In Consequence: A Retelling of North and South (56 page)

“Thank you,” the Master said quietly, still blinking in bewilderment to be handed the ownership of everything he had worked years to build to success. “But what of you?” he thought to ask, considering the staggering amount of wealth being given up.

“Oh, fie! Think nothing of me!” Mr. Bell responded, directing attention to the unsigned papers with an impatient wave of his hand. Mr. Thornton dipped his quill and began to seal the transfer of property with ink as his former landlord continued his explanation. “I have other properties and investments which do me very well. I am an old man, after all, and have very few wants or needs to make me quite comfortable. No doubt you will soon be a family man. Security will give great peace of mind, so that you may attend to matters of far greater importance than business.”

“By the by, how is Mrs. Hale?” the elder gentleman inquired, his demeanor changing to one of solemn concern.

“Not well, I’m afraid. You have visited the house of late?” Mr. Thornton’s cautious question sought to determine whether Mr. Bell knew of the family’s great secret.

“Yes, yesterday. I’d not seen Frederick in years. He was still a lad when he left
Helstone for the lure of the sea. It was a devastating blow to Hale to have his son excoriated by the Navy. Think of it — his only son branded a traitor! By heaven, he must not stay long. If anything were to go wrong….”

“I will take every precaution to guard him well,” the Master interrupted with growing unease at the notion of the severity of the predicament in which he was placed as Milton magistrate and brother-in-law to one marked with treason.

“I thank you,” Mr. Thornton reiterated as he handed the portfolio back to Mr. Bell. “Your gift is more than generous….”

“I expect great things of Marlborough Mills. Always have, now more so than ever. It will be my pleasure to see what you will do now that everything under your command is indeed yours,” he announced with conviction, shaking hands with the man who still appeared stunned by his new status.

“I will stay in town a few more days while Mrs. Hale’s condition is uncertain. If I can be of any help, I can be reached at the Clarendon,” the aging bachelor offered.

“Thank you,” the Master replied, his words a hollow token for the kindness and
generosity shown him by his longtime landlord and friend.

Mr. Bell gave a comprehensive nod and departed as quickly as he had appeared.

When the daze of astonishment had cleared and duty faced him across his desk, Mr. Thornton returned to his work with zeal to accomplish. Heedless of the noon whistle that freed hundreds from their posts, the Master remained bent over his desk. A knock on the door did nothing to alter the flow of ink from his quill. A vacant command was given to enter the room.

“
Yo’ asked to see me at half day,” Higgins announced, taking a step inside with a cautious glance at the Master.

Mr. Thornton scribbled unperturbed yet a second more before putting up his writing instrument. “I did,” he said, raising his eyes to acknowledge the staunch laborer he had once looked upon with enmity. “I’ve been turning over something in mind since we last spoke. There’s an old store house by the far side that might be emptied and utilized for different purposes,” he began, noting he was being studied with shrewd curiosity.

“If meat from the butcher were bought wholesale,” he continued, “and other goods purchased in quantity at a low price, portions might be made for which the hands might pay a penny and get a decent meal in their bellies that would better fit them for their daily work. What say you? If it were feasible, would the men pay for pottage here?”

If the former union leader had scrutinized his employer with uncertainty at the outset, he now stared at him as a specimen never before encountered. Struck dumb for a moment, the words that formed his faltering reply yet bore the sting of doubt. “A scheme like
yourn would take a great deal o’ planning. There’s the market to haggle, the transport and laying up of goods, a cook….”

“I’ve not time to tend to the details. If you can search out the facts and figures, I’ll see what I can do.”

This was altogether new — collaboration between men and master. Higgins surveyed the man before him with a flicker of something more than respect, which warmed his insides and relaxed the lines of his mouth.

“There’s them that ‘
ave wagered that there’d be more changes to come. I hadna’ believed we’d see it while the bridal air yet sets over the town. Tongues’ll wag that the master is o’er run by the petticoat set,” the laborer dared to warn the man he had oft called an “ol’ bulldog.” A smile hovered over his lips as he looked at the love-smitten groom.

