Mary thanked her as she received the basket, uncovering one of Dixon’s fresh tarts and several bright apples. The four children remaining in the room admired the shining fruits as Mary placed them on her sideboard, but none dared ask to taste them.
Margaret sighed a little. Children who knew what it was to wonder where their next meal would come from never took such a treat for granted. The apples would be spared, carefully sliced, and shared at the proper time. In all likelihood, they would last the six children far longer than they would have lasted Margaret and her one brother at that age.
Margaret settled herself in a corner chair with a book she had brought, and the children eagerly gathered at her feet. This had become her ritual when she visited. She always tried to bring only the most interesting selections from father’s rather musty and cerebral library, but she often found it did not matter what she read to them. They loved the attention she bestowed, the precious time she gave, and they adored the gentle sound of her voice.
Sally, age four, would often place herself under Margaret’s hand, simply so she might feel something akin to a motherly touch on her hair. Little Johnny, the youngest, would usually toddle into her lap, while two-year-old Benjamin liked to rest his head on her knee as he sucked his thumb. Five-year-old Joseph typically sat a little aloof, but utterly enraptured.
Margaret’s breast swelled in bittersweet contentment. The affections of the children were a soothing balm to her own aching heart, and it was likely that they did her as much good as she could hope to do them. Mary, too, benefitted from the respite for that half hour when Margaret paid her visits. She laboured over her stove, but her curious gaze often found Margaret from across the room as she listened to the story.
All too quickly, her time came to an end. She did not like to be long from home these days, as her father seemed to depend upon her more and more. She bid each child an affectionate farewell, promising to come again soon.
~
Back in her own neighborhood, she scampered lightly up the stone steps to her door. Just before she touched the handle, it swung open to her. Her head came up in surprise, and she found herself again staring at Mr Thornton’s chest. She took an awkward step back. “Excuse me, sir!” she fumbled, nervous at nearly crashing into him.
Thornton stood uncomfortably in the doorway, unsure whether he ought to back into the house once more or hold the door for her from the outside step. Either solution would bring her into close physical proximity, but if he stepped back into the house, he could shield himself behind the door. Moving quickly, he did just that, realizing only after he was inside again that he would be forced to say something to her.
As an afterthought, he swept his hat off his head once more, then offered her a perfunctory nod in greeting. The unattended door rocked on its hinges and creaked nearly closed. They stood face to face in the darkened entry, each trying to work up the courage to meet the other’s eyes. He drew a deep breath. “Good afternoon, Miss Hale.”
Margaret swallowed, taking a small step to angle herself a little more out of his path of escape. “Good afternoon, Mr Thornton.” She forced herself to meet his gaze, but could not hold it long.
He glanced down to his hat. “Well… if you will pardon me, Miss Hale….” He reached for the doorknob to let himself back out of the house, replacing his hat as he neared the threshold.
Margaret’s breath was catching. Her conscience scolded her viciously, demanding that she speak some words of welcome, or gratitude… something! Her father set such store by Mr Thornton’s visits, and it was because of her that he had been lately denied that pleasure. If she could only say something to smooth the way, to encourage Mr Thornton to continue as before… before everything had happened!
“Sir!” she cried, then her voice halted.
He turned curiously, finding her face awash in shock at her own audacity. He paused, allowing her a chance to collect herself. “Miss Hale?” he prompted.
She drew a deep breath, her lashes fluttering. “I- I wanted to… to thank you, sir. For finding time to visit, I mean. I… I know you are very busy.”
He narrowed his eyes, studying her in silence.
“I only mean,” she defended herself, “that Father was most pleased you could come today. I hope that you can find it possible… what I mean, sir, is that if it would be easier if I am not here….” She stopped, her hands gesturing vaguely as she looked helplessly to him, wishing she could articulate what she wanted to say.
Mr Thornton was gazing at her in what could only be described as a mixture of gratification and distress. His breath had quickened and his eyes dwelt on her face for what seemed an age before he responded. “I have no objections to your presence,” he answered softly. “It is your own home, after all.”
“Then…” she raised her eyes timidly to his, “... you will come again? That is, if you are not otherwise occupied? It is not my wish,” she hurriedly explained, “to impose upon your time. I only thought... if you would be more comfortable if I should be out… I do not wish to be the cause of my father losing his friend.” She dropped her eyes to his feet, swallowing hard. What an awkward muddle she was making of it! Why could she not simply speak her mind?
“Miss Hale,” he bit his upper lip, “may I?” He indicated the door with a tip of his head, and she nodded, stepping out of his way again so he could enter the house once more. He closed the door, removed his hat, and held it as a barrier before himself. He stared down at it for a moment to gather his thoughts, then summoning his courage, he faced her.
“I do not pretend to understand what you spoke of yesterday. I am willing to accept the explanation that you are protecting someone, and it is clearly no business of mine. Your affairs are a matter for your own conscience. I believe we have already settled between ourselves that we are common acquaintances, nothing more. I do esteem your father, and I very much value my lessons with him. Do you think, Miss Hale, that we may proceed from such an understanding?”
She nodded wordlessly, her brow furrowed.
