In Consequence: A Retelling of North and South (2 page)

                  
Mr. Thornton neither spoke nor seemed to acknowledge her presence until formal good-byes were given at their parting. Their eyes met briefly with a glimmer of discomfort and he nodded stiffly, his smile somewhat strained. Margaret felt a pang of painful regret to discern it.

                  
As they started for home on the gas-lit, empty streets, Margaret fondly linked arms with her father. Their leisurely walk in the cool night air lifted her spirits and she enjoyed the pretty way her skirts rustled and swayed about her ankles, as if she were a grand lady.

                  
“I thought Mr. Thornton looked anxious tonight,” Mr. Hale remarked thoughtfully as they passed the first street corner. “I rather think that his mind is not quite at ease about all this trouble with the strike.”

                  
“I shouldn’t wonder that he might be troubled, but he spoke so coolly tonight. He stands so firm in his stance that I cannot detect in him any wavering fear that he will not prevail. He must know something of the growing anger of his workpeople and their suffering, but the manner in which he spoke of them made me wonder if he has any feelings at all,” she replied with a touch of reproach.

                  
Mr. Hale turned his head sharply in surprise to gaze at her. “I believe you are quite set against him, Margaret. You judge him too harshly, I fear. Remember that he has forged his way in this life with great determination, judgment, and self-control. I believe that he is too proud to show his feelings overmuch, but it does not signify that he does not consider such matters greatly in his mind. Truly, I should have thought him just the type of man you would admire, given his exemplary self-discipline,” he lightly admonished her.

                  
“Oh, I do admire his strong character, Father. His intellect and bearing exceed what I would expect for someone of his kind. Perhaps I just need time to understand these manufacturers. Their conversations are alive with ambition for accomplishment — which is not at all like the tepid, sophisticated talk one endures in London. I quite like their honest zeal, although I do not care for their shortsightedness in dealing with their own workers,” she remarked. “I don’t imagine I made a very good impression tonight,” she added with a rueful smile.

                  
Her father gave her a sympathetic grin and patted her arm.

                  
When they finally arrived at their house, Dixon met them at the door, her face white with fear. “Thank God you are come! The doctor is here. She’s better now, but an hour ago I’d thought she would leave us!” she exclaimed in agitation.

                  
Mr. Hale gripped his daughter’s arm for support, his own face now still and pale. Father and daughter rushed into the house.

                  
*****

                  
Mr. Thornton walked into his darkened bedroom, lit the lamp, and shut the door behind him. After all the bustle and conversation of the evening, the house was eerily silent. He let out a long breath and removed his cravat. His mother would count the evening a success. It had begun very well, he thought. There had been such promise in the manner in which Miss Hale had received him. She had never before bestowed such a welcoming smile or warm clasp of hands upon him. He had begun to hope that her opinion of him had undergone a favorable change.

                  
But whatever warmth he had detected had chilled at the dinner table when he had condemned her compassionate motives and she had seen fit to castigate him in return for his heartlessness.

                  
He muttered a curse for his sister’s malevolent remark and for the way Mr. Bell had played his hand. But it did not change the facts. Miss Hale was of a different mind, and did not view him or his like in any high regard. He was angry and vexed that she should think him cruel and uncaring.

                  
He endeavored to brush off the feelings of ill-ease at her disapproval, but was confused and not a little annoyed that he should have to expend so much effort to do so. He had much more important matters to think of at present. He sighed in defeat as he sat on his bed and wearily reclined himself for sleep.

                  
He had managed, for the evening, to put off the worries which weighed on him more pressingly every day since the strike had begun. His plans to hire Irish replacements were underway — he could no longer wait for the union men to return to work. His profits were sliding, and the machinery lay idle.

                  
He knew the risks involved in this move, the anger that would arise from those whose places would be filled by the Irish. They had made their choice and now he would make his.

                  
Mr. Slickson had voiced frightened concern that the strikers would riot and the violence spill to other mills. All these things he had taken under consideration. Had not these concerns swallowed up his every conscious thought these past weeks?

                  
The thought of Slickson caused his mind to return to the beautiful woman to whom he had been speaking when Slickson interrupted.

                  
Her presence had entranced him the moment his eyes had taken in her exquisite form. He had been aware of her all evening — noting who she spoke with, when she was unattended, how the other men had appraised her for her startling beauty. It had taken great strength of character to act indifferently toward her, when all he had longed to do was let his eyes follow her or bring himself to her side.

                  
He quickly withdrew from the indulgence of such thoughts. It was fruitless to harbor any hope of winning her hand or imagine that such a woman would consider him an acceptable match. She would not have him. Was that not evident by the way she had so pointedly rebuked him in front of his company? No, it was best to put her out of his mind entirely.

                  
And so he directed his thoughts to matters of money, and workers, and cotton production. However, her image persistently returned, and he found himself recalling every expression, every gesture, and every word she had spoken that evening as an enchanting torment to his soul.

Chapter One

                  
Margaret lay motionless upon her bed, her arms outstretched in surrender to the sweltering heat of an August night. The clatter of a lone pair of clogs on the cobblestone street below rose through the stilted air, jarring the torpid silence of the hour. As the echoing footsteps faded, a solemn solitude filled the room.

