Chapter 10
Chapter ten
On the day that the Hale family was to arrive in Milton, Mr. Thornton found his thoughts drifting to Outwood Station instead of to the details at hand at Marlborough Mills.
He had seen to it that the furniture and crates containing their belongings, which had come earlier that day on a freight car, were already being carried into the house in Crampton.
What more he could do, he could not fathom.
Although impulse continuously bade him leave his office and take to the streets, he firmly refused to let such niggling move him.
It was not his business or his right to intrude himself upon their lives.
His work for them was done. He would, after all, see Mr. Hale before the fortnight.
All such reasoning was well and good. However, when the whistle blew for the noon break and his mill hands spilled out from the imposing factory, a new thought struck him and wiped all such constraints away.
The Hales’ pantry would be barren of fruit or vegetables. He could have fresh fruit sent—no, he would select it himself. And leave a basket of food for them with a welcoming note.
He was out the door within a few moments and headed for the High Street grocer.
As Margaret had foreseen, the noise and distress of arriving in a strange city wore heavily on Mrs. Hale.
That it was a dismally gray November day did nothing to aid this transition.
As their cab carried them along the streets towards tall, blackened brick row houses, Mrs. Hale’s eyes reflected her distress.
Boys and men were still carrying crates of their belongings inside when they arrived at their new home.
“Ho, what’s this?” Mr. Hale said as he took his first steps into the front parlor, his family following him.
Margaret saw the brimming basket of fruit left on a small table. Underneath lay a bag of potatoes, flour, butter, and other sundries for the pantry. Her heart beat a little faster. She knew who had sent these before her father read the accompanying note.
“Why, Mr. Thornton! How very thoughtful. At least we know we have one friend in town, eh Margaret?”
She nodded with a tentative smile.
Amid the overwhelming disarray of moving in, with furniture and crates and hay strewn all about, the basket of fruit left on a table by the front window stood as a calm beacon of hope.
This kind token of welcome did much to soften Mrs. Hale’s heart—if not to this noisy, smoky town, then to the cotton manufacturer who lived in it.
The days that followed were filled with unpacking and arranging the house and with the comings and goings of delivery boys of all kinds, bringing the butcher’s order, the coal delivery, and market purchases.
Every jangle of the doorbell sent a wave of tension through Margaret, anxious that it might be Mr. Thornton.
She fastidiously avoided being near the door when Dixon or her father opened it.
Mr. Thornton went to his first lesson the following week. His hope of being let in by Mr. Hale’s daughter was dashed as a burly maid opened the door. She looked him over with a superior air, apparently none too pleased to show him to Mr. Hale’s study.
His tutor’s greeting, however, was hearty, sweeping away his annoyance at the servant’s attitude. Crates of books still stood in stacks around a desk and a few chairs in the small room. Bookcases had been partly filled, and a painting of a shepherd and his flock was propped along the top.
“How is your family? Are you settling in well enough?” Mr. Thornton asked as he sat down in the chair Mr. Hale had pulled into place for him.
“We are fairly well. Mrs. Hale has caught a cold, I’m afraid. The damp fogs here are not what we are used to. I’m sure she will improve before long,” he replied with a smile.
“Our winters are cold. If I can be a help in any way…I’m certain there are many things we do a bit differently here in Milton.”
“Indeed, it is nothing at all like Helstone. I thank you for your kind offer. You have been a great help already, thank you. Wait now, there was something Mrs. Hale was saying…oh yes! We will need more help here. Our cook and char girl did not come with us.”
“I’ll ask my mother about it,” Mr. Thornton said.
Mr. Hale enthused about the Greek sages and their works, and Mr. Thornton listened with interest, the only distraction being the occasional creaking of the floorboards above, which made him think of who dwelt close at hand. When he left, he had Plato’s Republic tucked under his arm.
Arriving home, Mr. Thornton paced about, gazing out the windows of the candle-lit drawing room of his home. He could not bring himself to sit and read the paper as he customarily would.
