Once Again #4
“Not only their trust. If communication between master and men is open, there is more opportunity to involve the hands in improving operations that they themselves initiate with their ideas. And, having their own ideas heard and implemented, they thereby become themselves invested in the success of the business.”
“Do you believe that such methods would prevent the laboring class from rising up to strike?” Mr. Colthurst continued.
“I have no expectations that all disagreements between men and masters can be resolved in such a manner. I only know that I have found it mutually beneficial to operate in this way. The hands trust me more, and I rely on them with more confidence in their abilities. I would like to hope that this will aid in avoiding bitterness between the two classes from rising up as it has formerly.”
Suddenly, he broke away and took two or three strides to where Margaret sat.
“Miss Hale, Higgins gave me a list of men who wish to work for me, if ever I was in a position to employ men again on my own behalf. That was good, was it not?”
“Yes. Just right. I am glad to hear of it,” she said, looking up to meet his searching gaze.
He saw for a moment the spark of intelligent interest in her eyes. But she dropped her gaze quickly. Her frightened retreat from engaging with him reminded him again that he held no particular significance in her life.
He sighed and turned away, believing that the simple words of approval she had given were the most he could expect from her.
When he departed later, it was only with a formal “good-bye” to Margaret. Even this brief parting was awkward, for she appeared to want to say something of deeper import but withdrew from her impulse to instead merely utter the empty words of propriety.
It hurt him to feel her nervous retraction from him at every point. She had not forgotten all that had passed between them. His very presence caused her distress; he knew she must wish him far away.
He turned to pass through the mirrored hall leading to the front door, acutely aware as he stepped over the threshold into the night that he was leaving her presence for the last time. He would not see her again.
As he walked to the waiting cab, he told himself that he had done well. He had been in the same room with her again; he had looked into her face and had proved to himself that he had dominion over his feelings. He could be satisfied now that he was capable of letting her go, as he knew he must.
But as the cab jerked forward and the wheels began to turn, taking him away from her, his heart sank lower. The settling doom of perpetual loneliness drew him into a black night of despondency.
In a moment of surging despair, he imagined springing out of the coach and bounding back up those granite stairs to burst into the room again and see her surprise. He would sweep her into his arms and hold her tightly to him, so that she might know the strength of his devotion.
His forehead creased in concern for his own sanity. What kind of self-control was this? It would never do to allow himself to conjure such visions of fantasy. It was vain to imagine that anything he could do would win her affection.
She was lost to him. Forever. Indeed, she had never been his. And he would do well to learn to live with this truth and build his life on a foundation of service to others. He himself would never know great joy.
As he climbed the steps up to his hotel room, he struggled to find the strength of will that he normally relied upon. Alone once more in the confinement of his own private space, he took off the stiff garments of formality and stood once again in the bed chamber in his drawers.
He sat down and picked up the day’s newspaper for distraction but then set it down as useless. He glanced at the list of prospects he had written up in Milton. It would do no good to attempt to think of business purposes now.
He tried to fend off the impending gloom that began to seep into the crevices of the room. But the vision of her every movement that evening played in his mind, torturing him. He bolted up from his chair and paced the room in his helplessness.
Her hair, her skin, those lips! He let out a cry of despair.
How foolish he had been to ever have thought that she could love him.
But he had been mesmerized by the memory of her touch—those soft arms had wrapped around his neck once.
He had felt her body pressed against him, her heartbeat next to his.
It was this torturous memory that nearly drove him to delirium with the desire to hold her in his arms once again.
Her touch had been as fire to his soul. And he wanted to feel that flame—he wanted to show her what she meant to him—not just one moment more, but every day and night that he drew breath on this earth.
He stopped his pacing to lean in desperate agony against the mantelpiece.
He knew how she would love, with a deep and tender passion and fierce loyalty!
And he knew he was not worthy of such as she.
But—oh, selfish man that he was!—he did not believe that Henry Lennox could be such a man worthy of her at all.
He was ashamed to feel a certain hatred for the man who lived daily within her sphere.
That sociable and self-assured barrister did not truly know her. Not one of them saw her in all her true magnificence. No one could cherish or appreciate all her damnable and exquisite attributes as he did. No one else could love her the way he would.
The thought of her in another man’s embrace was more than he could bear. And for this reason, he would reject a London position if one were offered to him. For he knew with absolute conviction that he wished never to see her as a married woman.
He moved away from the fireplace and sank down upon his bed.
His mother had been the wiser one. Seeing Margaret again had been a torment.
It had only engraved deeper in his mind that which he already knew: that there was not, and never would be, any woman like Margaret.
And yet, the one woman he wanted for a wife did not love him.
It was this plain and irreversible fact that cut him to the core.
The only comfort he could wring from the wretched despair that crashed over him through this long night was that he would be in the same city as she tomorrow, much as he had lived those few precious years she had lived in Milton.
He woke early, as was his custom. But there was no mill to tend, and his mother was not waiting to join him for breakfast downstairs.
He did not rise. He cast his gaze around the dim room and traced the faint pink light illuminating the yellowed wallpaper to the open window. The clop and creak of a passing wagon and a murmured exchange of voices somewhere outside carried the mundane sounds of civilization to his ears.
He was alone in this teaming city. Today was the first day of many that he would not see her. He would rise every day of his life the same way as this day: alone. Already images of her began to swarm his thoughts and fill him with a sinking gloom.
He cast off the sheet he had slept under and rose from his bed in decision.
It would do no good to dwell on his unhappiness.
He had come for a purpose—to pursue his next position in the business of this country.
And he would be better served if he got right to work looking up the contacts as he had intended.
He dressed and took a simple breakfast in his room before heading out the door.
After he had spent the morning meeting with men who might help him find work, he sought respite in seclusion—someplace where there would be no need to maintain a pleasant visage or hopeful manner.
He walked along the unfamiliar streets of the city where none of the passing faces knew his name or took any notice of him.
The wealthy and powerful bankers and traders of London that he had met this morning accorded him all the respect due a once-flourishing and commanding mill owner.
They had known him, and recognized the reputation for integrity in business he had acquired over many years.
But to no avail. Not one was comfortable investing the capital required to restart the mill—the outcome he desired most of all.
And in asking about any possible management positions in ventures already established, he had received the same response: “We’ll keep your name in mind. ”
He let out his breath in disgruntled disappointment as he climbed the stairs to his hotel, eager to return to his room.
There would be time for him to retreat for a while before meeting with yet one or two more connections this afternoon.
Perhaps he would decide to leave London on the last train this evening, if no good prospects appeared.
As he passed the concierge’s desk, he heard his name called out.
“Mr. Thornton—a message for you.”
At once hopeful, he retreated a step to take the folded paper and took it to his room, where he broke the unfamiliar seal to read the clipped and cryptic note.
Miss Hale requests your presence at 10 in the morning tomorrow at Harley Street to discuss a final business matter.
Henry Lennox
The jolt of surprise was at first pleasant. But at once, doubtful dread began almost to eclipse the undeniable privilege of seeing her again.
He wanted to believe that she meant to do him some final deed of kindness, if nothing but for her father’s sake.
But any logical man—such as he had once been—would perceive that she wished to be free of any tie to him.
There was little doubt that she wanted to terminate his lease so that she would no longer be required to see him or hear his name again.
This final anguish—that she would cast all memory of him away—weighed like a heavy stone on his heart.