In Consequence: A Retelling of North and South (40 page)

When Thursday evening came, he was impatient to go to Crampton and endeavored to quell the prickling energy of anticipation that flowed through him even as he bounded up the stairs to sound the bell at her door.

Standing in the front parlor, Mr. Thornton awaited her arrival. His heart thudded in his chest as he steeled himself for the first sight of her.

Moments stretched on until he at last heard movement from above. He watched her gradual appearance as she gracefully descended the stairs, the rustling of her skirts the only sound in the room.

All power of speech evaporated as he stared in rapt adoration at the woman who would soon become his wife. Her hair was swept up elegantly upon her head, giving full view of the ivory skin of her bare neck and shoulders that appeared above a dark colored ruffle of gauzy fabric. Her bodice molded tightly to her body, revealing and amplifying the shapely curves of her feminine form. When she finally reached him and lifted her eyes to his, he felt something deep within clench in pain at the force of emotion that came over him. “You look…enchanting,” he was able to mutter, struggling to gather his proper sensibilities.

She dipped her head demurely at his appraisal and duly flushed. The fluttering in her stomach had not abated but intensified from being in such close proximity to him once more.

He took measured breaths as he helped her drape a lace shawl about her shoulders. The sight of her silken skin and the scent of rosewater that emanated from her neck and hair intoxicated his senses so that he very nearly cast aside all decorum in the impulse to take her in his arms and show her his strong feelings.

The cooler outside air helped to steady his resolve to behave in a gentlemanlike manner, and he assisted her into the carriage with a renewed determination to restrain his ardor while enjoying the privilege of her company on this distinctive occasion.

“Fanny was not yet ready when I departed, so we are constrained to return first to Marlborough Mills to collect her,” he explained with some annoyance once they were settled in the coach and moving forward through the streets.

Margaret responded with some light remark pertaining to Fanny’s diligence in her preparations, and as Mr. Thornton happily held her gloved hand in his, the couple soon fell into comfortable conversation concerning the events of the week.

A burst of energy pierced the pleasantly calm atmosphere of the coach upon Fanny’s arrival. Exclamations, questions, and gossiped tidbits readily poured forth from Miss Thornton, leaving Margaret little to say as they traveled the cobbled streets toward their destination.

*****

A calm din of genteel conversation suffused the opulent Green Room of the Lord Mayor’s mansion. Mr. Thornton listened patiently to the distinguished Member of the House of Lords query a small circle of Milton’s wealthiest investors and bankers about the cotton trade. The Master of Marlborough Mills cast a restless sidelong glance toward the back of the great room where his future bride stood engaged in conversation with a gathering of ladies and a few gentlemen, all dressed in their finest attire.

She was spellbinding in a shimmering gown of deep maroon that hung just off her shoulders, clung to her shapely form, and cascaded from her slender waist in full-fashioned elegance to the floor. Inclining her head to the person addressing her, she gave her genuine attention to the speaker even as her whole bearing emanated an easy grace, reinforcing to Mr. Thornton what he had known from the day he had first laid his eyes upon her — that she was a superior being who walked among them.

Mr. Thornton had thoroughly enjoyed the privilege of entering the mansion with Margaret on his arm, relishing every opportunity to introduce her as his intended. How they had slowly been separated in the social whirl, he remembered not; he only knew he wished desperately to return to her side.

He let out a low sigh and renewed his outward attention to the surrounding milieu. He dared not continue to stare at the object of his affection, lest he hurl himself in her direction without compunction.

When at last he deftly wrested himself from the conversation about financial interest in the northern trade, he headed straightaway to rejoin the company of the most glorious woman in attendance.

Undetected by those surrounding her, Margaret watched as Mr. Thornton approached. She took a long, deep breath as she drank in the sight of his commanding frame. Dressed in black coattails with a formal white waistcoat that dipped low to reveal the broad expanse of his starched shirt, he looked magnificent. She thought him more admirable and regal than anyone in the room. Her pulse pattered uncontrollably as she caught the warm gleam in his eye, amazed to recognize the strong bond between them. How much had changed since the formal dinner at his home just a few weeks ago!