His mother watched until her patience wore thin. “You’ll have the carpet worn by Christmas, John. What is it that occupies your mind? If these lessons are distracting—“
“No, the lessons suit me well. I was thinking of the Hales. Mr. Hale made mention that they will need to hire help.”
Mrs. Thornton pressed her lips together. “I don’t see how that is our concern.”
“I would like you and Fanny to visit Mrs. Hale and her daughter next week,” he said with decision, ignoring her remark. “You will know how they might find a girl to hire. They are unfamiliar with the way of things here. Perhaps we could lend Martha a few days a week.”
That her son made this command to her again irritated her, although she was now more intrigued than ever to see this girl. “If you wish, John. I don’t know how we can help, but if you believe it will do some good, we will go.”
“Thank you, Mother,” was all he said, sitting down and picking up the paper.
Mrs. Thornton let out a sigh to see the power these Hales had over him. She began to dislike Miss Hale, despite not having laid eyes upon her. Who was she among womankind, to catch the attention of her wonderful son?
Fanny twisted her mouth in a recalcitrant pout as she and her mother trundled through the streets in their carriage toward Crampton.
She was certain she would find little in common to talk about with a country vicar’s daughter.
What made her brother press them so in going to pay an afternoon call to the family of his tutor?
John’s motives were a mystery to her. She would not bend her mind to discover his meaning.
She pressed her face almost against the window as they passed a window display of dresses and then tugged at her own voluminous skirts in satisfaction that she could at least enjoy showing her latest fashionable acquisition of brightly colored plaid with lace and ribboned trimmings.
Margaret scurried about all morning to arrange the upstairs drawing room for their visitors.
Their rooms were yet to be fully settled with all the sundries and bric-a-brac that make a house a home.
She’d been surprised to receive Mrs Thornton’s calling card informing her family of their intended arrival hours earlier.
Dixon was overwrought in her extended role as cook, thrusting pans of apple cake in the oven and rolling out dough for scones. Margaret went down to help her at intervals and volunteered to dust the banister and sweep the front hall.
Mrs. Hale rested, as she was still recovering from the ordeal of moving to a less desirable part of England, with closer quarters, no fresh air, and no society. She was uncertain what to make of Mrs. Thornton’s social standing in Milton, as the mother of one of the great manufacturers of the town.
The scones were still hot from the oven when the front doorbell rang. Margaret could not help feeling a tug of apprehension as she shrugged off her apron and went to answer the door in Dixon’s stead.
Mrs. Thornton raised her eyebrows as the comely girl who led them inside introduced herself as Margaret Hale.
So this was the young woman her son found so fascinating!
She appraised the girl with a critical eye, noting her simple but tasteful skirt and blouse.
She took note that Miss Hale bore no shame in having to usher them in as a servant should have done.
Instead, she moved with a queenly grace that seemed at once careless and utterly natural.
As the two guests were introduced to her mother, Margaret glanced at the wallpaper, grateful once again that the glaring gold and blue papers had been replaced by a delicate pattern of ivory and mauve.
“Do you play the piano?” Fanny asked after the common preliminary conversations about the weather and how the Hales found their new home were exhausted.
“I’m afraid I play rather poorly, although I had lessons while in London. My cousin plays very well,” Margaret answered.
“London!” Fanny enthused. “How long were you in London? I’ve so longed to go there!”
“I lived with my cousin for nearly eight years. It was my second home,” she replied, giving her mother an appreciative glance.
“Oh, I can’t imagine you’re very happy to have moved here, then,” Fanny blurted, dismissing the silent glare from her mother.
“I imagine it’s always good to see new places and meet new people,” Margaret offered.
Mrs. Thornton approved of her answer. “Have you seen any of our great warehouses and factories, Miss Hale? To know Milton is to know its manufacturing power. Here is where England is becoming the envy of the world in industry.”
“I have seen them on my walks, but I’ve not seen inside them.” And nor would I really wish to, she thought, although she had a certain curiosity as to the kind of world in which Mrs. Thornton’s son moved.
“I suppose it must be a very great change to come here from your home in the South,” Mrs. Thornton remarked to Mrs. Hale.