Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
It was not many days later that the Hales received an invitation to tea at the Thornton’s residence. Mrs. Hale was intrigued at once.
“This would be a very good opportunity, I dare say, to see how these great manufacturers live,” she told her daughter. “I’m curious to know what kind of grand house they might live in, amongst all of this…dreariness,” she said, waving a dismissive hand toward the windows.
“I think you’ll find that it is a very different grandness from what we would expect in Hampshire or in London.
The most impressive buildings here seem to be the gigantic factories,” Margaret remarked, thinking of what she had seen of the town thus far on her walks.
“I suppose it’s to be expected in a town like this. ”
“Hmm…I wonder how many servants they have and how large their rooms are. And I should especially like to see what they serve for tea here.”
Margaret took this reply as an indication that her mother would go. “Will papa come with us?” she asked, hoping that he would. The more people to diffuse attention from herself, the better. She was already feeling uncomfortable at the prospect of entering Mr. Thornton’s home.
Father did indeed want to go, and they set out in a cab together, Mr. Hale tucking a blanket around his wife in the frigid January air. Dixon had shaken her head at Mrs. Hale’s insistence on going, as Mrs. Hale had begun to take to her bed more often since arriving in Milton.
Margaret was glad her mother was settled between them, for then she had less opportunity to really see the passing scenery. However, as they drew closer to Marlborough Mills and passed through the tall, open gates, her eyes grew wide. “This is where they live?” she asked incredulously.
“Remember, mamma, what Mrs. Thornton said about living across from her son’s factory,” Margaret said.
“It is a great convenience for Mr. Thornton to live near his mill,” her father added.
Mrs. Hale craned her neck to try to determine the height of the looming factory across the mill yard. “Near it! Why, they must live in the very shadow of it!” she exclaimed.
Margaret was fascinated by the scene, however stark. The factory walls were massive, and the clacking noise seemed to pour out through the bricks into the empty dirt yard. The stone house they pulled up to was neat and surprisingly clean, being so close to the source of so much smoke and dirt.
Mr. Hale helped his wife up the stairs as Margaret turned to take in the view from the portico, above the yard below.
Everything within sight was stone, brick, iron, dull gray and brown.
There was nothing of nature to gaze upon but the sky above, and even that was clouded over with the perpetual haze of the chimneys’ exhalations.
The size of the factory at this proximity was impressive. Although Margaret attempted to resist attributing this industrial glory to any one person, she could not help feeling a growing wonder and admiration for the power one must have to command such an enterprise.
A maid ushered them into a large, airy drawing room and left to call Mrs. Thornton to her guests.
Every surface seemed polished to glimmer in the light.
A massive table gleamed in the anteroom.
Shades of dim green covered the walls and the patterns of the upholstery.
The atmosphere was still, despite the muffled noise invading from the mill.
All was perfection and order, but without warmth.
Glass domes covered dried flowers. Not a thing showed that any living was done here.
It inevitably passed through Margaret’s mind that she would dislike living in such a home.
It expressed precisely the inhabitants’ excessive attention to order and efficiency, and particularly reflected Mrs. Thornton’s cool temperament.
She shuddered to think of being encased in such an environment.
The three of them turned to the long windows overlooking the mill yard, marveling at the sound of activity beyond the brick walls of the mill.
Mrs. Thornton entered with a rustling of her black bombazine skirts, and Fanny followed in a pale blue dress with layered ruffles and lace, her smile tenuous, like her mother’s.
Mr. Hale was introduced to the Thornton women, and they all took a seat.
Two neatly dressed servants brought in the tea trays.
Mrs. Hale eagerly examined with approval all the delicacies offered: almond cake with dusted sugar, custard tarts, finger sandwiches of several kinds, and the obligatory scones with clotted cream and jam.
The odor of sugary sweets mingled with the aroma of the steaming tea.
“Forgive me for asking, but I’ve always lived in more country settings. Do all the manufacturers live so very close to their places of industry?” Mrs. Hale asked, settling her skirts around her.
“I can’t say what other manufacturers do, I can only say that it is a very fine convenience for my son to live where he can watch carefully over all his operations,” Mrs. Thornton answered.
