In Consequence: A Retelling of North and South (38 page)

But if this open affection unnerved her, what followed stunned her as if she had sustained a physical blow. The girl looked up to him — looked up to her son as the sole object of all her worldly adoration — and he returned her unhidden gaze as if he had found the reason for his existence in her eyes.

Mrs. Thornton reeled at this revelation, swaying for just a second on her feet as she realized at last that this was no trifling affair; the vision of the couple at the window was a searing glimpse into the future. She would stand forever now in the periphery of her son’s life. No longer the center of his universe, she would need to learn to support him from afar — a fact that wound creeping tentacles of deadening fear around her heart even as some deeper tension, tightly held and worried over, lifted to see her son glow in happiness. She only hoped it would endure.

“I had not noticed this portrait before,” Mr. Hale spoke thoughtfully, drawing Hannah Thornton back into the present duty of tending to her guests. “Is it a Thornton forebear? A very pleasing countenance,” he remarked concerning the painting of a vibrant-looking woman on the wall.

Mrs. Thornton smiled weakly at the kind old parson’s observant nature, before patiently explaining with a twinge of bittersweet pride the character of her husband’s mother.

The luncheon passed pleasantly enough. Mrs. Hale was suitably impressed with the elaborate crystal and silver place settings, the sumptuous dishes served, and the sparkling cleanliness and impeccable attention to detail about the table and the whole environment. Somewhat surprised, but very pleased to find her daughter’s future home to be so up to standard and appealing in taste, the former Beresford belle was happy to take part in something more lively and bright than her more dreary and reclusive existence in
Crampton.

Conversation drifted quite easily over a variety of subjects. Fanny only came to life when talk lighted upon the swift work of Madame
Coutreau or the names of those who had already responded to the wedding invitations. Mrs. Hale’s inquiry as to the age of the Thorntons’ house led to a deeper discussion of the mill’s history and the development of Milton itself into the bustling city it was at present. Mrs. Thornton was pleased to note Mr. Hale’s avid interest in this recounting, which she joined with her own recollections of Milton’s former days.

The betrothed couple exchanged glances often as each participated in the course of conversation. Mr. Thornton could not contain the upward pull at the corners of his mouth every time he gazed at Margaret. He was zealous of the day when she would preside at the end of the table, opposite
himself. Her presence in his home gave him an indescribable feeling of lightness and expectant joy.

He knew from the soft smiles he received that Margaret was happy to see her parents accorded every respect from his family. But he also detected the wistful look in her eyes every time Mrs. Hale spoke, and his heart contracted in aching longing to forestall the bitter sorrow of loss that would someday be laid at her feet.

When it was time for the Hales to return home, the carriage was called for the former vicar and his wife, but arrangements were made for Margaret to take a leisurely stroll home with Mr. Thornton.

Pleased to have this time to be alone, the couple walked arm-in-arm through the streets, remarking on the pleasant success of the luncheon. Mr. Thornton tipped his hat to a distinguished looking couple of his acquaintance as they passed by on the other side. The younger couple fell into a comfortable silence, enjoying the simple pleasure of their close contact as their unhurried gait aligned in blithe unity.

“I’ve been thinking …” Mr. Thornton began thoughtfully, “that I would like to take you to the sea, or somewhere quite scenic, immediately following the wedding … if it pleases you.”

Margaret looked up with some surprise. “A … wedding trip?” she falteringly inquired, casting her gaze downward as she felt a blush warm her cheeks.

“Yes, I know you do not wish to be far from your mother, and I cannot be away from the mill for long, but I wish to get away from everything … for just a day or two,” he suggested carefully.

“It sounds lovely,” she replied, imagining what a pleasure it would be to have no intrusions upon their time together.

“It does?” he replied, astonished and relieved at her quick admission.

“Yes. I haven’t been to the sea in some time. I would love to go … with you,” she added, blushing anew as she realized that this trip would be unlike any other she had ever taken.

“Then I will take great pleasure in arranging it,” he answered. He smiled at her bashful reply, her eagerness to be with him filling him with a warmth that flowed to every portion of his being. He relished the thought of stealing his bride away to a place where they would be undisturbed by the dross of daily concerns — to a place set apart for learning the new intimacy of their life together. 

They walked quietly for a time as they trod the footpath through the park overlooking the town, both absorbed in their own thoughts.

“Perhaps we could sit for awhile,” Margaret suggested uneasily as they approached a weathered granite bench at the crest of the grassy hill. “I have something I must tell you,” she announced, bravely determined to reveal her family’s secret.

“I have a brother,” she began as soon as they sat, looking down at her hands with trepidation.

“A brother?” he echoed in stunned confusion. “Your father has never mentioned….”

“We do not speak of him. He is in exile,” she responded hastily, anxious to
lay out the tangled explanation of her brother’s situation.

“Exile?” He whispered sharply, the creases on his forehead deepening with alarm.

“Oh … I’ve begun it all wrong,” she muttered, shaking her head and wringing her hands in agitation. “It’s just that … you are a magistrate.…”

He took her writhing hands in his grasp, stilling her with the strong clasp of his broad hands about her slender fingers. “Tell me, Margaret,” he demanded softly, his soothing tones coaxing her to look at him. “It has been a burden for you,” he determined, his blue eyes penetrating her frightened gaze with tender concern and dissolving all her doubts of his revulsion.

So she told him, as the breeze swept the loose wisps of her hair against her bonnet, all that her mother had recounted about her brother’s experience in the Navy: how Frederick had been under the command of a man whom he had never liked — a nefarious captain who treated his men ill — and how Frederick had rebelled against the unnecessary death of a fellow shipman, who had lost his life rushing to perform the captain’s unreasonable orders. She bewailed the cruel paradox that convicted her beloved brother of treasonous mutiny when he had but sought to free others from unjust authority.