Arriving at Margaret’s side, he placed his hand at the small of her back for a fleeting moment. It was the merest touch, the gentlest of gestures, but it evoked in him profound emotions, for he yet marveled that he could do this — touch her with such intimate familiarity, claiming her as his own in the midst of this assembly. He let his hand drop to his side with great reluctance, for all he really wished to do was to hold fast to her in some tangible way, to make that connection which seemed to course through him as some powerful, magnetic urge.

The feel of his hand upon her, even through the layers of fabric that bound her waist, was to her as a searing touch, announcing their attachment to everyone present and evoking in her such potent emotion that for a few moments she was aware of nothing else but the rush of glowing pleasure she received from this possessive gesture.

The mayor’s son, one of the gentlemen in Margaret's company, addressed the respected mill owner upon his arrival. “Mr. Thornton, I believe Mr. Chesterfield was impressed by his tour of your factory,” the young Cambridge student cordially assessed.

The S
outhern man from Parliament concurred. “Quite so. But I daresay you never told me, Thornton, that you have won over a Hampshire girl to your Milton ways,” the large, grandfatherly figure remarked jovially. “I believe you have found a natural spokesman for promoting your causes. This young lady has been telling me what she admires in all your hustle and practical methods,” he said, gesturing to Margaret.

“Has she?” Mr. Thornton returned, giving Margaret a meaningful glance. He smiled to note the faint blush that came to her cheeks.

When they were called for dinner, Mr. Thornton was more than pleased to take the opportunity to escort Margaret to the long decorated tables where gold-rimmed china glistened and crystal sparkled in the glow of gaslight chandeliers. Chagrined that they would be duly separated by the seating arrangement, he was nevertheless grateful his place across the table was near enough to allow him to maintain a pleasurable view of her and hear her voice.

Conversation centered upon the subject for
which the honored guests had been gathered: the progress of Milton’s industry and the obstacles and conditions that would hinder or promote her future.

“And have you recovered from this strike?” Lord
Garthwaite posed to the cotton mill masters upon discovering that the mills had been dormant for nearly a month.

“I believe Thornton has had the worst of it,”
Slickson answered. “He took the trouble to hire Irish replacements which ended the strike very well, but must have added to his expenditures.”

“And you were injured during that horrible riot, were you not, Mr. Thornton?” the mayor’s wife interposed.

Mr. Thornton smiled uncomfortably at being the center of concern. “The injury itself was quite inconsequential, but I own that the events of that day were of great magnitude,” he replied calmly, giving a purposeful glance to Margaret which made her cast her eyes to the table.

Fanny and Claire
Lawrenson also shared a knowing glance with sardonic haughtiness, remembering well the circumstances that led to Mr. Thornton’s engagement.

“The mill is running at full capacity now and with extended hours twice a week. The strike has set me back and the Irish have indeed been a trouble, but I expect Marlborough Mills will recover to former prosperity before long, barring any unforeseen economic difficulties,” Mr. Thornton finished with a hope that was edified somewhat by the conviction in his own voice.

“Certainly, there must be a way to forestall such violence and put an end to strikes,” suggested Mr. Pearce, a visiting member of the House of Commons from Surrey. The middle-aged man looked inquiringly around the table.

“The workers won’t heed our word,” Henderson responded. “We tell them we can’t pay higher wages but they continue to make their demands as if we did not know our business. There’s no reasoning with the likes of them. We can constrain them to work for a time, but they will always rise up to rebel against us when the rancor of some blithering discontents rile the mass of them to expect more. It’s a bitter relationship, I’m afraid,” he concluded as a matter of fact.

“I believe Miss Hale here considers that there is hope that the working classes might be instructed out of their ignorance. Is that not right, Miss Hale?” Mr. Colthurst inquired, remembering their discussion of this topic at Harley Street.

