In Consequence: A Retelling of North and South (34 page)

The proud widow lifted her chin imperceptibly at this estimation of her son even as her shoulders relaxed from their stiff posture. She was hopeful now that Mrs. Hale would welcome every proper arrangement. The corners of her mouth edged upward in satisfaction.

Margaret happily attended the unfolding consultation as a by-stander, answering only such questions as were occasionally put to her by her mother. She watched with fascination as the otherwise rigid and unknowable Mrs. Thornton deftly navigated the conversation to appeal to her mother’s excited interest in taking part in the plans, although the ailing woman would not have a hand in most of the preparations.

“Margaret, do you fancy pink or white roses?” Mrs. Hale inquired, interrupting her daughter’s quiet musing.

“Perhaps white and yellow? Yellow roses are so cheering. Remember the ones surrounding the parsonage, Mother?” she answered with a fond gleam in her eye.

“Yes, of course. Yellow you shall have, then, my dear,” Mrs. Hale readily replied. “It will brighten the church — you are right. Oh, Margaret! How proud I shall be to see you walk down the aisle in front of half of Milton! I should never have guessed when we first arrived here….”

Hannah Thornton took in such exuberance with a measure of reserve, still uncertain if Margaret was entirely worthy of the dotage and acclaim the pretty Southern girl would receive as John’s bride. She took a deep breath as she appraised the young woman again with a wary glance. Although perhaps a trifle too proud and strong-headed, she appeared now to be all feminine grace and refinement. She would make a beautiful bride.

“Forgive me,” their guest gently interrupted. “I’d almost forgotten … I took the liberty of making an appointment for Madame
Coutreau to come here tomorrow. She is Milton’s best dressmaker and generally very busy. If, however, you have other arrangements.…”

“No, no! It is just what we like,” Mrs. Hale assured her. “How exceedingly thoughtful of you to think of such a thing. Indeed, Margaret and I were a tad fretful that there was so little time … oh, this will be splendid, won’t it, Margaret?” she enthused, very much pleased to have these accommodations made which only those with wealth could procure.

“Yes, indeed. Thank you,” Margaret answered, a little taken aback at the swift decision and action with which Mrs. Thornton moved. Certainly, no detail would be left undone with Hannah Thornton at the helm.

When the elder women had sufficiently discussed the guest list and menu plans for the wedding breakfast, Mrs. Thornton announced that she should leave. Margaret smiled warmly at her future mother-in-law. She had shown every kindness to her mother at this delicate time and had discerned, as Margaret had, that Mrs. Hale was growing weary, despite her eagerness.

As she walked Mrs. Thornton to the door, Margaret thanked her profusely for her time and consideration in taking so much of the responsibility for the wedding arrangements.

A trifle embarrassed at such an effusion of gratitude, the staid widow smiled politely and replied that it was her pleasure to oversee any tasks that would make the day a success.

Relaxing in the silent solitude of her carriage afterwards, Mrs. Thornton sighed in satisfaction at having carried out her duties well. She was warmly encouraged that Maria Hale gave every respect due Mr. Thornton’s position in Milton. That frail woman from the countryside had been impressed by the guest list and was insistent that this event should reflect John’s status and reputation.

The S
outhern vicar’s wife was a kind and decent woman, but it was apparent that she would not have the strength to bear the responsibility of orchestrating such an event. She had voiced her own opinion on several matters, but had been pleasantly pliable in other areas where Mrs. Thornton was more knowledgeable. Hannah knew that she would need to bear the burden of implementing every detail, which was just as she should have liked. No one else could plan the regalia of her son’s wedding better than herself, she decided.

                  
Warm contentment flowed briefly through her at this thought, until insidious pangs of sadness reminded her of the cost of her accomplishment: she would lose her son. The strong bond that she had shared with him for these many years would be irrevocably altered once he brought home his wife. She sighed again in uneasy resignation to the inevitable march of time and change.

                  
*****

                  
As the first hint of darkness encroached upon the dull daylight, Mary Higgins prepared the evening meal in the barren grayness of her home. She stirred the steaming stew over the old iron stove and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She hoped the meal would please her father. The meat she had scrounged with her last few shillings would be tender served this way. She tried not to think of what they would eat on the morrow. It was hard enough to scrabble together victuals day by day with the money they had. Others fared worse; there was no use in complaining.

                  
She set two bowls on the sparse table and placed a spoon by each, wondering when her father would appear.

                  
She had scarcely returned to the soup pot when the metal latch clicked and the door heaved open. Relief and trepidation washed over her as she jerked her head around to discern her father’s mood.

                  
“There’s a good lass,” he muttered as he sat down at the table. “Smells good. What ‘ave we today?”

                  
“Stew,” she answered quietly, knowing how often her answer was the same. She breathed easier when he made no complaint.

                  
“Yo’ve not found work?” she bravely asked.  Not daring to look at him, she continued to stir the pot.

                  
“No.” The word hung in the air with oppressive bitterness, laced with unspoken despair. “There’s naught to be had except that which would break my back and pay a pittance,” he said more quietly. “But I’ll not go back to the mills. Not them that’s forcing men to give up the Union. They make liars of men and think they can command us to do their every bidding now that they’ve won,” he grumbled, the fervor of his anger bristling his resolve.

                  
“Maybe yo’ oughten to think of Thornton’s,” the girl replied meekly as she served him his stew.