“If that be the case, it matters not to me whether we should meet in passing. I hope my occasional presence does not trouble you overmuch.”
“No!” she shook her head, holding up a hand. “I shall not be troubled, sir. I would be most pleased… that is, you are most welcome,” she stammered, her cheeks flaming.
He looked down to his hat again, fingering it briefly, then abruptly dipped his head in farewell. “I shall bid you a good day, then, Miss Hale.”
Margaret released a long breath, watching him turn out of her door and proceed down the street without a backward glance. “Good day,” she murmured after him.
Chapter Four
Thornton gave himself a cursory final glance in the mirror, smoothing the front of his dinner jacket and checking his tie. He would much rather not be entertaining this evening, but the invitation had been a strategic one. Gerald Smith was the new president of the primary bank in Milton, and Stuart Hamilton one of his best customers. These were contacts he would do well to cultivate.
He found his mother in the drawing room. The swift uplift of her brow requested his approval of her arrangements. With a quick glance about and a satisfied nod, he gave her a thin smile. Hannah Thornton took great pride in her position as mistress over his home, and her hospitality was always utter perfection. He released a tight breath. What need had he of a wife? In his mother he had a devoted companion who required so little of him! She presided over everything of his with a fierce dedication. Surely none could surpass her faithfulness.
Fanny arrived presently, fussing over her gown and stealing glimpses of her hair in any reflective surface she passed. She had looked forward to this night with the greatest anticipation, eager to renew her acquaintance with Genevieve Hamilton… and possibly with her brother Rupert.
Mr and Mrs Smith arrived first. They were well into their sixties, but Gerald Smith showed no signs of retiring. His professional ambition riv
aled Thornton’s own, and he had ascended to his position through strategic connections, sound business policies, and relentless toil. Thornton still knew little of the man, but he respected what he did know. Mrs Smith was a prim woman, preferring to observe rather than speak.
The Hamiltons, all four of them, were shown in only a few moments later. They were an old Milton family, and Stuart had increased greatly in consequence after a few lucky investments in his youth. Thornton generally frowned on desperate speculations, but that was not the way of Stuart Hamilton. He was a cautious and strategic investor, and it was known that Hamilton never gambled anything which was not wholly his own. He had resources to spare, and found amusement in backing struggling enterprises, then reaping the benefits later. He had a keen eye for business and a long string of success stories to his name.
Thornton greeted Mr and Mrs Hamilton, then turned his attention to Rupert. The son was several years his junior, and only just returned from three years in London rubbing elbows with some of England’s new money.
“Thornton!” Rupert shook his hand firmly. “Good to see you again, old chap. I say, very handsome of you to invite us!”
“The pleasure is mine, I assure you.” He smiled broadly at the younger man. He remembered Rupert to be… entertaining. Certainly their tastes did not perfectly coincide. Perhaps some maturity had settled the young man a little.
At last, he moved on to Genevieve Hamilton. She was about Fanny’s age, and she had been touring the Continent with her former governess some while. He had not seen young Miss Hamilton in two or three years, at least, and had hardly given her a second thought.
Time, it seemed, had been exceedingly kind to the young lady. She was slightly taller than Fanny, with a most womanly figure. Her hair was the exact shade of honey- a rich blonde with traces of auburn, all coiled and arranged tastefully to accent high cheekbones and a perfect brow. Something about her face was immediately striking, though he could not at the moment put his finger on it.
He did not dare allow himself the luxury of openly satisfying his curiosity. He had learnt years ago that unless he wished to be forcefully ushered to the altar, it would not do to pay extra civility to any female, and never yet had he been in any serious danger. Except in that one case… much good my caution did me there!
Drinks were served and Thornton moved smoothly among his guests until the bell was rung for the dining room. He found himself near Miss Hamilton at that point, so it was the natural thing for him to escort her to dinner. She had a light, pleasing voice, and with some mortification he was forced to concede that her manners were far more refined than those of his own sister. She took her seat with a demure smile to him. Fanny, he noticed, had contrived for Rupert to escort her, and she occupied the younger man’s attention.
“Well, Thornton, what do you think of this mess over in the Crimea?” the elder Hamilton asked from the other end of the table once they had settled.
Thornton pressed his lips thoughtfully. “I think little good can come of it.”
“Little good!” Rupert Hamilton cried, affronted. “Did you not hear? We won at Alma!”
“Aye,” Smith put in, “but to what end? Menshikov has hordes behind him. We can drive him back, perhaps, but what then? No one lasts long against the Slav’s winter, eh Thornton?”
“I believe our dear neighbors to the south discovered that regrettable fact,” Thornton nodded, flashing his eyes over the silent ladies seated at the table. It was really in rather poor taste for Hamilton to have brought up the subject in their presence, but he dared not offend his guest so bluntly by pointing it out. “I agree that our commercial interests, and thereby our sovereign security are best served if we control the region, but the cost in English blood may be rather a steep price to pay.”
Rupert Hamilton lifted his glass in acknowledgement. “Aye, Thornton, but what’s to be done? Too strategic to lose that ground, I say. Mark my words, Thornton, if we lose the Baltic, the Tsar will be at our doorstep by spring.”
