Once Again #2
“Now then, let’s get to business, shall we?
” Mr. Lennox began, seated once more at his desk and pulling a few papers from his stacks.
“You’ve come to discuss the terms of the lease.
I’m confident that Margaret—excuse me, I mean to say, Miss Hale, as I’m sure you know her—would be happy to forgo a month or two of payments for the sake of an old friend. ”
The sting of jealousy silently thundered in Mr. Thornton’s breast. Did he presume to know her better than he?
Had he ever seen how her eyes flashed fire when she spoke of injustice?
Had he ever stood side by side with her in the face of danger?
Had he ever felt her arms around his neck, or noticed how her lips trembled when she spoke of her dead parents?
“Perhaps you could find a way to stabilize business in a matter of a few months enough to continue on,” Mr. Lennox proposed.
“I appreciate the offer to defer, but I have already closed my doors. Trade is down, and banks are not lending. I don’t expect I shall re-open them. However, I am here to pursue all possible avenues.”
The two men discussed the probability of finding a party to sublet Marlborough Mills for a short time more.
“Dinner is at seven. Ninety-six Harley Street. I look forward to the pleasure of seeing you again this evening, Mr. Thornton,” the barrister concluded, shaking hands with the former mill master before the northern visitor stepped out once more into the marble hallway and then out into the hazy sunshine of a humid city.
The tall windows had been thrown open in Hannah Thornton’s bed chamber, but no breeze stirred the late afternoon heat. The silence from the empty mill shrouded the house with a palpable gloom.
The maid stopped to wipe her brow with the back of her hand before proceeding to wrap the porcelain and silver items from the vanity table in cotton as the mistress had dictated.
Hannah pulled out the few remaining garments hanging in the dark walnut armoire and laid them carefully on the white matelassé coverlet of her bed.
She had not many clothes, but what she did have was of high quality—a symbol of her son’s great accomplishments.
She would wear them proudly wherever they would live next.
As she began to roll the clothes for their removal to an unknown destination, she told herself again that it did not matter where they lived.
She possessed an unwavering conviction that John would rise again to greatness, whatever he did.
She did not worry about herself. She had lived a long life—with her own portion of sorrows and happiness.
She counted herself blessed among all mortal mothers to have been given a son such as she had.
It was the thought of him that taunted her motherly anxieties at every turn. Would John find satisfying work? How long would he wear that look of melancholy, the one he thought she did not see?
Chance and circumstance had torn from him the position in business he had worked hard to achieve. Her sense of justice raged against this indignity, although she knew he would achieve it again—in time. But nothing was more agonizing to her than to think of what time might never heal.
She walked to the window a moment to look out at the abandoned mill yard.
She had long been aware—and had been rightly wary of—John’s attraction to the old parson’s daughter. Something in the way John spoke of her and in the flicker of his eyes had warned her from the very first that this girl had woken something new in him.
Thoughtless, stupid girl! How could she have thrown away the love of the best man who lived on this earth? She would never find a better!
Her anger piqued at the far-away girl, although she knew it could do no good. Love was a mysterious power which often struck unevenly—leaving the unlucky to live in the torment of loving without a return of affection.
Did the girl know the suffering she had caused her son?
She doubted it, although she reluctantly admitted that Margaret had also borne a great deal of suffering.
There had been a soft humility about her the last time she had seen her.
Yet, for all that, Hannah was exceedingly grateful that Margaret was removed from Milton so that her son might heal.
It troubled her that John was again in close proximity to her in London. She fervently hoped there would be no opportunity for the two to meet. It was best not to reopen old wounds.
She shook herself from these thoughts and returned to her task. Stooping to empty the compartments at the bottom of her wardrobe, she pulled out a package wrapped in faded cloth and satin ribbon. Her face softened at the recognition of the forgotten stash of letters and mementos.
“Jane, you may go down for tea. We will continue our packing later,” she told the girl, and she sat down with her treasure once the room was hers alone.
She unwrapped the package with a sacred gentleness, knowing that within were things which her husband had once touched.
One by one, she read some of the letters George had written to her before they had married.
Tears came to her eyes as all the sweet earnestness and hopeful confidence of her husband’s spirit tore at the ancient wound of his unspeakable death.
The horror of his end had scarred her deeply, but she had survived it all—for John and Fanny’s sake.
She had learned to stifle sorrow and self-pity with a diligence to duty and self-reliance.
She had been determined to keep her honor and to embed in her son the type of character that all men must revere.
He was a prince among men. Her heart burst with the fervent love she held for him, her firstborn.
She sifted through a few her husband’s sketches. He had had a keen eye for the artistic form of everyday objects. His talent was simple, but she had not been able to part with all of his drawings.
Her breath stilled as she came across a pencil sketch infinitely precious to her.
Her husband, thoroughly fascinated by the perfection of his newborn son, had drawn the sleeping face and tiny curled fists of their baby.
She traced the penciled lines of John’s infant cheeks with her fingers as tears began to slide down her own wrinkled cheeks.
To see her husband’s fall was bitter enough to bear.
But to witness her stalwart and good son suffer loss both in business and in love tempted her faith in the Almighty’s righteousness.
God must give her son his faithful reward erelong.
He must, for she could not endure seeing John’s days filled with endless toil and quiet sorrow.
Her daily, fervent prayer was to see John happy once again.
As the sun’s intensity began to fade with the approach of evening, Mr. Thornton returned from unfruitful meetings with a few London contacts to his solitary hotel room.
He slid off his coat with a breath of relief and peeled off the white cotton shirt clinging to his body.
He poured the pitcher of lavender-scented water into the porcelain basin and leaned over to splash water on his face.
Cool water dripped down the expanse of his bare chest as he stood to reach for a towel and wash the grime of perspiration off his skin.
It was a refreshing luxury to remain half undressed for a time in this private space. But he had not long to linger here. Soon he must dress for dinner. In another hour, he would see her.
The seed of anxiety that had been sown inside him since he had received the invitation began to grow. How would she receive him?
He examined his face in the framed mirror on the wall.
The morning shave in Milton had been long ago.
He could see the faint shadow now appearing along his cheek and jaw.
It could not be helped. He was but a rough and unpolished fellow, after all.
He believed he saw the lines of age beginning to etch themselves on his face.
It would be no surprise to him if it were so, for he had never felt so worn in his life—so drained of hope and promise—than these past few weeks.
But he would carry on. He had been through deep waters before.
He raised his chin and turned away from the mirror.
He was not a vain man. He would appear to her just as he always had—an honest man with no pretensions about his social standing.
He knew his own worth; he did not need the approval of others to verify his place in the world.
The only judgement he cared about was hers.
He longed for her to see him as far more than a manufacturer who treated his workers with disdain.
If only she knew how much he had changed!
The yearning to prove himself to her still burned inside him, as it had the first day she had walked into his life.
Perhaps she might hear him speak tonight of some of the developments that had taken place at Marlborough Mills since she had left town.
It would settle something in his soul if he could only know that she approved of how he had improved his relationship with the hands.
He knew he was a better man because of her.
He picked up the burgundy cravat he would wear.
He had worn it to tea the first time he had been a guest—not a paying student—in the Hales’ Crampton home.
He chastised himself for creating any significance over what he would wear tonight.
She would not remember or pay attention to his particular attire.
Besides which, he had no fashionable array of dress clothes from which to choose.
He had not expected to see her. It was a blessing and a curse to have been asked to join her company. He could never resist the lure of seeing her, even if it were fraught with danger. He knew his mother would think him unwise for going.