Chapter 14
Chapter fourteen
As she sat up in bed, Margaret swept aside her curtain to see the landscape below and the sky above were as bleak as ever.
She longed for Helstone mostly in the quiet mornings, when beams of sunlight had angled through her windows to cast a yellow glow to her room and birds chirruped merrily to greet the day.
The signs of coming rain could not be gathered as readily here as they could at home, for the sky in Milton was never-ending gray.
But as she gazed at the clouds above in her melancholy mood, they seemed darker than ever, casting deeper shadows in the crevices and moldings of the buildings across the street.
She lingered in bed, not wanting to start the long day ahead of her.
Even with Martha’s help today, Margaret would likely be called to assist in preparing for Mr. Thornton’s arrival this evening.
The thought of him coming was enough to create a disquieting stir within, which she hoped would be quelled by keeping mind and body occupied with the tasks of cleaning, ironing, or baking.
And all the while, her mother must be entertained and tended to.
Margaret’s anxious thoughts turned to her mother’s welfare.
Ever since they had arrived in Milton, her mother had fallen to one ailment after another.
Margaret had at first attributed this distressed condition to a natural sullenness at being brought to a place she did not relish.
But as the weeks went by, her mother slipped deeper into a lassitude and feebleness that worried her.
If her father had perceived this concerning decline, he had not spoken of it. And she knew that even if he had noticed, he would likely push it far from his mind—telling himself that she would improve as the weather grew kinder. Perhaps he was right.
Margaret sighed, sweeping aside these depressing thoughts as she pushed her bedcovers aside and swung her legs to the floor. She would make the best of it, for all their sakes.
Mr. Thornton set his ledger aside, weary of studying the numbers on the page. In truth, his calculating powers had lost their luster today. He looked up at the grand clock on the brick wall of his office, a testament to the superlative value he placed on time efficiency.
But time was his enemy on this particular day.
From the minute he had woken this morning to the moment he walked into his workspace, the thought of his engagement with the Hales that evening conjured distracting images to mind.
The anticipation of being in her presence was pure pleasure, but the eagerness to know how she would receive him was the torture that kept his jaw set and made him unable to stay in his chair for any great length of time.
If the workers noticed that the Master made the rounds of his factory more often than was his custom, no one would ever wager the reason.
At last, when the whistle sounded at the end of the day and the workers streamed from their workaday home, Mr. Thornton grasped his own coat and headed out in their wake.
Mrs. Thornton heard her son’s quick footsteps before he entered the room. She kept to her embroidery work.
“Remember that I am to take tea at the Hales’ tonight, Mother,” he told her.
She put her work down onto her lap, catching the tone of eagerness in his voice with a sense of dread.
She still did not see what attraction Miss Hale held over him and worried that the girl did not appreciate who it was who was paying attention to her.
“Yes, I remember it well, as Martha was lent to them this day for your visit.”
“I must go dress. It is nearly six o’clock.”
“Surely you don’t need to dress for a country parson,” she returned, wishing he would not let his intentions toward this family show so much.
“You know well why I must,” he replied, unable to keep a shy smile from lightening his face as he bent to kiss her cheek.
Mrs. Thornton sighed as she watched his figure disappear into the darkness.
She resented Miss Hale for having disturbed their steady pattern of life.
Now, a ripple of uncertainty unsettled the atmosphere of their home.
This was uncharted territory; she felt the possibility of lurking danger to her son’s heart.
It would have been better for John to have taken an interest in some Milton girl, such as Violet Grayson, who would have surely known the honor it would be to be chosen as his wife.
She prayed this evening tea would turn out well—for John’s sake.
As for herself, she began to wish these Hales had never come to Milton.
Rain pattered on Mr. Thornton’s hat as he briskly weaved his way through the throng of people rushing to their destinations.
Nothing would dissuade him, however, from walking the remaining mile to the Crampton row house.
Nor would a little rain wipe away the trace of a smile on his face as he headed closer to the place he most wanted to be.
