In Consequence: A Retelling of North and South (51 page)

Framed against the open azure sky, she was the commanding queen of all living things and the innocent girl from the quiet Hampshire countryside. He hastened to bring himself to her side, his eyes riveted to the sight before him.

The ambition of barons and kings, the lure of industry’s power and wealth, were naught compared to the force he now knew moved the spheres in alignment with the divine. To love with all your being and to be loved in return — this purpose and pleasure of life had the power to lift the misery of this world into the light of heaven.

It was an exalting freedom to love her without restriction. The memory of the morning’s amorous beginning was never far from his mind, filling him with a joyous peace he had never known. He counted himself blessed beyond measure to be forever linked to one who radiated goodness.

He studied the beauty of her rapt countenance as he drew near and observed the glow of happiness fade to a sterner contemplation.

“You’re thinking of your family,” he mused, not forgetting the serious circumstances from which they had escaped for a time.

She gave him a fond smile before retuning her gaze to the horizon. “I cannot help but think of Fredrick … and mother. Perhaps he has already arrived, since we departed,” she suggested.

His brow creased at her anxiety. “Do you wish to go back?” he asked softly, albeit with great reluctance.

“No. No, it is just that we have this time together … alone,” she answered, looking to him with eyes of sparkling honesty.

No other soul being in sight, he took her face into his hands and gave her a tender kiss. Then, taking her hand in his, they both turned to the open sky and sea below.

*****

“Did you say cotton mill? Why, you’re in the textile industry,” declared a white-haired gentleman to Mr. Thornton upon introductions at the dinner table that evening. An elaborate mustache and lengthy beard lent the animated man — Lord Whillougby of Leicestershire, as he had announced — a distinguished air.

“Yes,” the Milton manufacturer answered tentatively.

“Then you have heard of Sir Titus Salt’s venture to build his very own town here in Yorkshire, a mill town with decent houses and all manner of facilities for the edification, enrichment, and general health of his workers. ‘Saltaire’ he has called it.” 

Margaret listened with great interest and looked to her husband, curious to discover his thoughts on such an idealistic enterprise.

“I’ve read something of it in the papers,” the reserved Master replied, aware of the surrounding attention drawn to this conversation. “Sir Titus has the advantage of great wealth. He has the luxury of combining his philanthropic aims with the more unforgiving and tedious principles of business. Unfortunately, I have neither resources nor time at current to accommodate such ideals, as worthy as they may be,” he explained, stealing a cautious glance at his wife, who looked to him only with steadfast admiration.

“The problem of the working masses is troublesome,” interjected a lean middle-aged man with thick reddish hair, a retired captain of the Bengal Rifles. “It is a subject that Prince Albert has put his mind to.”

“I’ve not seen it yet. Construction has just begun this year, but it’s on the rail line. You might take time to tour it on your return to Milton,” Lord Willougby suggested.

“Perhaps they may, but I’m quite certain the
Thorntons are here for their leisure, Charles,” his wife politely countered her husband’s eager sway, her eyes twinkling at Margaret in sympathy. The seasoned lady of leisure had perceived the secretive aura about the young couple from Milton, and was confident she knew the celebratory reason for their stay at this seaside hotel.

*****

“Will you want to visit this
Saltaire?” Margaret inquired thoughtfully from behind the paneled screen as she dressed for bed later that evening. 

“I don’t know,” the soft-spoken answer came from across the room.  “Do you wish to see it?” It pleased Mr. Thornton to think that she would share with him her opinions on matters that interested her.

“I … only wished to know if it was of interest to you,” she stammered in deference to his authority.

Margaret emerged from her dressing place to find her husband tending to the coals in the fireplace. He wore a paisley patterned dressing gown of crimson silk that shimmered in the glow of the firelight.

She padded toward the small sofa behind him with hesitant timidity. Trousers still peeked from beneath his more casual wrap, while she wore only her nightdress and ruffled dressing gown.

He turned suddenly, sensing her approach. The appraising gleam in his eye caused a warm blush to spread through her whole body.

She took a seat. “Scarborough is lovely. What made you decide to come here?” she asked, turning their conversation to more casual subjects.

He settled down beside her. “My father used to talk of it with great fondness. He spent summers here as a young boy. I believe my great grandmother was from York.”

“I can imagine that this place would suit children well with the sea and the sand, the boats, and the castle.”

He smiled at her reply. They watched the dancing flames of the fire in silence for a few moments.

“What was he like?” Margaret asked, her voice small and tentative.

His eyes flashed to hers in cautious surprise, but her face only glowed with a yearning to know more of him. He turned to the fire again and drew a slow breath.

“He was a happy man, at least from what I could tell.  He had a ready smile and was always hopeful that things would work out for the best,” he offered. “Perhaps he was too trusting….”

Margaret reflected on this and wondered at the great contrast between the cheerful vision he painted of his father and the rigid solemnity of Mrs. Thornton. “It must have been very hard on your mother,” she offered weakly after some time.

“It was … but it was not the first time she had met with tragedy,” he revealed, his brows knitting in some solemn memory. He was suddenly compelled to share with her a long-ago grief, almost forgotten but sore to his child heart.

“I had a sister, before Fanny, but she died when she was only a few months old. I had the fever as well … I was seven or eight … but she did not survive it. My mother was devastated, but tried to bear up well for my sake.”  He spoke to the fire, in hollow recollection of the grip of death that had first withered his mother’s soul and left a small boy in uncomprehending grief.

