In Consequence: A Retelling of North and South (18 page)

“Mary, whose children are these?” Margaret asked, somewhat dazed at the sight before her. The stillness of the room unnerved her; although it was midday, the children had no energy to bound
about as children ought.

“Mrs. Boucher is taken ill. I’m doing my bit so that she can take her rest,” Mary explained soberly as she continued with her cooking,

“What about their father, has he found work?” Margaret inquired as she set out the bread, butter, and tea that she had brought.

“No, and he won’t go back to the mills for fear of being taken by the police. It were he that
throwed the rock at Thornton. Or so they say,” Mary answered as Margaret began to portion out the bread for the children.

Margaret saw the older lad’s eyes widen as she spread butter on a piece of bread and quickly perceived that he had not had such a luxury in some time. Margaret’s eyes pricked with tears as she watched the boy patiently help her distribute the food to his brothers and sisters before devouring his own treat.

“He needs work, or they’ll starve. What can be done?” Margaret asked in desperation as she settled a tiny girl on her lap and helped her eat the gruel that Mary portioned out.

“The Union will not pay more. I don’t know what’s to become of them. I suppose they ought to move to parts where they’re not known,” Mary replied.

“But surely, with a sick wife and six children, he cannot easily move elsewhere!” Margaret protested.

“I don’t know,” Mary returned helplessly, holding the baby as the younger ones ate.

“And what of Nicholas? Will he return to the mills?” Margaret asked, smoothing the dark blond hair of the girl in her lap.

“He’s set low and his pride is still strong. Some of the masters won’t allow the men to pay Union in their mills. Father will not take work where he cannot pay Union,” she answered with a shake of her head. She looked up at Margaret with a glint of fear in her eyes. “I don’t know what’s to become of us. I miss
Bessy.”

Margaret nodded and reached over to squeeze her arm.

“I know she must be happier now ... she looked like an angel, lying in that white silk. It was terribly kind of yo’ to fetch her that coffin,” the normally taciturn girl thanked her once more.

“Mary,” Margaret began with a quiet resolve, “Do you know that I’m engaged to marry Mr. Thornton?” she asked bluntly.

“Father said as much. I see yo’ wear his ring, but I wouldna make a fuss unless yo’ mean for me to know it,” she replied meekly. “I don’t care what Father thinks of it, I wish yo’ all the happiness in the world, yo’ve been so kind....”

“Thank you, Mary,” Margaret answered with a sweet smile. “But I believe it was Mr. Thornton that sent
Bessy’s coffin,” she confessed.

“It weren’t
yo’?” the girl asked in confusion as she shushed the waking baby in her arms and gently rocked it.

Margaret shook her head. “I believe he did it on my behalf,” she returned softly, the meaning of his gesture washing over her anew.

Mary looked at her with dawning comprehension and not a little awe. “He must feel for yo’ something fierce.”

Margaret blushed in acknowledgment and bowed her head to hug the small child in her arms a little tighter.

When Margaret exited the crowded house sometime later, she had only taken a few steps when Nicholas stood in her path. He gave her a cursory nod, his lips tightly drawn together.

“
Yo’ still come around here?” he queried mockingly, his eyes narrowed in distrust.

“I promised
Bessy I would be a friend to Mary,” she answered, bravely meeting his scorn.

“Aye, I know
yo’r promises. Yo’ve divided them between the lot of us and them that has defeated us,” he derided with a bitterness he could not hide.

“And must I decide between which of God’s peoples I should pay allegiance? Is the world to be thus divided for us?” she retorted with equal vehemence. “The strike is over, Nicholas,” she continued more softly.
“Is it not time to work toward a better understanding between masters and men, so that such suffering is avoided in the future?” she pleaded.

“Not until they treat us as we ought to be treated, as men and women with a head and a heart same as them! Naught will change if we’re only to obey orders like dogs who are glad for a crust when the masters eat heartily of pie,” he countered, his eyes flashing with anger.

“Who of them has suffered?” he continued. “We’ll be taking the brunt of it, mark my words. Now that we’ve come slinking back to take the wages we said we would not, they’ll not care to tell us the reasons for their doings. No, we’re far from the time when we’ll see the masters give us a little respect, though I’d like to live to see the day. Yo’ can tell yo’r Mr. Thornton that,” he quipped over his shoulder as he made his way to his home.

Margaret frowned at his hardened mutterings, but acknowledged the pain of his failure in striving to improve the lot of the mill workers.

As she turned her steps to home, she noted that the summer heat intensified the stench of the dirty alleyways that wended their way toward the center of the city and the factories. Margaret contemplated the plight of the children she had seen and Nicholas’ anger. Her heart yearned to mitigate so much suffering. Immersed in a swirling sense of despondency, she arrived at a crossing on Marlborough Street. Glancing down the busy street toward the mill, a flicker of an idea came to mind, but she pushed onward toward home

However, the suggestion of a solution continued to gather strength in her thoughts, until she could no longer resist the urge to follow it. Did he not tell me to come to him for any need, she asked herself?
 In a moment’s decision, she made a quick turn and walked with resolution toward the gates of Marlborough Mills.

*****

Mr. Thornton sat at his desk, scribbling his replies to correspondence that demanded his attention. He felt, rather than heard, someone enter his private domain.

“Yes ...” he uttered brusquely with a twinge of impatience, fully expecting to be regaled with some minor crisis by one of his employees. That he did not even bother to look up from his work made him all the more intimidating.

“Mr.
Thornton ...” a feminine voice falteringly began.

