In Consequence: A Retelling of North and South (53 page)

Margaret’s thoughts held no such misgivings. Settled securely within her husband’s embrace, she reached up to tenderly stroke his face, her fingertips tracing the spot near his temple where the stone had struck him on that terrifying and life-altering day. “It seems so long ago … when
we hardly knew one another.…” she faltered, recalling with a pang of guilt how she had once dismissed him as a heartless tradesman.

“Not so long ago,” he answered, taking her hands in his and kissing the fingers that had touched his old wound. He could well remember the months he had longed to gain her affection, and the thrill of hope that had overtaken him when he had seen the look of tender concern in her eyes that momentous day.  “You captivated me from the very beginning. I knew there could be none other,” he admitted with conviction.

“I find it difficult to believe, when I spoke so vehemently against you. And it was most unjust of you to come declare yourself when I had no indication of your feelings,” she accused him, pushing away from him in playful offense.

He pulled her tighter and kissed her for her teasing manner. How much he had ached to kiss those petulant, rosebud lips that day!

He loosened his hold as a question of burning curiosity recurred to him. “You were surprised at my strong feelings, yet you accepted me … why did you?”

She dipped her head to escape the inquiring intensity of his blue eyes. “I don’t
know …” she faltered as she sought to explain the evolution of her feelings for him — to understand the secret workings of her heart. Now,  when the very clasp of his arms around her felt more natural and essential than any other pleasure of life, it was difficult to remember the early callings of attraction to the tradesman of such extraordinary power and determination, so beyond the pale of the staid, sophisticated gentlemen she had known in the South.

  “Somehow, I knew that you spoke honestly … from the heart. I did not know it then … but I suppose … I believe my heart answered in kind.” She watched the creases of confusion on his brow vanish as he listened with dawning joy to her confession. He took her face in his hands and bent to seal his approval of her answer with a kiss.

*****

The train hissed its reluctance to idly halt at a small country station. Margaret raised her head in surprise as her husband rose to his feet.

“Where are we?” she asked in confusion as he reached for their bags overhead.

“Saltaire,” he answered with a mischievous grin.

The noise of countless industrious workers, laying bricks and unloading carts, filled the air with the energy of achievement and purpose as the
Thorntons were given a tour of Sir Titus Salt’s grand plans, materializing in brick and mortar around them.

The crowning jewel, the mill itself, would soon
rise several stories along the Leeds and Liverpool canal. The surrounding countryside, an idyllic peace within miles of the slums of Salt’s current mill in Bradford, was marked with stakes and foundation trenches for the development of the workers’ homes and community.

The robust foreman of this ambitious project proudly showed the Milton cotton master and his wife the extent of Sir Titus’ enterprise, pointing out where the
bath-house, library, hospital, concert hall, schools, almshouses, gymnasium, and boathouse would be located.

Returning to catch the next train west some time later, the newlyweds were suitably impressed at what vision, wealth, compassion, and modern industry might do to offer hope for the progress of humanity.

*****

Smoky, leaden clouds hung over the clatter and bustle of Milton’s streets as a nimble black cab steered around a lumbering cart heaped high with cotton bales. Within the private confines of the swaying compartment, Mr. Thornton grasped his wife’s hand tighter to erase the anxious look that stilled her face and made her eyes grow distant.

Margaret gave her husband a warm smile. His touch and the loving gleam in his eyes eased some of the tension that unsettled her stomach.

A litany of worries had begun to invade her mind as the train had approached Milton. If Frederick had not arrived, there would be cause for alarm. And if he had arrived, there would be need for great caution. Above all else, she hoped that her mother’s health had remained stable during her absence.

The coach stopped in front of the last terraced house on a crowded
Crampton street. The newly married couple mounted the stairs together and rang the bell. Mr. Thornton smiled in irrepressible exuberance as they prepared to present themselves as a married couple, even as apprehension dogged his hope that they would be given continued reprieve from any unpleasant or complicated family affairs.

The door was opened a crack
, and Dixon’s blotchy face peered out from the shadows.

“Oh, it’s you, Miss!” she exclaimed in relief. She flung the door open to admit them, giving the Master a cursory nod of acknowledgement. Caution flashed in her eyes as she cast her gaze toward the stairway, the lines of her face plainly etched with some distress.

Margaret’s smile froze. The tension of foreboding stiffened her muscles and sank her sanguine hope that she would find all at peace in her parents’ home. “How is mother?” she asked, determined, yet afraid, to discover the truth.

“Margaret! Is that you?” An eager call came from the upper floor.

Margaret glanced up at the smiling figure peering down from the upper landing, the familiar tenor of the long-absent voice quickening her spirits. “Frederick!” she breathed.

A lean young man with pleasant features, ruddy from the Spanish sun, came clambering down the stairs. He took his sister’s hands into his own. His eyes twinkled in mirth as he wonderingly appraised her. Seeing the gleam of incredulity in her own careful assessment of him, he let out a breathy laugh before haltingly enfolding her into a welcome embrace.

John smiled to witness such a reunion, although his hopes for enjoying a quiet evening with his wife were dashed.

Glancing at the tall stranger patiently looking on, Frederick loosened his grasp on his sister to approach his new brother-in-law. “Mr. Thornton,” he declared with an outstretched hand, “I’ve heard much about you. My father speaks very highly of you.” A glimmer of curious uncertainty crossed his features as he endeavored to discern for himself the qualities of character he had heard lavishly praised in the appearance of the staid and well-mannered manufacturer. “Congratulations on your recent marriage. I wish the both of you very happy.”

“Thank you,” John answered, catching sight of Margaret’s timid smile.