If the Master’s eyes flickered in doubt at the accuracy of this account or of Frederick’s judgment, he kept such thoughts from his future bride. The story she told was grim, and he was once again struck by her fortitude in enduring such a trial, which had undoubtedly cast her into the ceaseless and solitary role of endeavoring to bring solace to her grieving parents. Anger pricked in his breast at the capriciousness of others, whose acts had unwittingly dropped a burden of troubled sorrow on the innocent girl before him.

When she had finished Frederick’s story and explained that he was now in Spain, she let out a sigh, relieved to have finally shared this secret with him but feeling the knot of apprehension in her stomach for what she had yet to confess.

“It is very unfortunate that your brother has been parted from you these past seven years. But I believe he will be safe if he remains abroad,” Mr. Thornton concluded in a comforting voice as he gently squeezed the small hand still in his grasp.

“I have not told you all,” Margaret replied, her voice wavering weakly. His brow was creased once more as she raised her eyes reluctantly to his. She looked away, resting her gaze on a small patch of swaying grasses as she considered the letter she had sent. “My mother begged me to write Frederick. She was frightened she might not ever see him again, so I did what she asked of me. I … I asked him to come. I could not bear my mother’s pleading,” she finished. She shivered at the thought of his condemnation of her foolishness, as well as at the stiff breeze that now came over the hill.

Without a word, Mr. Thornton rose from their seat, helping her up and tucking her arm in his as he began to lead them to lower ground. He did not know what to say so he resorted to taking swift action with his body while his mind tried to comprehend the consequences of her action and the strategies that might be involved in handling such a dire circumstance.

“When did you send the letter?” he asked, his serious tone sounding harsher than he had intended.

“A week ago, the same day I told you of our wedding date,” she dutifully answered.

“He may arrive at the time of our wedding,” he announced as fact, making the travel calculations quickly. “No one must know when he is here in England,” he added, endeavoring to quell the burgeoning distress that threw his thoughts in turmoil as he considered the dire costs — to the mutineer’s life, to Margaret and her parents, and to Mr. Thornton’s own integrity as a magistrate of the Crown — should Frederick's presence be discovered.

“Yes, of course. We will keep him well hidden,” Margaret assured him, attempting to keep pace with his swift strides. His agitation and distress frightened her, and she felt the sting of guilt at throwing this trouble into his store of burdened responsibilities. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, her downcast eyes watching the pattern of her feet as they rhythmically peeked from beneath the undulating edge of her skirt.

Mr. Thornton brought them both to a halt, much to her astonishment.

“You are not at fault,” he declared, his eyes searching hers. He would have taken her face into his hands to assure her but for the passersby who walked heedlessly about them. “Your brother’s doing is out of your hands,” he affirmed.

“But I have called him to possible danger….”

“You wished to bring your mother comfort at a difficult time. I cannot cast blame on you for that,” he declared with resolution as he resumed their walk, securing her arm in his with a gentle squeeze. “The circumstances are grave, but we will attend to every detail as it arises,” he assured her, although he feared that her brother’s arrival would prove untimely and fraught with tension.

She studied his sober profile with amazement, feeling the weight of her worries lighten at his response. How swiftly he had undertaken to assume his portion of this troublesome situation, and how sympathetic he was to all that oppressed her! She was aware now, more than ever, of how great her fortune was to be linked with this man — this man who had once seemed so dark and mysterious. Somehow, he seemed to understand all the secret chambers of her heart, offering her a safe repose in which to release her emotions. Her heart yearned to know him better, to learn what hidden memories or fears haunted him, so that she — by the sheer force of her patient and fierce devotion — might dissolve them one by one.

“I will be glad to meet your brother,” Mr. Thornton added after a few moments of quiet contemplation. “It would seem that your father has instilled in his offspring a sincere concern for the common man,” he remarked with an upward curve of his mouth, distinctly recalling with admiring amusement her vehement compassion for the strikers’ sufferings.

Margaret looked up into his face and smiled at his recognition of this family trait. “One can never become so grand as to cease being human. We are all of us made after the same heart, after all. Father never treated anyone as less than one of God’s own beings. We lived among very humble people in Helstone — cottagers and farmers,” she explained. “I hope you will like Frederick. He has a certain energy about him. He is not wholly comfortable being idle.”

They talked about Frederick for a while as they strolled together toward
Crampton.

When the conversation waned, however, and they grew closer to Margaret’s street, Mr. Thornton’s thoughts drifted to the week ahead. “I’ve been invited to dinner at the Mayor’s on Thursday next. Mr.
Colthurst and a few other Members of Parliament from the South are coming to see the industry here in Milton. Will you accompany me?” he asked.

She discerned the hint of uncertainty in his eyes. “I would be very happy to accompany you,” she assured him with a beaming smile, hugging his arm closer.

He smiled in warm satisfaction, pleased to think that she would be by his side at all such occasions in the future. “There will be dancing,” he elaborated.

“Do Milton manufacturers dance?” she inquired with mock surprise, meeting his gaze with a glimmer of teasing mischief.

“I believe we are civilized enough to know how to perform the finer graces of our culture. Although perhaps our Northern balls may not compare to the grand elegance of your Southern balls,” he quipped with a lopsided grin.

“I suppose I shall have to determine that for myself this Thursday,” she replied with a saucy lilt. “I’ve never been one to truly enjoy such affairs, but I will be very interested in attending a Milton gala. I’m quite certain I’ve never danced with a manufacturer before,” she mused, her eyes sparkling with mirth as she caught his gaze.

“Then you will have ample opportunity to do so. Not only will the cotton trade be represented, but the machine manufacturers and print makers will also be in attendance,” he replied suavely to her haughty taunt, unable to contain the smile that pulled on his lips.