In Consequence: A Retelling of North and South (61 page)

“I am glad you joined us downstairs this afternoon, papa,” Margaret enthused as her father turned to greet her. “You stayed even while we went out on our walk. I know Mrs. Thornton is not always very conversant …”

“No, no … quite the contrary! I happened to ask her something or other concerning Milton, and we proceeded to talk. I believe she and I learned a great deal about each other. I told her a bit about the struggles of village life and she, in turn, told me some of the things she has seen in her days here in Milton,” he related. “Why, you know, they
did
survive for years on naught much else than water-porridge. Truly, she is a remarkable woman,” the vicar declared with thoughtful reverence.

“Yes,” the young bride vacantly acknowledged. The knowledge of her mother-in-law and husband’s earlier deprivation speared her with a deep admiration and sympathy whenever her thoughts fell upon this history in later days. But at the moment, Margaret was surprised by her father’s account of easy conversation with the tight-lipped widow. Tension released from her shoulders as she took a breath of gratitude. Something in the manner of his expression told her he would no longer play the part of a stranger in this house.

Despite the dampening blow of Mrs. Hale’s death and all its ensuing challenges, John could not contain an inner glow of deep contentment. He accounted himself well suited for married life. His house was full, giving it new energy and life that alleviated the dull routines of years. John exulted in it: his wife greeted him eagerly every day when he returned home at dusk, conversation at dinner was more engaging with new participants gathered around the table, time for reading and discussing the classics regularly with his father-in-law was increased, and his last waking moments of the evening — as well as the first of every morning — were spent in the presence of the one who had transformed his home life into this glorious effusion of living love.

Therefore, his heart was light even when there came a period of days when he was pressed to return to his office after dinner. With the machinery of industry dormant in the dark corridors of the closed mill, Mr. Thornton pored over ledgers and accounts to ascertain his financial position. Higgins’s aid in amassing workers to finish the large order that had been stalled by the strike had helped the Master evade the crippling penalties and lost revenue that would have accompanied the delivery of a product well after schedule.   

New business was stagnant. The strike and the ensuing riot at his mill had unsettled many of his regular customers. But connections in London had sent a potential new buyer his way, and he was intent upon assessing his production capacity so that he could propose a viable schedule for an order of such magnitude. He would need to coordinate every component of his enterprise and order a few new materials. If his plan was rejected, there would be some financial repercussions, but the risks were now safeguarded by the deeds of ownership that bore his name and proved to the bank his credit-worthy status.

He put his quill up after scribbling the last line of his business proposition and sat back in his chair, expelling a long breath of weary relief. Raising his eyes to the clock on the wall, he noted the time. It was well after eleven. He turned in his seat to see the darkened windows of his house. The nightly prayers had been made some time ago.

Another sigh escaped him. Markedly different from the exasperated sigh of obligation’s pull, this audible exhalation expressed the sweet, aching longing that centered in his chest and flooded to every tired extremity as he thought of the fair face that must be resting serenely on the pillow next to his own vacant space.

He shivered as he shrugged on his overcoat, realizing at once how cold the office had become since the steam engines had ceased their fuming hours ago.

The stillness of the hour was palpable as he crossed the dark, empty yard to the house. It was only a few hours before this place would begin to stir with life again at the first glow of dawn.

He shut out the frigid night wind as he closed the door of his home behind him,
then deftly navigated through the darkened house with his lantern. Thinking of the sleepers in their beds, he trod quietly up the stairs and walked with careful footfall along the carpeted hallway of the upper hall until he reached the entryway to his room.

He opened the door slowly. Surprised to find the space within softly illuminated, he swiftly shifted his gaze to trace the source of light. A small corner of the room glowed from a table lamp by his wife’s bedside. She looked up with a start from the book in her hands, her thick hair falling carelessly about her shoulders in a manner both sweetly innocent and beguilingly sensual — a vision that he knew at once was his privilege, and his alone, to see every evening. 

“You’re still up?” he rasped, his wavering voice waking from the long hours of solitude.

She heard the uncertain hopefulness in his voice. “I wished to wait for you,” she affirmed as she threw back the covers of her warm bed to go to him. It had not been some casual whim or anxious need that kept her awake at this hour. It was a conscious recognition of all the hardships he had endured in the past, and his present diligence in attending to all his responsibilities, that created in her a deep-seated desire to soften his days with all the comfort and companionship of her affection. She wrapped her arms around his waist as she reached him and lifted her face to his with a loving smile. “I could not sleep while you were still working … and not at home,” she whispered the last words as she stretched up to touch her lips to his.

His lips quivered at receiving from her such a tender welcome, which melted away all his weary strain and sent his limbs to fair trembling as he enfolded her in his arms, for this was what he had dreamed of since he had slipped a betrothal ring on her finger. And further still, the soothing effect of her soft, intimate attentions sank into his very core, evoking and filling some buried craving he had locked away these many years.

Their kisses, honest and gentle at this midnight hour, warmed every portion of his inner being. But his skin was yet cool to the touch, as Margaret discovered when she laid a caressing hand along his bristled jaw. “You’re cold!” she exclaimed, withdrawing to evade the entrancing pull of their continued kisses as much as to chide him for his lack of self-care. “You should not stay so late where there is little heat. Come to bed.”

“I will,” he answered with an irrepressible grin at both her cosseting censure and her insistent directive. Surely she must know there was no place on earth he would rather be.

A blush warmed her cheek at the implication of her words, and she turned to leave him, then swiveled back, remembering something she had waited all day to ask him. “Mary says she will become cook at the mill come Monday next. Why did you not tell me?” she questioned him, her inquisitive eyes sparkling with the anticipation of his reply.

