Chapter 4
Chapter four
March in Milton-Northern can drain the spirits of the hardiest inhabitants to the dregs.
Winter clings to the landscape with a tenacious jealousy as springtide’s gentle rebirth slowly wends its way up from southern shores.
Here, where men and women proudly profess an ancestry forged in these granite hills, mortals are forced to endure the caprice of the gods who seem to cast the dice to determine the weather from day to day, as one warming afternoon raises the hope for winter’s final banishment, only to be dashed when frigid winds return to mock such hopes for spring’s reprieve.
Prepared for the dark days of bitter weather that cause human creatures to huddle near glowing hearths, the northern breed waits for the change of seasons with wise patience that eludes those born in more temperate climes.
But even the hardiest endurance wanes as the weeks pass and the merciless cold, gray clouds make people yearn for the sun’s rays.
Work at Marlborough Mills continued through the varying onslaught of winter’s barrage of snow, sleet, and bitter wind.
Spinners, carders, and weavers from rougher corners of the town rose well before dawn to put on their thickest woolen coats and shawls and left their cold, gaunt homes to traverse the streets and passageways covered with snow or frozen mud.
Shivered greetings were brief as fellow workers converged at the shelter of the giant factory, where blazing furnace fires kept cotton threads supple and human bodies warm.
The whir and clank of machinery went on apace as the dim morning sky brightened and the toilers within were glad of the warmth, camaraderie, and wages.
On one such gloomy afternoon, Mr. Thornton scribbled his signature on the last page of a long document and set his quill in its holder.
He turned his gaze from the papers on his desk to the mill yard outside his window, where a few flakes of snow fell lazily from the heights of mottled gray that covered the sky.
He watched as a solitary snowflake swirled and danced as it passed the pane before him, an innocent harbinger of winter’s stubborn tenacity.
A shout, the crack of a whip, and the sound of splintering wood broke his momentary reverie.
He looked just in time to see the corner of a heavily loaded cart collapse to the ground, toppling a mountain of cotton bales onto two waiting workers.
He bolted for the nearest door, weaving past the obstacles in his path with determination as others rushed to the windows at the sound of the chaos outdoors.
He ran, taking care not to slip or stumble over ice-encrusted mud tracks that scored the yard’s terrain. “Help them!” he barked to one who stood gaping in shock.
Those closest at hand had already heaved bales off one hapless worker who had been caught under the falling load. But there was yet another who still needed aid.
Shouts and grunts filled the air as the Master joined the group of men ferociously hauling bales away to find the trapped victim. Mr. Thornton’s bellowed directives punctuated the frenzied scene, swiftly turning anarchy into organized motion. Seconds later, they uncovered a gray lifeless form.
Lying on his side, unconscious, the young man looked as pale and still as death.
“It’s Jem Daugherty!” one cried out.
“Call a doctor!” Mr. Thornton instructed one of the standing onlookers as he himself bent over the unmoving worker.
“His wife, Jenny, is a spinner,” a fellow hand blurted out in fear.
“Fetch her,” the Master allowed, uncertain how gravely injured the laborer was. With trepidation, he reached out to check for a pulse at the victim’s neck and let out a breath of relief as he felt the rhythm of life coursing within.
A few men gently maneuvered the hurt man onto his back while others ran for blankets and a cot as their master ordered.
Mr. Thornton studied the condition of the man who lay at his side.
A small trickle of blood streaked down from tousled brown hair to the high cheekbone of a thin face.
He could not be above five and twenty, Mr. Thornton mused, as he noted the smooth youthfulness of the skin about the closed eyes.
A tiny crystal of snow landed on the still face, melting instantly.
Other drifting snowflakes lazily stuck to the threadbare woolen coat, heedless of any human drama—claiming all objects as nature’s canvas.
The boyish innocence of the face struck Mr. Thornton, and he wondered, for a moment, how much harshness this young life had endured. With a feeling of sympathy and some bitter pride, he recalled the hardships he himself had faced at a young age.
