Reeducating Mr Thornton #5
In the following days, Mr. Thornton submitted with less reluctance than before to the exigencies of the weather and this strange custom of siestas.
Two days after he began to do so, he banished his cravats and vests into their luggage, rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows, and led Margaret to the big verandah bed for an afternoon nap right after lunch.
Margaret returned her book to the library.
“I could get used to this,” he said one afternoon, shifting his body to find the most comfortable position.
“What?” She feigned surprise, suppressing a smile as she faced him.
“I’m only talking about while we’re here. Back to Milton, I’ll be at work this hour.”
“How could you survive even a few weeks of careless days of ease? I remember you saying how dull that would be.”
He gathered her close and planted a kiss on her lips. “How could you remember something I said so long ago? What if I would prefer not to be reminded of it?”
“Really? I rather thought you’d be flattered that I could remember.”
“But it offended you at that time, so please forget it.”
“It stuck in my mind.” She pouted and turned her face away. “It seemed to me you were criticizing life in the South.”
“Forget that, too.”
“You did redeem yourself when you told us what you had to do and endure after your father died. I was mortified and thought I had been too harsh on you.”
“Did you begin to like me after that?”
Margaret did not answer. Instead, she kissed him and laid her head on his shoulder.
A couple of minutes later, she said, “I remember another instance when you scoffed at the idea of pleasure.
Do you recall when Mr. Bell asked you what you worked so hard for and when you intended to enjoy the fruits of your labor? “
Mr. Thornton groaned. “I ignored him. I was consumed by jealousy, still stung by your rejection, and you sat there looking serene and unconcerned. I told myself I should hate you and ignore you pointedly. Instead, I could not get you out of my mind. Truth be told, I didn’t know how to answer Mr. Bell. Was he annoyed?”
“Well, yes, he was. You looked sullen, extremely put upon. Anyway, after you left, I told him you weren’t your usual self. Something was troubling you.”
He stared at her, his eyes incredulous. “You knew. You defended me.”
“I knew by then that I loved you. But I was convinced that you no longer cared for me. How could I possibly have revealed how I felt?”
“Oh, Margaret, my love! All I was waiting for was a look from you so I could show you how contrite I was.”
“Things were different then. Anyway, does it matter now? You’ve been as irascible lately, though. In Paris, you were so agreeable and enchanted with everything. Don’t you like Cádiz?”
“I don’t dislike it. I do not take to new places as easily as you do, though—particularly one as foreign to me as Cádiz.”
She wriggled closer to him. “I forgive you, but you must kiss me and hold me close and tell me again how much you love me.”
The next morning, Frederick invited Mr. Thornton to a dinner meeting of a club of tradesmen.
“Merchants from all over the world will be there, and we often ask someone to tell us about his trade. A few are just passing through on their way to Barcelona—traders and adventurers transporting silver from Mexico. You may enjoy it and learn something from their stories. There might be one or two bringing cotton from America. Cádiz is a way station to England. That should be of great interest to you”
“Thank you for inviting me. I’d like very much to come.”
Twenty men and one woman were at the meeting.
Many of them were swarthy and unshaven from weeks spent at sea.
Mr. Thornton, however, was unprepared for a few who looked more foreign than the others.
They were short, had dusky skin, thick straight black hair, and black eyes.
They didn’t speak much English, and he stayed away from them until Frederick introduced him to the man seated next to him at the dinner table.
Benito Hidalgo was the exception, having lived and studied in America in his youth.
Curious about Mexican silver, the club had chosen Mr. Hidalgo to speak that evening.
He recounted how the Hidalgo family became rich when silver was discovered in Mexico in the sixteenth century.
Generations of Hidalgos searched and claimed mines, which increased their fortune for nearly two centuries until the Napoleonic wars devastated Spain’s economy, sending a gigantic wave across the ocean to Mexico.
Mr. Thornton was amazed to hear that silver mining in Mexico enriched the Spanish empire more than it did the Mexican economy.
In fact, only a few, like the Hidalgos, made a fortune.
Intrigued by Mr. Hidalgo’s long and diverse history, Mr. Thornton engaged him in conversation at the table while the rest of the party drifted into smaller groups.
Mr. Hidalgo said, “We lost all but the house we were living in. Do you know the agonizing pain of falling from a tall, steep mountain? The hopeless anguish from doubting you had the strength and wherewithal to climb back up?”
Mr. Thornton nodded. “I do, actually. I was lucky, though. The woman I loved inherited money and continued to love me despite my misfortune.”
“Yes, you are fortunate. I’ve had to work until my hands and knees bled.
Then I happened upon international trade, and my experience in America and the other places I travelled proved useful.
