Loose Leaves from Milton
Damaris Osborne
She handed him his cup of tea with the proud air of an unwilling slave; but her eye caught the moment when he was ready for another cup; and he almost longed to ask her to do for him what he saw her compelled to do for her father, who took her little finger and thumb in his masculine hand, and made them serve as sugar-tongs. ' - Chapter X, North and South
Leaf One - A Bitter Taste
Miss Margaret Hale was thirsty. She was in desperate need of a cup of tea.
It had been a long journey from their beloved home in Helstone, around which word a golden glow, the colour of a fine Yunnan golden tip, seemed to have already settled, so that it was said in a voice of sorrowing awe.
They had spent one night in London with her Aunt Shaw, who was not just sure, but entirely positive that their removal to The North would end in death, via misery, gloom, and lost consonants.
For all that she agreed with her aunt, Margaret felt that the lady could have made an effort and appeared neutral on the matter.
They had spent hours in this compartment, and the beauties of nature, which her father had extolled at length as the train passed through it, had now been replaced by a landscape of industry, and its ravages upon the rural environment.
Margaret could not but think of the words of William Blake, a poet whose life did not bear deep investigation, but whose words now seemed far too apt.
This was indeed a land of ‘dark, satanic mills’.
The tall chimneys of the mills and manufactories filled the air with a foggy darkness and a layer of soot that coated brickwork and, she had no doubt, the inhabitants.
How could anyone be happy in such a world?
‘Are we there yet?’ whispered Mrs Hale, holding a lace-edged handkerchief to her lips. She was caught between her tiredness, wanting a positive answer, and her heart wishing they might never arrive in The North at all.
‘Very nearly, my dear. This service terminates at Milton, and we have already passed through Grimly, Dimly, Glumly and Darkly, and my Bradshaw’s Guide tells me that Milton is next.’
‘And does the trusty volume describe Milton, Father?’ Margaret was not hopeful of being cheered.
‘Er - yes, Margaret. It commends its commercial vibrancy and,’ he peered more closely at the printed page, ‘its “devotion to industry, regardless of the cost in aesthetic charm”.’
‘I am not sure anyone in The North knows what “aesthetic” even means, Father. This is not a land where the diphthong could be appreciated. Look at it.’ She pointed at a tall chimney, disappearing into a slate grey layer of smoke. ‘Is this a place where lapsang souchong is drunk regularly?’
‘But you do not like lapsang souchong, my dear,’ responded Mr Hale, gently.
‘No, but I acknowledge that as a failing upon my part.’ Margaret was an honest young woman, except when it came to her brother, Frederick, about whom she lied whenever his name was mentioned.
According to her, he was now growing tea in Darjeeling, though had you asked her mother she would have said he was ‘growing’ sheep in New Zealand, and Mr Hale would claim he was managing an alpaca ranch in Bolivia.
All three believed their inventions were far nicer than the truth, which was that Frederick was on the run from the Royal Navy and living in sin with a female called Dolores, who had enormous castanets and a nice little hostelry in a Spanish port.
He had given up tea for sangria, which his family felt was far worse than mere mutiny.
The train began to slow down, and Margaret fancifully thought it was trying not to reach Milton.
It drew into a railway station of moderate proportions, and a booming northern voice announced that ‘This train terminates here.’ Margaret’s heart sank.
He might as well have cried out that ‘Life terminates here.’ She and her parents had lived in Helstone, and would exist in Milton. It was very lowering.
Mrs Hale had feared destitution in Milton, but her husband assured her that his friend ‘Ding Dong’ was a man of means, and owned not only a mill (without getting within fifty miles of it more than once a year) and several likely properties which might be suitable for the Hales at a peppercorn rent.
Margaret took this with a pinch of salt, and Mrs Hale, ignoring all forms of condiment, wondered where her husband had formed a friendship with someone who sounded exotic.
He had then explained ‘Ding Dong’ was really Mr Bell of Oxford, a fortunate fellow, and indeed Fellow, of Mr Hale’s alma mater.
‘He has written to a Mr Thornton, who runs Marlborough Mills for him, and Mr Thornton will show us the houses tomorrow.’
‘But none will have roses round the door,’ sniffed Mrs Hale. ‘I cannot bear to even look at them. You must choose, Mr Hale, and take Margaret with you, for she has an ability to detect woodworm rarely found in one so young.’
‘If you are sure, my dear, of course.’