“Margaret knows naught of this,” the Master countered with narrowed eyes, frowning in uncertain indignation at Higgins’ forthright manner. A spark of independent pride rose up in rebellion at the accusation, and then softened at the inward admission of having imagined receiving a smile, and more, from his wife upon relaying to her the news of this venture.

“A man mun keep his pride,” Higgins allowed, a merry twinkle in his eye. “I’ll believe yo’ if yo’ tell me straight. But I canna save yo’ from the prattle of the bawdy lot of ‘em.” He could no longer hide his grin.

The flash of a smile turned up the corners of the Master’s mouth. “Then be off with you!” he commanded in mock severity, feeling the flush of embarrassment rise to his cheeks. “And mind what I said.”

“That I will,” came the grinning answer as Higgins touched his cap with a nod and made his hasty exit.

*****

The Master took heed of the long whistle at day’s end, and did not linger long once the looms stilled and all human life had abandoned the binding call of labor.

He climbed the tall staircase of his house with a fervent hope to find the object of his affection returned and settled in her rightful home.

“Is Margaret not returned?” he asked his mother, taking a sweeping glance of the family’s formal living space. Fanny and his mother sat in their usual places.

A shadow of annoyance crossed Hannah Thornton’s features at this abrupt greeting, but dissipated as she studied her son’s distracted visage. She rose to retrieve a letter. “She sent word to you,” was the answer he received, as the parchment was placed in his hands.

He opened it at once and scanned its contents, his eyes darting in deepening alarm. “Why was this not delivered to me earlier?” he demanded.

Hannah flinched at the spark of anger in his voice. “The instruction was given that you not be disturbed from your work,” she retorted in firm defense. “What is it, John?” she asked, his testiness forgotten as she observed the dark shadows of gloom cloud his countenance.

“Mrs. Hale. She has grown worse,” he answered. He turned to the next room to retrieve the coat he had just removed. 

“Is there anything I can do?” his mother asked helplessly as she watched her son prepare to leave without taking his supper.

“I don’t know. If I do not return, you will know there can be no good news.”

Their eyes met. Hannah nodded in solemn understanding.

“Good night, Fanny,” he remembered to say with a brusque kindness as he turned to go, leaving his sister gaping at his sudden departure.

The pulse of fear quickened his steps as the last vestiges of color seeped from manmade landscape and sky in the fading daylight and the cool air of coming night crept in like a fog. His stride was certain as he passed the familiar byways of this well-trod path with unseeing focus on the pavement ahead. Words of reprimand muttered in his mind amidst pangs of irrational hurt.
Why had she not called for him in her distress?
Those passersby that noted the hurried gait and frown of the Master gave him space to pass unencumbered.

The meek Higgins girl admitted him into the house, which already seemed to echo the somber stillness of a mausoleum. Dread filled his senses at the thought of arriving too late.

The sound of rustling petticoats sent his gaze to the stairs, where his wife descended as swiftly as silent grace would allow. “John … you’re here,” she spoke aloud, her relief palpable as she reached the last steps and tumbled into his waiting arms.

All impulse to scold vanished as he clasped her close to his breast. “How is she?” he asked, gently pulling back from her to find tear-stained eyes.

“She lies unaware of all around her. At least no sign is given … oh, I did not think she should fall so swiftly into such a state!” she moaned at last, feeling a fresh resurgence of tears falling as she was enfolded once more to his firm chest.

He followed her up the stairs to the somber bedside scene. Frederick looked up at the newcomer, keeping his mother’s bony hand firmly in his own. A wild desperation flashed in his eyes, as one who yet sought salvation from a harrowing fate.

Mr. Hale grasped his wife’s other hand. The sight of the pale, stricken face of the kindly vicar pulled a deep chord of sympathy in the Master’s breast. Dixon sat in helpless misery in the corner of her mistress’s room.