Thornton’s mouth curved faintly. “I tend to doubt that. He has enough troubles at home to occupy him.”
“Bah,” Hamilton waved his glass. “He needn’t invade England- indeed, he cannot move so many so far across land. All he need do is dominate Constantinople and he will shut down our trade with the Orient. He is after the Mediterranean, and his motive is not faith but commerce- I don’t care what those young friends of yours in London theorize, Rupert. Once he has that… well, I only hope we do not see it.”
“You just may,” Smith gloomily persisted. “Our ranks are riddled with incompetence. Wait and see, there will be some grievous blow! The entire country will cry out against the war. Aberdeen will take a black eye, and Her Majesty will be forced to withdraw.”
“I disagree.” Thornton crossed his arms, his accustomed air of authority settling a matter which none present could influence by words alone. “Though I believe you are correct that it will come at great cost. The Tsar is far too unstable to make any occupation last. He will extend his hand too far, and it will at length be cut off.”
“I think you are quite right,” a gentle voice to his left concurred. His eyebrows rose. Genevieve Hamilton smiled warmly, and directly at him, before she continued. “I am to understand that our own troops have the superior weapons, is that not true?”
Thornton felt the corner of his mouth tug upward for the first time in some while. “It is, Miss Hamilton. Recent advancements in technology certainly carried the day at Alma.”
He allowed himself one more glance at her face. Brown eyes. That was it. They were unusual and striking in one of her complexion, and he found the combination rather less than unpleasant. He turned away to speak again, almost feeling himself a cad for even noticing the other woman’s beauty. He still bore that one uncomfortable thorn in his heart, and could not hope to dislodge it so readily. It had been worked in with much care, and would not easily be shifted.
“And in truth,” he continued, so smoothly that none might have noticed his hesitation, “you have hit upon my pet topic. Technology is allowing us to lead the world to a better future. To cite only one example, the precision of modern industry, such as produced the new age of rifles for our troops,” he gave a nod in Miss Hamilton’s direction, “can supply the free markets of the world with consistent quality, larger quantities, more affordable prices, and superior products to what has ever been seen.”
Smith gave a short laugh. “I had heard that was your particular fixation, Thornton. I myself am something of an industrial sceptic, but I cannot deny what it has done for our army- to say nothing for the economy.”
“And well do I know your concerns,” Thornton smiled at the older man. “Our industry here is yet young and there are many difficulties we have still to work through, but we have made much progress.”
“Hear, hear!” Rupert cried, banging his glass rather raucously with his spoon. “I heartily agree with you, Thornton. Fellows in London wring their hands over strikes, but it’s all rot. What you have achieved here in such a short time is nothing short of miraculous! Our Milton has quite become the industrial capital of the empire.”
“Well,” Thornton smiled modestly, catching a proud gleam in his mother’s eye. “I am not ready to make that claim, but I believe our industry here has done much toward the progress of the nation. We have much yet before us, but I believe it possible to improve the quality of life for every individual in the kingdom.”
“That is a bold claim!” Smith cried, lowering his glass. “What of the complaints of the workers? I hear all manner of grumbling, and not all of it is limited to their opinions of the masters’ looks and character,” he chuckled.
“Of course there is much to be done,” Thornton leaned in his chair with a little smile, settling into the oft-canvassed debate. “I do not argue that point, but I believe industry supplies the platform from which the next phase of progress must spring. Without such progress, gentlemen, we are back i
n the dark ages.”
“What you say makes sense,” Genevieve Hamilton arched a graceful neck about to look him in the eye once more. “Is it not true that the factories supply a needed product at a fraction of the cost, freeing up a greater portion of a working family’s income for such necessities as food and housing?”
“Indeed, Miss Hamilton,” he narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. Genevieve Hamilton appeared to be a woman of more substance than he had at first given credit for. She might be worth… but her voice is all wrong. He sighed. He was a fool. As he glanced away, he caught his mother’s arched brow.
He looked Miss Hamilton in the eyes again and forced himself to make more of an effort. “In addition to the benefits provided by the mechanized fabrication of goods, the greater profits realized by the mills allows a decent wage for my hands. I grant you, few of them would agree that it is such, but I challenge anyone to find many more opportunities for a better.”
“Thornton,” Hamilton cocked his head thoughtfully, “what do you see as the chief impediment to progress at this point?”
Ah, at last they had come to it. He steeled himself. “Progress comes at a cost, gentlemen. We are all gamblers in business, are we not? To maximize a mill’s potential, to gain the absolute highest efficiency… and safety standards,” he glanced quickly to Miss Hamilton, thinking of another young lady’s humanitarian concerns, “one must invest.
“We must think of the future of our industry, with an eye on where we would envision ourselves in ten, twenty, even fifty years. That is an eternity in this business, but we must plan far in advance if we intend to progress toward our goals. Capital is currently our limiting factor, and the only thing I see which stands between Marlborough Mills and a most promising future- one in which we do, in fact, become known as the industrial capital of the world, and the standard to which others strive.”
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