“When did you arrive?” Margaret asked, in haste to know all.

“Just this past evening, in the dark of night. I believe I gave Dixon a fright rapping on the door at such an hour,” he answered, returning to his sister’s side as he gave the faithful servant a grin. “I would have come earlier, but Dolores — oh, but I should tell you of Dolores; you would love her — she had more sense than me. I would have sailed straight away, but she begged me not to arrive at the very time of your wedding, when so much attention might be trained upon my father’s house.”

“Indeed, she is wise. And how is mother?” Margaret inquired, assured in part by her brother’s smiles that there could be no dire news.

“She lies abed but she converses, if weakly,” her brother offered with that tone of youthful hope that refuses to heed the whispers of doom.

“She took to her bed after you left … and hasn’t risen since,” Dixon added, meeting Margaret’s gaze with a painful reluctance to convey a more somber account.

“Come, she has been awaiting you,” Frederick declared, inviting the returning bride into her own home.

Margaret turned to her husband. Beckoned by a mere glance, John closely followed the pair upstairs.

Mr. Hale greeted his son-in-law with a handshake by the foot of the bed while Margaret leaned over to kiss the wan face of her mother, who appeared small and frail against the arrangement of pillows that carefully propped her up.

“He came!” Mrs. Hale chirped. Margaret saw the fleeting glimmer of light in her eyes as she spoke of her son.

“Yes,” her daughter replied, fighting back the tears that sprang up at her mother’s dim smile of satisfaction.

“You
r trip …” the feeble voice inquired.

“Scarborough was very lovely,” the young bride recounted softly, feeling a warm glow at the deeper implication of her words while her husband stood nearby.

Brother and sister sat by the bedside, speaking in turn to their mother for some time until Mr. Thornton leaned to whisper near his wife’s ear.

“The cab awaits … I must go….”

“Wait … I would speak to Mr. Thornton … alone,” Mrs. Hale called out with determined strength as she stretched out a hand toward him.

Surprised glances were shared about the room, but the occupants quietly filed out to obey the request.

When the door was shut, the strong manufacturer gently stepped forward to sit by his mother-in-law, curious as to her intentions.

“I know I am not long for this world,” she pronounced with wraith-like breath.

Mr. Thornton opened his mouth to speak, but closed it at the sight of the watery eyes that focused upon him with conviction, fear, and the desperation to be heard.

“You will take care of Margaret….”

“There is nothing more important to me than her happiness and well-being.”

Maria smiled wanly her approval and opened her limp hand for him to take, giving his a faint squeeze when he did so. “My son risked his life to come to me,” she continued.

Mr. Thornton drew his brows together in solemn resolve. “I will do all in my power to see he is returned safely. Do not trouble your thoughts.”

She nodded her head faintly and closed her eyes in silent thanks as a tear escaped one corner. She opened them a moment later with a look of penitence at her husband’s friend, her dau
ghter’s husband, and her family’s own strong savior. “I have been thoughtless, seeing fit to complain all these years. What I would not give for those years again, in Helstone!” she confided, punctuating her anguish with a wracking sob.

Seeing his discomfort, she composed herself and, casting an unseeing stare upon the bedcovers, continued her whispered confession. “Richard will be devastated. His heart is tender and can bear no hurt.” She turned a pleading gaze to the man who understood her husband well. “Will you tell him … when I am gone … that I bore him no ill will? He was ever gentle and patient with me. I know it now….” The wavering voice lapsed into silence.

The Master swallowed, the crease of his brow deepening at the reflection of the charge she placed upon him.  “I will tell him,” he promised gravely. He pressed her hand gently before retracting his own.

She closed her eyes and nodded her grateful thanks, her energy visibly spent.

Mr. Thornton studied the pale, unmoving figure of this Southern woman with compassion. The careworn lines of her face appeared more relaxed, now that she had unburdened herself of the twining clasp of accumulated resentment.

Reverently, he raised himself up from his seat and left the
slumberer at peace.

He detained his wife in the hall, scanning the innocent hope of her bright features with a heavy weight of sorrow in his breast. “She is asleep at present. Stay here with your family. I must go; I will return for you later this evening,” he dictated, holding her hand firmly in his.

She assented with a grateful nod, receiving a brush of his lips against her cheek in response before reluctantly allowing him to depart.

*****

Fanny Thornton hummed an airy tune as she threaded her needle in and out of her worsted work with casual precision. Not a sound came from within the great house. The drawing room wherein she sat was arranged to perfection, the objects for human use and enjoyment as cold and still as the alabaster flowers under sparkling glass.

The well-pampered girl lifted her eyes from her sewing and arched an eyebrow as her mother set aside her embroidery to take a turn around the room with listless purpose. Fanny felt no especial excitement in welcoming Margaret into their comfortable routine. In fact, she sighed to think of how dull the conversations would be with her new sister-in-law. It would have been far better, in Fanny’s mind, if John had chosen someone more attuned to the things properly of interest to a girl of privileged position in Milton society. She lamented that Claire Lawrenson had not caught John’s attention.

She tugged at her thread with a twinge of annoyance. Her mother had been distracted and irritable since John had departed on his wedding day. He had not been gone above three days! Yet Mother fretted over losing her beloved son, as if he would never return to this house and resume his same tedious ways!

Hannah Thornton cared nothing for what her daughter thought as she paced to a vase brimming with fragrant bridal flowers. She touched the velvet softness of a fully-blossomed rose. The creamy white petals, now edged with yellowing curls, stretched forth from the base, burst with resplendent glory for a brief reign in time. Soon, the flower would droop, the petals fall, and the whole arrangement of faded beauty be discarded.