And so the vigil continued, Mr. Thornton escaping the stifling atmosphere once or twice to pace alone in the parlor below.

Near midnight, the convulsions came on once more. Husband and son shrunk in horror as the listless figure writhed in suffering. Margaret endeavored to calm her mother with her husband’s gentle help as Dixon administered morphine through lax lips. Water given to chase the sedative down trickled from the glass to the patient’s chin. Dabbed and soothed, the limp patient was lowered to the pillows once more, never more to rise.

Father and son resumed their bedside vigil with renewed earnestness, holding hands of one who would soon slip away. The lip of the younger one quivered before he bowed his head into the covers and released a muffled sob.

Before another hour had passed, Mrs. Hale breathed her last.

That awful moment of comprehension when the sundering of worlds is made final draws deeply into the souls of those left behind. All are affected, but the flow of emotions varies course for each. Dixon bowed her
head, the tears streaming from her face while Frederick clung to his mother’s hand, heaving wrenching sobs. Mr. Hale stared at his wife’s pale gray face in stunned silence.

Mr. Thornton felt the dull weight of sorrow gather inwardly with rushing force as he watched his wife’s countenance contort into the horrible recognition of loss.

After some time, John gently urged his wife to leave the dead. Stoic and mute amidst her brother’s tears, Margaret moved only as directed like one dispossessed of all will.

With utmost patience, her husband led her to her bedroom where a few objects from her childhood remained on the dresser and floor. He helped her remove the binding layers of her clothes with tenderness like unto a father for his young child. When she at last stood in her cotton slip, he guided her to the narrow bed and pulled the covers aside for her to climb in, settling her with a gentle promise that he would return in a few minutes.

She merely nodded.

When he returned with food and some water, she was already sleeping. He set his offering down on a small table and heaved a heavy sigh. 

John took off his coat and waistcoat in the shadows. He sat wearily to remove his boots before snuffing out the single candle and climbing into the narrow bed with his wife.  Gingerly, he turned onto his side and slid his arm around the sleeper to fit himself against her back. He let out his breath in tired relief, reveling in the comfort of her very nearness.

An unworldly cry rose in the darkness — a call from the bereaved son for his lost mother.  John closed his eyes against the sound, and pulled closer to the sleeping form in front of him.

Chapter Nineteen

John woke as pale light displaced the receding darkness in the small, unfamiliar bedroom of his wife’s maiden days. With drowsy deliberation, he roused himself to alleviate the dull ache in his hip, careful not to disturb the sleeper in front of him. Prickling pain surged through the arm now relieved from its ill-arranged position as blood rushed to resume its normal courses within.

He eased himself off the mattress and stretched as he stood upon a braided rug, his bare feet peeking from rumpled trousers. The crinkled cotton of his day shirt mocked the crimping crick in his neck. He passed his hand over the offending discomfort in a wincing exhalation of breath.

The house was silent. The horror of death’s dark visit had passed. Now there remained the tedious tasks to which the living must attend, walking and breathing the waking nightmare as they adjusted their lives to the loss while their minds searched the halls of memory to recall the voice and smiles of one who no more animates earth’s scene.

He gazed at Margaret with a painful longing to fill the void of her loss with all the tenderness of his powerful love. He wished her a peaceful repose for as long as it could be taken.

John put on the vestments of his position with thought to the unpleasant arrangements that must be made and the unavoidable alteration to his daily schedule. Unshaven and weary of heart, he dressed and silently slipped from the room. The chill of the morning fog seemed to penetrate the walls. He shivered in the October air as he descended the stairs.

Stepping into the parlor, Mr. Thornton noted the sleeping form of the gaunt servant girl — Higgins’ daughter, he had discovered — curled up under a gray wool blanket on the couch. A twinge of grateful sympathy softened the features of his face at the sight of her steadfast loyalty.