                  
Her eyes languidly traced the faint outline of the open window. The moonless sky offered no light, shrouding her surroundings in impenetrable blackness. She felt the darkness envelope her, insidiously seeping into her very being and chasing every faint beam of hope into bleak despair.

                  
The happy life she had lived in the South was an illusive shadow, a mere figment of her mind. The sorrows that had accumulated since she had arrived in this dirty and desolate city were unimaginable.

                  
The suffering of the working classes and the bitter strife between masters and men seemed as suffocating and ominous as the gray, sooty cloud of industry’s filth that continually hovered over Milton. The only friend she had found in this place, Bessy, was dying. Margaret drew in her breath heavily and closed her eyes at the painful injustice of it all — Bessy was the same age as herself.

                  
Her anger flared at the thought of how little the masters of these mills seemed to care for the poor wretches who worked for them. It was morally repugnant to her that these men should grow rich whilst they wrung the life out of those who labored in their factories. Did not these men depend on the lower classes for their success? It seemed to her that it was not only their Christian duty, but a sounder method of improving their own business if they would only treat their employees with more respect. Surely there would be less likelihood for animosity and the outbreak of strikes if care was taken not to ignore the workers’ inherent intelligence and humanity.

                  
The futility of her indignation crept over her. Although she earnestly hoped that someday there might be some more permanent reconciliation between masters and men, it was too late for Bessy. No present improvements could restore her to health. Her friend would soon be dead and nothing could be done about it.

                  
And now, although she could scarcely bring herself to think on it without trembling, her own dear mother would soon be taken from her. Mrs. Hale was doing much better now, after a few day’s rest, but this respite would not last. Dr. Donaldson could offer only the cold comfort of easing her pain — there was no hope of a full recovery.

                  
Only here, alone in her room at night, could Margaret freely fathom the depths of her feelings. And yet she felt numb — void of emotion. She could not move, but stared into the dark as one insensate and separate from the world. It was safer to reside in oblivion, to avoid the convulsive grief that would surely overtake her if she allowed herself to feel the despair that lingered behind every waking thought.

                  
The daily burden of maintaining a hopeful disposition had steeled her heart.  She resolved hourly to think of her duty as a helpful daughter. She knew she must rise every morning and go forward and do what needed to be done for her parents’ sake. If she allowed her heavy sorrow to overcome her — if she should falter in her comportment — her father would crumple in the face of fate’s harsh reality, and wither from self-inflicted guilt for bringing his family to this place, so far from home.

                  
She struggled to retain her fortitude and remembered the task that must be accomplished on the morrow. The doctor had suggested that a water mattress might alleviate her mother’s suffering. Tomorrow, she would go to Marlborough Mills and ask to borrow the bedding that Fanny Thornton had offered to her at the dinner party.

                  
It seemed so long ago — that grand formal dinner at Mr. Thornton’s residence. Returning home that evening to find her mother in paroxysms of intense suffering had blighted any opportunity to contemplate the pleasures and discomforts of that social affair. That had been but three days ago.

                  
She thought of the dinner’s intriguing host, the image of him coming clearly to her from the obscurity of her tortured mind. How impressive he had looked in his handsome attire, exuding the quiet confidence of one who knew his power! She had been taken aback by his regal assurance and the sound logic with which he spoke, commanding the respect of his peers. She had never seen him to so much advantage.

                  
Her fingers curled with an unconscious twitch at the remembrance of their handshake — how his fingers had grazed hers as he had released his hold. A faint fluttering arose in her breast at the recollection of his penetrating gaze — his eyes had seemed to speak to something deep within her. She had been spellbound for a moment at the intimacy of their silent communication.

                  
Swift upon the heels of this vivid memory came the painful recollection of her challenging retort to him at dinner, which had chased away the fleeting hope that any enduring harmony could be nurtured between them.

                  
She felt the sting of tears fill her eyes and her lip began to quiver. Could she not find solace in some measure of peace? Was life only to be an endless struggle here in Milton, with discord and adversity facing her at every turn?

                  
The hardened walls of her stoic bravery cracked, and bitter tears began to stream down her face. She rolled to her side, clutching her pillow, and wept.

                  
*****

                  
In the heart of the darkened town, Mr. Thornton walked briskly alongside the anxious-looking men and women who had just arrived from Ireland. Were it not for the lighted street lamps, the streets would be plunged into blackest night.

                  
The Master glanced furtively around, hoping that they would not be seen at this late hour, and that his plan to replace the striking workers at his mill would not be divulged. The scraggly herd moved along in silence, the sound of scuffling feet and an occasional soft cough the only sounds in the warm midnight air.

                  
Shepherding them through the gates at Marlborough Mills at last, Mr. Thornton parted ways with the quiet crowd. Mr. Williams, his overseer, would conduct these newly hired hands to their sleeping quarters on the mill’s upper level. Holding his lantern before him, Mr. Thornton headed for the stone house across the empty yard.

                  
His home was dark. He was grateful that his mother had heeded his injunction and had gone to bed before his return. He tugged at his cravat as he trudged wearily up the stairs to his bedroom, muttering an oath at the cursed heat. Setting his lantern down, he cast off his coat as he stepped into the humid room. Continuing to undress, he stripped off his clothes until he was clad only in cotton drawers that fit snugly down to his calves.