“Yes, I’m sure it must be so,” Mrs. Hale agreed, looking furtively at Margaret. “However, do you not find the noise to be…distracting?” she asked as she chose a few sandwiches for her plate.
“It is indeed a terrible distraction,” Fanny piped up, ignoring her mother’s frown. “In the summer, we must keep our windows open, and the clanking continues from dawn to dusk. Mr. Hamper has a very nice house just outside town, although he runs a cotton mill.”
“I find the industrious tenor here invigorating,” Mr. Hale interjected, uncomfortable with the strain developing in the conversation. “And there is a spirit of constant moving; the future is at one’s feet here,” he said, taking the teacup Mrs. Thornton offered him.
“Exactly so,” Mrs. Thornton answered, her chin lifting as she appraised the old vicar.
“My son is involved in forwarding the future of England. It is not all leisure and beauty here, I grant, but what the scale of production has accomplished here is the envy of the world. The sound of the working mill is a pleasure to me, for it reminds me of the great work being done.”
Mrs. Hale glanced at her daughter with a doubtful face, but Margaret accepted the words spoken as possible truth for such a proud mother.
“I must say I am impressed that a busy man such as Mr. Thornton makes the time to learn the classics.” Mr. Hale enthused. “I thoroughly enjoy our discussions.”
“I know he also enjoys it. However, I will confess that I did not approve of his taking up lessons when he should have only one focus: to maintain and grow his enterprise and its reputation around the world,” Mrs. Thornton returned.
Mr. Hale and Margaret exchanged a dubious glance before Mr. Hale bit into his scone.
“I see you doubt my statement, but you would hardly be expected to know that in faraway places, my son’s name is known and respected,” Mrs. Thornton coolly explained.
“Well, at any rate, I am pleased he comes. In my opinion, it is good for the intellect and the soul to attend to the vigor of philosophy and moral conscience. One can’t always be fixated on business,” he replied somewhat cautiously, with an encouraging smile.
Mrs. Thornton appeared unmoved.
Mr. Hale cleared his throat. “I hope Mr. Thornton will continue to make it to his lessons with me. I’m sorry he could not make it this week. I hope he will be able to come next Thursday?” he ended with a query, setting his empty teacup down.
Mrs. Thornton reached for the silver teapot to refill her guest’s cup.
“My son’s time is valuable, and his priority is the running of the mill.
There have been developments in the cotton market that require his attention.
Disturbances regarding the possible extension of slavery in America to other states have caused many here to call for curtailing our connection to American suppliers,” she answered.
“You see now how John is not merely overseeing matters here in Milton, but must necessarily be involved in far-reaching connections of worldwide importance,” she asserted, sitting even straighter in her chair.
“Yes, I see,” Mr. Hale responded. “And I assume that a change in cotton supply may likely increase the cost of cotton,” he posed.
“Indeed, and higher costs mean lower profits and possibly lower wages for the workers. And then there will be threats of strikes, the masses wanting to take control and overthrow the masters in their ignorance,” Mrs. Thornton stated, her face stony in her vehemence.
“Strikes?” Margaret said with surprise, setting her teacup down with a gentle clink. “But are not strikes prone to violent outbreaks? I have heard talk of their danger in London.”
Mrs. Thornton smiled with grim pleasure at the girl’s distressed tone. “Yes, Miss Hale. You must be brave and strong to live in Milton, where the battle between masters and men is ongoing. I myself witnessed a strike in my earlier years in which men threw stones.”
“Oh, how horrible!” Mrs. Hale exclaimed, shrinking from the very thought of such a scene.
Mr. Hale, too, was alarmed. “Well, I hope men of good conscience can avert such a strike from happening.”
“The workers are all ungrateful beasts, always demanding more than what they’re given,” Fanny added. She was taking tiny bites of almond cake with her fork.
“Have you lived all your life here in Milton, Mrs. Thornton?” Mrs. Hale inquired.
“Except for a few years after my husband’s death, I have indeed lived here and seen the rise of this town to greatness.”
The sound of footsteps alerted them to the entrance of Mr. Thornton.
“I’m sorry to intrude. I cannot stay, but I wished to welcome you to our home.” His eyes met Margaret’s for a moment. Her heart thumped, and her cheeks grew warm.