coordinate every component of his enterprise and order a few new materials. If his plan was rejected, there would be some financial repercussions, but the risks were now safeguarded by the deeds of ownership that bore his name and proved to the bank his credit-worthy status.
In Consequence: A Retelling of North and South Page 43