A sudden rush of pounding footsteps broke his thoughtful trance. He looked up to see the frantic approach of a figure who slipped and clambered over frozen ground, holding her skirts out of the way of her fast-moving clogs while her informants trailed behind her perilous clip.
“Jem!” Her panicked cry cut through the solemn yard, halting the men who were now leading the horses away from the broken wreckage.
Mr. Thornton stood up from his crouched vigil, mesmerized by the sight of the approaching girl.
No shawl protected her from the bitter cold.
Cotton lint clung to her drab calico dress.
Underneath the head cloth that covered her hair, her face was contorted with terror.
Fear flashed in her eyes as her glance scarcely acknowledged the Master and fastened instead on the fallen figure on the ground.
“He’s alive,” Mr. Thornton declared helplessly, stepping away as she rushed forward to take her place at her husband’s side.
She dropped to her knees and took the beloved face into her hands, calling his name over and over, entreating him to wake.
Then, continuing to caress his face with one hand, she moved the other to cradle her swollen belly.
A flush rose to the master’s face as he recognized she was with child, and he turned from intruding upon such a tender scene between the young lovers.
“Jem! Oh, Jem!”
A cry of joy from the girl made the Master turn again. He let out his breath in relief to see the fallen man’s eyes flutter open and his hands stir. The bent-over figure covered her husband’s face with fervent kisses.
“Jenny,” the injured man acknowledged in a feeble voice. He winced in pain as he raised a hand to touch her.
For this sign of his devotion, the adoring wife planted a fervent kiss on his lips, as heedless of any observer as if they two alone existed in all the world.
Mr. Thornton looked away, feeling a faint creep of embarrassment stain his cheeks at the thought of the intimate nature of their relationship. He murmured a word of gratitude to see the swift approach of the doctor and Williams, the overseer.
He gave orders to be informed of the doctor’s report and retraced his steps back to the mill. Only now did he feel the biting air, which chilled his bare forearms and whipped through the thin cotton of his billowing white sleeves.
He attempted to resume his day and gave little thought to the injured man until Williams entered the master’s office to report that Daugherty had a bruised rib and possible concussion and that the doctor had prescribed at least two weeks of rest and a careful watch over his head injury for the next few days.
Alone again in his private space, Mr. Thornton looked out at the scene of the mishap where the desperate girl and her young husband had been.
Before he left for home, he gave instructions to his clerk that Jem Daugherty be paid two weeks’ wages while he recovered from his injuries and his wife be given two days’ pay to tend to him.
If chance had sovereignty to deal a blow on the hapless, then he would counter it with a stroke of reasoned mercy.
Nobody would deny his own authority to do as he saw fit under any circumstance.
“It’s so dim and cold in here! Couldn’t we light a few more candles and put on more coal?” Fanny shivered in her seat to show her discomfort as a servant placed a covered dish of potatoes and stewed lamb on the immaculately set table that evening.
“You might see fit to wear your woolens or a warm shawl at present until the weather turns. We must economize during the long winter months, just as we always have,” her mother returned.
“I don’t see why we can’t make ourselves more comfortable when we’re rich enough to do so! The Hampers certainly do. Henrietta’s drawing room is equal to ours, and yet it is always warm there when I go to call.”
“And so we, too, always accommodate our guests by laying more coal on the fire, Fanny,” her mother calmly insisted.
More annoyed by her mother’s placid tone than the logical rebuff, Fanny huffed in response.
“Well, I don’t want to host my friends here.
There’s always so much noise outside that I’m embarrassed to have them know what I must endure daily.
Why today there arose such shrieks from the yard that I lost all concentration on my piano piece! ”
“I’m sorry if you were inconvenienced, but a half ton of cotton overturned into the yard and a man was badly hurt today,” her brother retorted with cool sarcasm as he took up his fork.
“How badly hurt?” his mother asked, knowing her son was proud that accidents seldom occurred at his mill.