Sadly, I’ve only recouped some of the property we once owned.
I’ve learned a lot, enough to kill my illusions that I could get back the old family glory.
I have to look to future generations. But they would need to keep their eyes and ears open. ”
“You must have hopes, then, that silver mining will be very profitable again.”
Mr. Hidalgo shook his head. “No, unfortunately. The earth can only yield so much, and wars deplete resources. No, we must learn about or invent new products. Civilization is voracious. It must find things to feed on in order to grow—things people like us must seize before too many others do. We must open our eyes and ears, not just in Mexico and Spain or England, where you live. Going to far-flung places, I’ve learned not to assume that other people think like me.
We all have unique experiences which influence our views of the world and the things which matter to us.
Being open to those views can tell us something about what the people we serve need or want. ”
“Are you still doing business in silver?”
“Some. My ship also transports tobacco and cotton, and sometimes chocolate, fruits, and vegetables. My country’s economy is in bad shape, and the government has drastically cut down on international trading.
I’m one of the lucky few allowed to continue.
One thing I would never do, though, is ferry slaves.
That business is lucrative, but inhumane. ”
Mr. Hidalgo stared straight into Mr. Thornton’s eyes, assessing him and, with his jaw clenched, he continued, “Rich Americans and Europeans are greedy for them, but the poor and uneducated deserve to be treated like you and me.” Mr. Hidalgo looked away, and Mr. Thornton could not tell if he was angry or embarrassed by his outburst.
Mr. Thornton wanted to put Mr. Hidalgo at his ease, show him he was not averse to his views.
He said, “It amazes me how events happening in one part of the world could affect a country far away. You’ve opened my eyes.
You’re a remarkable man, Mr. Hidalgo, and I’m lucky to have made your acquaintance. ”
Mr. Hidalgo smiled. “Maybe we’ll meet again. We could deal in cotton or those precious bugs that feed on our cactuses.”
As they climbed into bed that night, Mr. Thornton related his conversation with Benito Hidalgo to Margaret.
“I’m ashamed to say I hesitated to talk with him at first. He turned out to be fascinating.
I’m sure you’d like him. He’s small, muscular, graying, but energetic.
And wise. He’s sensitive to injustices against the less fortunate.
You should see his eyes when he talks about his family and his hopes for the future.
They glow and mask the hardships and upheavals he’s been through. ”
Margaret said, “I may never get a chance to meet him, and yet I like him already. I wish him well.”
“He regained a quarter of what his family lost and he has ventured into other products. His family had been involved in silver mining. Now his ship also brings in cotton and something very unusual—a bug that produces a type of red color much prized by royalty that brings in quite a bit of money.”
“A dye, you mean, that could be used on textiles. Are you getting ideas from what he’s told you?”
“I am, though my first goal upon our return is to get the mill back in operation and make it run like clockwork. I’d also explore other ways we can improve our production of cotton.
After that, I will look into other products.
Maybe I won’t be lucky enough to come across a bug like Mr. Hidalgo has, but England is industrializing rapidly, and its needs are multiplying. ”
“It could all be an exciting adventure.”
“I expect it to be,” he said as he gathered Margaret in his arms. “Fred is right. You have to be open to new things.’
“So, do you still think Cádiz isn’t that special?”
“Of course, it is special. It’s as different from Milton as you probably could find in the continent.
And you are here with me. If it weren’t for you, my love, I would never have come.
Never met your brother or Mr. Hidalgo at this crucial time, before we reopen the mill.
I’ve been forced to pause and reflect on what I want for us. And I’ll have much to learn.”
Margaret purred with pleasure, cupped his face in her hands, and kissed him. “I’ll be there, Mr. Thornton. Always.”
Mr. Thornton turned off the gas lamp on the night table and gathered Margaret in his arms.
Evy Journey, SPR (Self Publishing Review) Independent Woman Author awardee, writes Women’s Fiction, an amorphous category of stories written mostly for women, from a woman’s point of view, as varied as that is. They can be romance, chick lit, or literary.
Evy has a Ph.D. in psychology so her particular brand of women’s fiction spins tales about well-drawn characters as they cope with the problems and issues of contemporary life.
These stories explore the many faces of love, loss, second chances, and finding one’s way.
Often, they’re laced with a twist of mystery or intrigue.
She’s also a wannabe artist, and a flaneuse who wishes she lived in Paris where art is everywhere and people have honed aimless roaming to an art form. She has lived in Paris a few times as a transient.
Evy’s other books include: Margaret of the North, Hello, My Love, Hello, Agnieszka, Welcome Reluctant Stranger, Brief Encounters, and Sugar and Spice and All Those Lies.