His head snapped up. “Margaret!” he breathed, dropping his quill and rising. He rounded the desk to meet her, thrilled at the notion that she had come to speak to him. The very sight of her in this staid and familiar place woke within him the fevered anticipation of the day when she would brighten every corner of his desolate world with her presence. Her eyes shone with hope and hesitation, and her skin seemed to glow with translucent loveliness.

He observed a smudge on her white blouse, which did not besmirch her angelic beauty in the least, but only reminded him of her capability and willingness to involve herself in things from which any other girl of her station would shrink.

He glanced with satisfaction at the ring she now wore, which promised such earthly pleasures as he had heretofore only dreamed of. How long must he wait until he could hold her? Every muscle strained as he held himself from gathering her into his arms and pressing his lips to hers.

“I do not wish to intrude ...” she stammered, her breath coming unsteadily as she stood before him. Her eyes fastened on the sinewy strength of his bare forearms and followed the length of his arms to his shoulders. She had a fleeting image of those arms wrapped around her in a tight embrace. Swiftly, she tried to sweep such thoughts from her mind, feeling a warmth rise to her face even as her pulse quickened.

“You could not intrude,” he insisted in deep tones that reverberated from a tenderness that stupefied her. She had never heard him speak so gently.

She averted her gaze from his questioning stare, endeavoring to find her voice once more. “You said I should come to you ...” she began, her words trailing off as she sought how to make her request.

“
Yes ...” he encouraged eagerly.

“I have been to the Princeton district. That poor starving man of whom Mr. Bell spoke ... his situation is dire. His wife is ill and they have several young children. If you could give him work
again ...” she pleaded with rising fervor.

“Why has he not returned to work with the others?” Mr. Thornton asked
, his face clouded with confusion.

Margaret flushed, casting her eyes about in flustered dismay. “John Boucher, the man of whom I speak, is the one accused of throwing the stone that hit you,” she disclosed with trepidation, lifting her gaze to meet his at last.

His eyes narrowed in disbelief and his brow creased ominously. He turned from her in revulsion at this staggering revelation and her impossible request. He stalked to the window, raking his fingers through his hair in bitter disappointment that she had not come to him for any personal solace, but only to press him to grant pardon to those who had won her boundless compassion while doing him harm.

“And am I to offer him work? You think I got what I deserved?” he returned in heated passion.

“No! No, of course not!” she affirmed with dismayed fervor, taking a step closer to him. “It was wrong — very wrong — but he was desperate. His children were starving. He did not want to take part in the strike but was forced by the Union. Men like Nicholas were determined that all should join together, but now even he has no prospect for work....”

“Nicholas? Nicholas Higgins?” he fairly shouted, spinning around to face her, his expression darkening at her intimate use of his name. “The rabble rouser who helped to force all of this trouble upon us? You cannot expect me to sympathize with the likes of him!” he finished with a flare of anger.

He turned his back to her once more, feeling a pang of remorse at his outburst, knowing full well that it was jealousy that pushed him to hate the man who received enough of Margaret’s affection to be called by his Christian name, while she had never used his own.

Shocked at his vehemence, she endeavored to clarify her purpose. “I only meant to
ask ...”

“You ask too much of me,” he interrupted curtly, pained that she should never be satisfied with his efforts to do right — that she would always find fault with him as the master over those for whom she felt such sympathy. He whirled around again to confront her. “Do you expect me to create Utopia? Am I to be blamed for all the suffering that exists here in Milton? What about my own struggles to advance in this world?” he argued bitterly, his eyes flashing as one wounded.

“I only asked that you save innocent children from starving!” she staunchly defended herself, raising her voice to match his intensity. At the look of surprise on his face, she stared at him wonderingly, astounded at the torrent of words that had passed between them.

He turned from her and paced to the window once more, avoiding the look of confounded shock on her face.

“I see I should not have come. I have disturbed you,” she said in clipped tones, straightening her shoulders and throwing her head back with the air of one offended.

“You do not disturb me!” he countered vociferously over his shoulder, his vexation piqued at her calm pronouncement.

“You are ill-tempered. I have made you so,” she affirmed as a matter of fact, maintaining her poise. “I’m sorry.” She bowed her head and quietly left the room.

He heard the click of the door, and closed his eyes in an agony of frustration. Torn between the aching desire to please her and pride at his own stature, he rebelled against her pressing demands. Never had anyone made him so delirious in his struggle to forge compassion with the principles of business! He passed his fingers through his hair, his head bowed in despair.

He glanced at the closed door and, with only a moment’s hesitation, bolted toward it. He knew not what he would say or do; he only knew that he could not let her leave like this. He flung the door open and strode with determination down the corridor after her retreating figure.

She spun around and stared with mouth agape at his dark approach. He saw fear in her beautiful, luminous eyes and nearly slowed his pace. But in the next instant, she raised her chin ever so slightly in brave defiance.

All his self-restraint snapped. With one sweeping motion, he pulled her flush against him and crushed her lips with his own. My God, how she drove him half mad! His senses flared with desire at this close contact, feeling the warmth of her lips on his. But his fleeting bliss of possession evaporated as he realized she did not move a muscle in his embrace. Reluctantly, he released her just as her frozen form began to melt in the warmth of his strong grasp.

“Forgive me,” he murmured with a creased brow. “I had no
right ...” he apologized as a wave of remorse swept over him for his brazen act. He could not look at her, unable to bear the look of disgust that he imagined must be written on her face.

She was too stunned to speak.

“I will give the man work ... for the sake of his children,” he promised in a voice grave with cautious penitence.

“I had hoped you would,” she managed to respond in a breathy voice. Glancing around her, she suddenly became aware of their surroundings and feared that someone might enter the open corridor at any moment. “I ... I must go,” she muttered with embarrassment, averting her eyes from his questioning gaze.