“The doctor believes he will recover well. But he will not be able to work for several weeks.”
“There are plenty enough to take his place,” Mrs. Thornton casually reasoned.
“But his position, or a better, I will have for him when he is recovered. It was no fault of his that he was temporarily put out. His wife is expecting a child—“
“These people and their misfortunes. It is all such dreary talk,” Fanny declared peevishly.
“If the subject is so disagreeable to you, Fan, I will not discuss it further,” her brother returned in clipped tones. “However, I hoped you would appreciate that the mill is the means of our good fortune and that I have little else to occupy my thoughts.”
“I am well aware of it! But I don’t see why we must live so very close to all of it. When I marry, you can be certain my house will not be so close to any factory,” Fanny announced with an upward jerk of her chin.
Fanny’s behavior vexed Mr. Thornton’s peace of mind the rest of the evening.
Her contemptuous dismissal of the people who worked in his mill touched a vein of sympathy he had long practiced burying under the constant press of duty.
If her heart was hardening, his was showing signs of thawing from an unnatural hibernation.
But he did not recognize this tug at his conscience for its deeper significance.
He thought himself mildly perturbed by the unfortunate turn of events, which had broken the day’s productive routine.
When silence at last engulfed the house that evening, Mr. Thornton stood alone in his bedchamber.
The feeble light of a single candle lit only a portion of the wide bed behind him.
Darkness crept into the corners of the expansive room, where all the outlines of his life lay in patient order for his use.
He undressed with the swift efficiency of years of living in stark routine, exposing his skin for only a brief moment to the chilled air of the dark, unheated room.
Snuffing the candle out, he climbed into bed and pulled the thick counterpane of patterned gold brocade over the cotton and woolen layers that would keep him warm through the night.
He closed his eyes as soon as his head settled on his pillow.
A gust of wind whistled outside over the barren mill yard, reminding him to be grateful for his present comfort and safety.
Through his work as a magistrate, he had seen the wide range of human habitats in Milton. He knew that some families huddled together in straw beds through bitter nights like this.
He wondered how Jem Daugherty was faring this evening and if his home were warm enough for his comfort. He had no doubt his wife was tending to his every need with alacrity.
The stillness of the hour stirred deeper channels of his mind, and the vivid image that he had resolutely pushed away for hours swept into the forefront of his wandering thoughts.
He let himself remember how fervently the pregnant girl had pressed her mouth to her waking husband.
Never before had he witnessed such a kiss between a man and a woman.
The vision of it had been spellbinding. There was a raw power—a fierce devotion and tenderness in the girl’s affection for her husband.
The married pair would even now be sweetly huddled together in a shared bed. He was almost envious of the injured laborer. All the man’s sufferings—now and evermore—would be assuaged by gentle caresses and the comforting, intimate touch of a lover’s care.
What would it feel like to be tended to in such a manner? The vision of the girl from Hampshire slipped naturally into his mind. And even as reason cautioned against the temptation, the thought of her—lying next to him—rushed into his imagination with compelling force.
He struggled to cast off the pleasant imagery now sweeping through his thoughts. His heart beat fervently, alarmed and tantalized by the powerful feelings the memory of her evoked in him.
What was it about the girl from the London ball that haunted him even now?
He had never given much thought to any woman before.
He had spent many years disdaining every luxury or pleasure that other men pursued, pressing himself to the work of building a secure future for his family.
It had not occurred to him to take a wife, for it seemed to him only another burden of responsibility.
But now he grasped something of the advantages marriage might bring.
It was a revelation to him. Heretofore, he had thought of marriage as little more than a social obligation, an inconvenience for which he had no time.
He had not considered that it could be a bonding of souls—a soothing balm of affection, a passionate caring for another, a shared life between two similar persons that would chase away the gloom of this harsh world.
In the solitude of his bedchamber, the pleasant image of one particular woman tantalized his drifting thoughts. And for the first time in his thirty-odd years, Mr. Thornton considered what his life might be like to have a wife.