A twisted grin appeared on his face. He placed his hands upon the small of her waist and inched her closer to him with cloying fingers. She exuded an irresistible charm, some magnetic spell that made it quite impossible for him to bear her nearness until her form was pressed against his. “I was going to tell you myself, but now my surprise is ruined. Do you approve?” he asked, knowing well her answer.

“Of course I approve. I think it a grand idea. From what Mary tells me, you have involved Nicholas in this. I only wonder how this all came about,” she said, relaxing in his arms once more.

“The idea arose naturally from my dealings and conversations with Higgins. And I hold you partially responsible for the outcome of this experiment, since you were the one to put him in my path,” he added with teasing inflection, punctuating his warning with a stolen kiss. He felt her shiver in her nightclothes and admonished her to return to bed.

“Is that what has been keeping you these long evenings?” she asked, climbing back under the covers as he had directed.

“No, not at all,” he replied as he unbuttoned his waistcoat. “Mr. Colthurst has been kind enough to send me a potential buyer. I have been taking stock of my financial position and the mill’s ability to fulfill a substantial order,” he explained while he continued to prepare himself for bed in the shadowy lamplight.

“The buyer has not yet decided?” Margaret inquired.

“No.”

“But you are prepared to meet his requirements?” she asked with earnest interest and confidence in her husband’s capability to meet every challenge.

“I believe so. I have spent much of the evening writing a proposition that I hope will encourage him to consider giving us his business.”

“And if he does not?” she hesitated to ask, but could not help herself.

A long, low exhale could be heard from her husband, who had thrown on his nightshirt and now worked to free himself from the last remnants of his day clothes. “If he does not, we will need new work to keep the mill busy through the winter. If he does, we will be working at full capacity for quite some time. We would fare very well to win this order for Marlborough Mills.”

“Then I will pray that all will work for the best of everyone’s interests,” she declared.

He smiled at her sympathy that included the wider range of humanity involved in this concern. Any other woman would have thought only of her own fortune.

At last, he climbed into the wide bed, and she turned out her lamp and slid to meet him in the middle. His limbs were cold against hers, and his nose nearly like an icicle. But Margaret radiated
an inner warmth that far surpassed any temporal displeasure aroused by the touch of his frigid flesh.

“And have you done with your figures and calculations at present?” Margaret teased, breaking the silence as his lips brushed against her forehead.

“Yes.” The hushed answer was spoken into her hair.

“Good, I am glad,” she said, nestling her face happily against the soft skin of his neck as she pressed closer to him in the darkness.

*****

The workers’ kitchen at Marlborough Mills fed a great multitude of curious hands during its very first day of operation and more came the next to try the convenience of eating at the adjoining hall for a pittance — after word of the very palatable fare spread to counter doubting aspersions of ill-prepared rations. The news of this venture at Thornton’s became the talk of the trodden and tired classes, and it perked the ears of those in command of similar working factories.

The new experiment was only in its second week when Fanny spoke up at dinner. “Watson says you’ve started a kitchen to feed your hands at noon. He doubts very much you’ll gain anything for your charitable gesture. They’ll take what they can get, he says, and still make their demands. You’ll not rid yourself of strikes for your trouble.”

All eyes turned to John.

The master of the house looked across the long table to his wife for steadying calm before he opened his mouth. “If Watson is so interested in my affairs, it were best that he come talk to me to learn the facts,” he began with steely reserve. “I am not running a charity scheme. The hands pay for their meals, which money, in turn, covers the cost of the food, service, and equipment. I have no lofty expectation I shall win their unfailing allegiance. My gain is that my workers will be stronger and better able to concentrate on their tasks than those who are half-starved should do.”

“I only wonder why you should go to such trouble to help them when they have been so ungrateful in striking and beating down our doors,” Fanny pouted, dismissing the subject to take a delicate bite of roast duck.

“But, of course, your effort in considering their needs can only improve relations. Your actions may indeed forestall their talk of strike in the future,” Mr. Hale commended with enthusiasm, pleased to see any development that would ameliorate the battle-ready attitudes between masters and men.

Hannah Thornton took silent opposition to her son’s sudden interest in expending his effort to aid the hands. She knew he had been influenced by the Southern father and daughter, whose grandiose theories of philanthropic justice were unspoiled by the unpleasant reality of the inequity and toil involved in daily industry. “I’m surprised you take so much time to deal with such matters. Certainly, you have more important concerns that need your attention,” the long-suffering widow directed to her son.

“I spend little enough time on it, Mother,” John answered in a gentler voice, willing to explain all to the one who understood his responsibilities. “From the very beginning, I have given to others the tasks of planning and putting things in motion. I have a buyer who seeks the best deals in provisions and my clerks handle all the accounting. I was consulted often at the inception of operations, but now, hardly at all.”

Hannah gave a conciliatory nod to her son, although her lips were still pressed together in doubtful disapproval.

“It seems to me that it is an enterprise of mutual benefit,” Margaret concluded, gleaning more than approval from her husband’s grateful glance across the table.

*****

The mill kitchen thrived as the weeks wore on, a hot meal at noontime during the cold dreariness of November and December being deemed a worthy prize by most hands. Mr. Thornton was tempted to count his experiment a success thus far, despite the mockery and deep-rooted cynicism behind the other mill masters’ craftily meted words of praise.

The pattern of days took on new hues and habits for all as autumn hastened toward winter. The sought-after contract from the London buyer had begun, spinning the mill into thriving action and filling Mr. Thornton’s schedule with the steady stream of responsibility and swift decision at which he excelled.