Moved by his evident pain, Margaret put a comforting hand to his roughened cheek. “What was her name?” she whispered.

“Emma.” He took her hand and kissed it before setting it down upon his lap, firmly in his grasp.

“I am very sorry for your loss. It is a terrible tragedy that is wrought on many families,” she uttered in solemn sympathy.

“I pray we will be spared such a hardship,” he stated gravely after some time of silence. “It is my hope we will have many children.” He brushed his thumb languidly over the back of the delicate hand in his lap.

“Many?” she faltered in a high-pitched voice. A spread of warmth rose up from deep within at the thought of bearing his children.

“Several?” he amended, his lips quivering with amusement at her bashful trepidation.

“You will want a son,” she muttered, averting her gaze from him.

“I will. But I confess I should very much like to have a daughter. I am curious to see if she will learn to speak her mind freely and blithely devastate all her admirers in due course with her lofty airs,” he said with a mischievous grin.

She smiled at his teasing description. “And if you should have a son perhaps you will observe him learn to stubbornly cling to insufferable logic to hide a tender and caring heart,” she returned, her eyes sparkling in loving challenge to his accusation.

Her words arrested him with their poignant honesty. He pulled her face close and clasped his mouth to hers as his fervent reply.

She grasped the fabric at his chest, quivering at the unbridled passion in his kiss.

He drew her closer, and she clung tighter to him in answering desire.

A muffled groan sounded from his throat. He would wait no longer. He lifted her into his arms with one swift motion and carried her to their bed.

*****

The newlyweds lingered in the blissful sanctuary of their gold-tinged room the following morning. With no schedule to hurry them, they indulged in the luxury of rediscovering each other, taking pleasure in the newfound delights of the marriage bed.

Tomorrow’s return to Milton would come soon enough. Both Master and wife knew that the time spent in this magical world where obligations and routines were suspended would be cherished forever as one of the most sublime experiences of their lives.

The morning sun shone brightly when they emerged from the grand hotel to explore the surrounding gardens.

They crossed once again the iron Cliff Bridge with its panoramic views and sauntered through the sylvan parks and pleasure gardens in the gorge below, stopping for a time at the Rotunda Museum, which housed a great collection of fossil specimens and rocks.

The Foreshore promenade kept them in sight of the sea and harbor. They stopped to listen to a brass band for some time and then turned to meander the streets of the town. Margaret stepped into a bookshop to purchase one of Anne Bronte’s books,
The Tenant of Windfell Hall
. They continued their walk nearly as far as the Old Town, where they had explored the quiet, winding back streets the day before.

After eating a light luncheon at a rustic old inn beside the harbor, they returned to the South Sands and sat down upon a dry spot to enjoy the activity and beauty of the wide beach. The surf rolled gently over flat expanses of wet sand, washing away the footprints of paddling children.

A few young boys scampered about nearby, busily engaged in building a moat and connecting canal for their castle of sand.

Entertained by their industrious antics, the newlyweds observed them with interest until the youngsters began to exclaim in consternation at their canal’s collapse.

Margaret was surprised as her husband got to his feet and began to help the lads dig a better trench. Amused and heartened by his natural impulse, she watched the tall, dark figure of her husband crouched down among the children, plying a spade in the task of engineering child’s play. She smiled at his avid involvement in demonstrating his technique and laughed to hear the lads shout out a few directives of their own to the Master of Marlborough Mills.

He flashed her a dazzling smile, and she nearly stopped breathing.

As if she didn’t already love him enough, watching him drop all serious comportment to become the boy of his youth pierced her heart and made her fall in love with him more deeply than ever.

He would make a splendid father. The thought of bearing his children made something within her twist and ache as a blush spread to her face.

As she stared at him with dazed enchantment, the angle of his stooped position and the persistent west breeze gave her a glimpse of his lean physique beneath the traditional covering of his long frock coat.

A frisson of heat rose from her belly at the thought of how intimately she alone knew his flexile form. Images of the morning’s amorous activity flashed through her mind. Her breathing slowed at the sensual memory of his skin against hers.

She started at suddenly finding him approaching. His face shone with open joy and his tall, lithe figure exuded a relaxed confidence as he came toward her. Her pulse pattered in her breast, and she blushed profusely at the recognition of her own desire.

“Are you warm?” he asked, a crease of concern wrinkling his brow as he sat down beside her.

“No … yes! Perhaps a little … I’m just a little tired,” she stuttered, ashamed and confused at the strong yearning she had to hurl herself into his arms and feel the press of his body against hers.

“We should go back, then,” he determined.

She could only nod her head, feeling even more flustered to have won a step toward her goal with a faint fabrication of the truth.

He helped her to her feet
, and she threaded her arm through his. His apparent contentment at ambling juxtaposed awkwardly with Margaret’s anxious state. She followed his pace with a determination to enjoy the pleasant scenery around them, although she felt disconcerted by the faint throb of longing that persisted within her during their long, unhurried walk to the hotel.

They climbed the great staircase to their room in silence. Mr. Thornton turned the key and opened the door, allowing his wife first passage through the threshold.

Margaret set aside her bonnet and walked straight to the long window, seeking refuge from her distracted confusion and feeling afraid that the look on her face would reveal how her heart fluttered inside.

John laid down his hat and took off his coat in the warm privacy of their room. He walked softly to where his wife stood, framed by the light, and deftly wrapped his arms around her from behind. “This is a glorious place, is it not?” he asked in that deep
Darkshire voice which seemed to vibrate into Margaret’s very being.