Margaret raised her head serenely and turned up the corners of her mouth in polite deference as she felt the pressing gaze of every guest rest upon her. She looked to Mr. Thornton, who signaled his encouragement with a twitch of a smile and the
merest nod. “I’m certain that the workers are not aware of all the issues confronting the masters. They are, I admit, uneducated in such matters. I see little hope for the future if they are dismissed as unreasonable without giving them opportunity to understand. If there was a way for masters and men to talk to one another — if the masters could explain to the brightest of them why it is that their demands cannot be met — then the strikes might be forestalled,” she proposed, presenting her position as simple logic, the tone of her voice both confident and respectful. Her adroit logic and graciousness in speaking was matched only by her perfect poise and attracting beauty. She was incomparable to any other woman in the room.

Margaret raised her eyes behind demurely lowered lashes to seek reassurance from her betrothed and was relieved to find him staring at her with warm admiration.

“I’ve heard talk that Thornton has hired one the leaders of the recent strike — Higgins, the union man of Miss Hale’s acquaintance,” Hamper stated as his eyes flashed in accusatory confusion at the Master of Marlborough Mills.

Mr. Thornton raised his chin and smiled in defiant confidence. “My greatest concern at present is to have skilled hands at work in my mill. Nicholas Higgins is a man of some intelligence who knows the machines and the trade well. He has promised to come straight to me with the workers’ grievances instead of stirring up strife,” he calmly explained.

“And you believe him?” Hamper asked with an incredulous huff.

“I see no reason not to take him at his word at present. He will have opportunity to prove himself under my employ. I don’t pretend to hold any great promise that all our differences will be resolved, but I think it a worthy experiment. Certainly, there can be no harm in discovering if such men can be brought to reason,” he answered unperturbed.

Varied sounds of muffled agreement rounded the table at his conclusion. Mr. Thornton instinctively sought Margaret’s gaze.

This time it was her turn to stare at him with glowing adoration.

*****

Music strained from the far end of the small, mirrored ballroom of the mayor’s mansion. Glittering chandeliers bathed the room in golden light as an assembly of dancers formed a quadrille, the movement of their colored forms reflecting from the walls, while the others engaged in light conversation at the periphery of the room.

Mr. Thornton spoke congenially to the mayor and several others, darting his eyes occasionally toward the dancing figures to single out the girl in the burgundy gown who had been asked to the set by Lord
Garthwaite. He was able to contribute weightily or lightly on any subject as the case required with perfect assurance, but he was aware of where Margaret was and who she was dancing with almost every moment, desirous that she be accorded the respect and attention she deserved.

Mr. Thornton took several of the gathered wives to the dance floor himself, not realizing that he and the mayor’s
son were regarded as the most handsome men present. Such diversion he accomplished with competence and tolerable enjoyment, if not any true enthusiasm. Throughout the evening he watched with patient amusement at her popularity as Margaret flit by with many of the married men of the assembly.

His patience waned, however, and his attention was distracted when he saw Margaret laughing with the mayor’s son as they danced a lively schottische. Mr. Thornton smiled vaguely at Lady
Garthwaite’s comments as he stood near the grand marble fireplace with several others. His eyes followed Margaret and her blond-headed partner.  His breathing slowed as he watched them from a distance, envious of the smiles the young scholar elicited from her and the intimacy the dance allowed them. He felt his muscles tighten as he watched the young man repeatedly place one hand on her back as they twirled in motion to the music, their hands firmly clasped together throughout.

A growing uneasiness pulled at the pit of his stomach as he recognized what a perfect match they presented: Margaret was young, lithe, and beautiful, and her partner was vibrant with youthful charm and strength, elegantly handsome in the fashionable manner of the day. How happy she appeared with him! Stabbing pangs of panic tore at his confidence that Margaret should rightfully belong to him, a rough-hewn manufacturer, when she could have any man she wished. The agony of longing to be her one true love shot through him like a searing pain until his hands and arms throbbed with the aching need to hold her in his grasp.