‘I was Shaw, but am now Hale, though not, I fear, hale and hearty. I have this cough. . .’ Mrs Hale coughed delicately, with just a hint of morbidity to it.
‘I will accompany Father, dear Mother, and Mr Thornton will not persuade us to rent any property that has woodworm or, indeed, dry rot. Of that you may be - certain.’
So the next morning, when the morning was sufficiently advanced for the sun to have almost become visible through the layer of smog, the Hales, father and daughter, set out clutching an address at which they were to meet Mr Thornton.
They arrived late, having asked directions at a chemist’s shop, from a chair mender in the street, and also from a police constable.
All three gave answers that were misheard by the soft southern ears, and so they became very lost.
Mr Thornton, a man who was never late, upon the grounds that his father was ‘the late Mr Thornton’ and he had no wish to be like him, was looking at his pocket watch for the fourth time when Mr Hale hailed him from the bottom of the short flight of steps that led up to the front door of the town house bearing the number one upon the door.
He raised his head, though the brooding frown remained.
‘Mr Thornton. I do apologise for our tardy arrival. I am afraid - it is not always easy to understand directions when unused to the local dialect and . . .’ Mr Hale floundered, in what Mr Thornton decided was an indecisive and very southern manner.
‘It was not your fault, Father.’ Margaret’s tone almost admonished. She did not like the thought of him sounding ineffectual in front of this tall, dark (though hopefully not satanic) mill-master. ‘We are in England, and English ought to be spoken in a manner that Her Majesty might comprehend.’
‘On a par with the Queen herself, are you, Miss Hale?’ Mr Thornton sneered, in a deep and chocolatey voice, looking down his long nose at her as she looked down her small nose up at him, in a strange Mobius strip of nose-looking-downs.
‘Of course not, sir.’ The word was said as if spelled ‘cur,’ and she stuck her chin in the air defiantly. Mr Thornton made a small, growling noise in his throat.
‘Margaret is in jest, I am sure.’
‘No Father, it is Mother’s sister who is. . . Ah.’ Margaret’s cheeks reddened and she fell silent.
‘Mr Bell has requested me to show you possible houses to rent, Mr Hale. I shall of course do so, but I have not got all day. Time is money, and I waste neither. If you would follow me.’ Mr Thornton took a key from his pocket, and Margaret was conscious of watching his long fingers.
She was very glad her blush hid her blush.
He opened the door, which had a strangely satisfying creak, as though it resented opening even for such a man as him, and he then stood politely to one side, to allow Miss Hale to enter first. After all, he reasoned, she must weigh a fraction of his own weight, and if any of the floorboards were weak, they would merely sag a little, rather than give way.
Mr Thornton was not a man who gave way, nor was he one prone to falling through holes in the floor.
Margaret accorded him the briefest nod as she passed him, and then stood in the hallway and sniffed.
‘This property has not been inhabited for the last forty two days,’ she announced, confidently.
‘Forty three, actually.’ Mr Thornton very nearly smirked. Ha, this soft southern lass would not have the last word with him. At this moment, a thought exploded in his brain, and yelled ‘Unless it is to say “Yes, Mr Thornton, I accept your proposal”.’ Mr Thornton spluttered.
‘Hmm, but one of those days was Christmas Day, and so does not count, sir.’ She looked smug. Deep down, Mr Thornton thought she looked stunning, and so he appeared stunned.
‘My daughter has a fine nose, Mr Thornton,’ murmured Mr Hale, not without a touch of pride.
Mr Thornton choked back the response that it was not half as fine as her closely confined bosom and lustrous eyes. He focused upon her depressing brown hat, in an effort not to say something impertinent.
She advanced into the parlour, avoiding the long-deceased pigeon in the middle of the floor, and looked about her, sniffing.
‘Margaret began turning up her nose at an early age, and her olfactory acuity is quite remarkable.’
So her name was Margaret. Mr Thornton let it swirl about in his head like the leaves in a teapot as the boiling water cascades upon them. He had an insane urge to smile, and repressed it with difficulty. It did, however, cause him to lower his guard and jest.
‘Then Miss Hale will settle in very well in Milton, for we have many factories. An “olfactory” will be a fine addition.’ The smiling urge triumphed, and he grinned at Mr Hale.
Margaret, who was gazing thoughtfully at a patch of damaged wallpaper at picture rail height above the fireplace, added a snort to her sniff, and sneezed.
‘Bless you, my dear,’ murmured Mr Hale.