This would be the first time he would see her in her own surroundings, for she never appeared when he came for his lessons on Thursdays—although each time he hoped he would catch a glimpse of her.
And now, he would be at leisure to converse at length with her to see how she was finding Milton—if she could be satisfied to make her home here, far from the calm and beauty of the countryside which she had known all her life.
Arriving at last at their doorstep, his ringing of the bell brought not the object of his attraction but the lumbering maid, who ushered him in and took his dripping hat and overcoat.
“They’re expecting you upstairs, in the drawing room—if you please,” Dixon said, directing him with a gesture to the stairs as she hung his things in the hallway.
His anticipation of a pleasant evening rose uncontrollably as he ascended the creaking stairs of their simple home.
Mr. Hale welcomed him into the warm room, where a crackling fire cast shadows on the walls. The smell of sugary sweetness and candle wax filled the air. The curtains were not drawn closed, perhaps a country habit left unaltered by their new location.
Margaret was busy at the tea table. Their eyes met briefly, but she turned quickly back to her teacups, and he smiled to notice her cheeks turning pink.
He was so fascinated by the way a tendril of hair brushed her cheek as she leaned to pour that he scarcely understood what Mrs. Hale was saying to him.
Mrs. Hale mentioned the inclement weather, and he replied politely about his hardiness.
But his attention returned to Margaret, who was now serving her father tea.
In a gesture that must have been a playful custom between them, Mr. Hale took his daughter’s hand in his and used her forefinger and thumb as his tongs to pick up a sugar cube.
The look of love and laughter she gave to him made Mr. Thornton’s whole being pulse with a deep yearning to earn such a look from her.
Next, she poured for him. Their eyes met again, and he took in the full measure of her beauty, her full lips just parted and the lithe neck, the soft curve of her nose and the shapely form of her figure.
He took pains to refrain from touching her as she handed him his tea, but her own finger brushed his by chance, and he heard the quick intake of breath at her surprise at this briefest of contact.
He could not help imagining her pouring tea in his own home, with the right to reach up and sweep his thumb across the delicate skin of her cheek to brush that tendril of hair back.
A question Mr. Hale had asked him about machinery jolted him back to the present situation.
“My looms are new. I invested in the latest advances to be prepared for the future. If the American market will not flood ours, we will be in a position to do very well,” he answered, stepping into a discussion of business with alacrity.
“Of course, there is always risk involved in any business enterprise, and I may just as well find myself deposed of all my hard labor if circumstances abruptly change the market. Such is the natural cycle of markets,” he continued.
“If I may ask,” Mrs. Hale began, “How did you come to be in the cotton-making business? Did your father run the mill before you?” she innocently asked.
Mr. Hale shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
Margaret looked up from her teacup to study Mr. Thornton, who only smiled calmly at the question.
“My father was a clerk. He died when I was still in school. And so I was left to provide for my family.”
“Mr. Bell says you learned your trade from the Master before you at your mill,” Margaret interjected, meeting his eyes a moment to signal her awareness of the deeper story.
“Yes,” he answered slowly, comprehending her desire to keep the conversation on a lighter strain for her mother’s sake.
“I am sorry you had such trouble,” Mrs. Hale offered with an expression of sympathy.
“Thank you. However, grave circumstances give men an opportunity to strive to better themselves. My mother was a rock for me at this time, giving me a path forward in practicing diligence, self-control, and determination with such efficiency as to enable me to take hold of the position of power which I now possess. Had I had a life of relative ease, I would not be where I am today,” he explained.
“I can see that you present a model for others to follow, where they may look to you for how to conduct their own lives,” Mr. Hale added.
“This is exactly so. And I do not mean to suggest that I possess abilities beyond the common man, but I propose to be only proof that any man might utilize his own natural capacity to govern himself in such a way as to adhere to the strict principles which may free him from the destructive paths of careless ease, self-indulgence, and aimless purpose,” Mr. Thornton replied in earnestness.