                  
“Thornton’s?” he spat, crinkling his eyes in disbelief. “Him that brought the Irish to take our jobs? He’ll not listen to our complaints. It may hap he’s turned soft to a woman’s touch, but he’s not changed. He’d be glad enough to make me know my place,” he surmised with a derisive snort as he leaned over his dish.

                  
“You know naught of ‘im!” Mary hurled back, surprised at her own vehemence. But her father’s startled response seemed only to spur her indignation, compelling her to speak. “If yo’ll swallow a bit o’ yo’r pride, you might find who ’tis that’s stubborn. You speak of progress but yo’ don’t do welly a thing for it when given the chance,” she exclaimed, feeling a surge of power as she met his incredulous gaze.

                  
He stood up as if to strike her. Trembling but defiant, she kept her chin aloft and met his threatening look with flashing eyes.

                  
Nicholas stared at her as if she were a new creature.

                  
“It were he that sent the coffin for Bessy,” she boldly added in a rush of triumph.

                  
His brow furrowed in disbelief for a moment before he dropped his gaze and strode for the door.

                  
Mary jolted as the wood crashed back into its frame. The silence was foreboding. All her strength suddenly left her and she collapsed into a chair, sobbing into her hands.

                  
The night was black when he returned, but she had kept the stew warm. Silently, she rose to serve him his supper and he sat to eat it. Not a word was spoken between them the remainder of the night, but Mary sensed that the storm of his anger had passed.

                  
*****

                  
On the other side of town, Margaret impatiently listened to her mother’s recounting of the day and glanced at the clock on the mantle. At half past the hour, she knew that Mr. Thornton would be with her father in his study, waiting for her to join them. Eagerly, she bid her mother good night when the opportunity arrived and hurried to the end of the hall where the deep tones of her betrothed’s voice could be heard at the door.

                  
“Aah … Margaret!” her father enthused when she entered the room. “I don’t think John can quite concentrate on our themes until you have made your appearance,” he remarked with a smile. Although Mr. Thornton’s manners were as calm and impeccable as always, Mr. Hale had noted this evening the restlessness of expectation in the shifting gaze of his paragon pupil.

                  
“Then I shall make every effort to be punctual in the future to avoid such a distraction,” Margaret replied smartly. She caught the guilty expression that came over Mr. Thornton’s face and met his unrepentant grin with a smile of her own, a glimmer of amusement in her eye.

                  
She settled into her seat as the men resumed their discussion and picked up her sewing. She was glad that John made the effort to come to his lessons with her father, when it would be far easier to spend the time alone together in a private visit now that they were engaged. She knew that he was aware how much such meetings meant to her father, and she admired him all the more for his continued loyalty and friendship to that end.

                  
Gazing across the shadowed room, she watched with fascination every movement of his face, which revealed his deep consideration of the subject at hand. She would never tire of studying him. Her contemplations were interrupted when Dixon entered the room, carrying the tea tray.

                  
Margaret found it a scintillating pleasure to pour the tea, knowing that every fluid motion of her hands was being watched by the one who most adored her. She served her father first, gracefully handing him his tea as she had done so many times before. She managed to keep her hand steady as she turned to offer Mr. Thornton his tea. His eyes blazed with secret passion as he met her gaze. He brushed his fingers sensuously against hers as he took his cup, and she felt the charge of a thousand tiny jolts of electric energy surge through her arm and enliven her whole body.

                  
She returned to her chair and languidly attended to her stitching as she happily imagined listening to his soothing voice every day for many years to come. When her father announced the lesson’s conclusion, her stomach pitched in exhilaration and she set her sewing down.

                  
Ever since he had arrived this evening, Margaret had waited for when they could be alone again for a few precious moments at the end of the day. As she preceded him down the stairs, she wondered if Mr. Thornton felt the same.

                  
One look at him as she stopped in the darkened hallway, and she knew that he did.

                  
“I trust my mother was helpful this afternoon,” he posed somewhat formally as he reached out for her hand. He could not refrain from touching her, and pulled her nearer, nestling his hands on her waist.

                  
“Yes, very much so. I’m certain the circumstances are very restraining to her, but she has been most kind. My mother is happy to be involved in such an affair. She was used to quite a grand life when she was a girl. I believe the idea of putting on a splendid wedding is giving her much joy,” she related thoughtfully.

                  
“What of you, will you also be happy with such a wedding?” he asked, a shadow of concern furrowing his brow.

                  
“I had always imagined I would have a simple country wedding,” she confessed hesitantly as she stared for a moment at her hands, which rested comfortably on his broad chest. “But I know it is important to my mother — and yours — that this should be a grand occasion. I am content,” she added truthfully as she began to move one hand slowly over the fabric of his waistcoat.

                  
He would have swept her up into a crushing embrace, but she suddenly looked up to him with a girlish smile of excitement.

                  
“I am to be fitted for my gown tomorrow,” she told him, her eyes sparkling in the delight of sharing this news.

                  
His heart twisted to see her eagerness in this feminine endeavor, to which he had specifically attended. “I hope you are well-pleased to have your own seamstress,” he answered, studying how beautifully her face glowed in the dim lamplight.

                  
She fluttered her eyes as she realized he was aware of the special arrangement. “It is very fine. I do not wish to be extravagant,” she proclaimed.

                  
He tugged her closer. “I hope you will choose what pleases you. I wish you to have everything you desire,” he declared fervently, his gaze hungrily roaming from her eyes to her rosebud lips which were so temptingly near.