Chapter 24 #2
Margaret sat several people away from Mr. Thornton, who sat at the head of the table, while Mrs. Thornton sat at the other end.
The fare was opulent, for Mrs. Thornton spared no expense for this yearly dinner party.
Mrs. Hale would later talk of the quantity of oysters, pheasant, various cheeses and puddings served, but all Margaret could think of at present was what would be done with all the uneaten quantities of food.
The memory of the Boucher family’s desperation was never far from her mind.
Conversation turned to topics relevant to the manufacturing men in attendance. They talked of the growing turbulence in America over slavery, Commodore Perry’s venture to Japan, and the progress of growing cotton in India.
These men discussed national and global events as participants, and not merely as spectators and judges as they did in London.
Although he was clearly the younger mill owner, it appeared to Margaret that the balding and graying heads around the table looked to Mr. Thornton as the one with superior knowledge and strategies. She studied him when she thought no one would notice.
The place of honor he held in this room mesmerized her.
He, the shop-boy who had suffered great tragedy and suffered years of poverty.
And now—he could revel in his victory over all that would have crushed others to the ground.
His commanding presence set him apart from all the rest. And deep inside her, something quivered at the thought of becoming his wife.
Was she in love with him? She could not know for certain.
Bessy’s talk of marriage had stirred her to examine her feelings.
As she studied him again while he talked to others, noting the curve of his mouth, the flash of a brilliant smile, the intelligent furrow of his brow, she realized no one else in this entire town—in this whole empire—would ever fascinate her as he did.
She stayed in dazed realization of this for a moment until a chortle from Mr. Henderson at her elbow interrupted her reverie.
The conversation inevitably turned to the strike. Mr. Horsfield, a dignitary of some sort who was visiting Milton, asked how long the masters supposed it would last.
Mr. Slickson gave a sidelong glance to Mr. Thornton before offering his presumption. “It will be over in a matter of a few days, mark my words.”
“I imagine their bellies are fairly empty by now,” Mr. Hamper added, with a triumphant tone. “Two weeks is a long time to get by on whatever pittance their Union can give them. Hunger is our best weapon. A man’s stubborn intentions grow weak when his stomach is growling.”
Grunts and hums of agreement followed.
Margaret was appalled. “But what about their children?” she burst out.
The room fell silent. Eyebrows raised as diners glanced at each other across the table. Mr. Bell smirked in admiration, while her parents wore cautious expressions.
All eyes fastened first on Margaret and then upon the dinner’s host.
Mr. Thornton set the glass he held in his hand down before meeting Margaret’s eyes with pained deliberation. “Their parents are at liberty to return to work at any time. We standby ready to pay wages for men who will work,” he replied with smooth coolness.
“Hear, hear!” agreed Mr. Hamper while others noised their approval.
“But do you not see that they are the ones who suffer most? They are innocent, and yet they are caught up in this…this game of stubborn refusal to come to terms with one another!” she countered in exasperation before bowing her head to gain control of herself, her chest heaving.
A flare of conscience—or was it pain?—made Mr. Thornton lower his eyes. His expression hardened, his mouth a tight straight line, while everyone looked to him for his reply.
His voice was low and even as he made his reply. “The hands decided to strike, knowing perfectly well it would entail suffering of some kind. We are not obligated to comply with their demands.”
Margaret gave him a quick glare in response.
“I’m certain we all hope a resolution will quickly end the strike,” Mr. Hale offered, trying to shift the conversation to more positive topics.
Mr. Thornton glanced at Margaret as general conversation resumed, but she kept her gaze lowered.
The rest of the dinner was torture for Margaret. She ate in silence and moved to the upstairs drawing room with the rest of the ladies afterwards, but stood aloof from their gossip and boasts. Her mother, however, was happy to engage in such frivolous talk.
Margaret’s stomach tightened as the men rejoined them. Mr. Thornton caught her eye, and she watched him say a few words in passing to others as he made his way to where she stood, aloof from the others.
“You are not enjoying the conversation here?” he asked, in a bemused estimation of her boredom.
“If only I were interested in Mrs. Hamper’s new parlor curtains or what Bertha Simmonds wore to church last Sunday, I should be enraptured,” she returned with a smile, relieved to engage in a light-hearted manner with him.
She noticed a few glances from others directed their way.
“I suppose I’m more interested in subjects of far more importance, such as the ones that were discussed at dinner,” she continued.
His expression grew solemn. “I’m sorry our talk of the strike disturbed you. You must understand that our position is based upon the logic of our calculations—in order to keep the mills in operation. We are not responsible for how the workers will respond to our decisions.”
Margaret drew herself up, her soul rebelling against his cold reasoning when speaking of his workers.
“But it is everyone’s moral responsibility to take care of children who are starving.
And I believe that as one having so much power over others, you have a responsibility to find a way to communicate with them as human beings, not as some extension of your machinery to be ignored. ”
Some distance away, Mrs. Thornton’s eyes grew wide in alarm as she observed Miss Hale take on a sparring stance with her son from afar.
“What would you have me do?” he retorted with barely controlled vehemence, leaning closer to keep their conversation private.
“Well, I certainly would not hire replacements, as I believe I overheard you are planning to do. These workers toil in your factories for years, and yet you treat them as nothing and give their work to others!”
“I will not stand by while my mill goes to ruin—“
“Yet you will stand by and allow children to go hungry and their parents to go mad with desperation. I saw such a family today, whose infant can no longer cry normally for starvation—all while you pile delicacies in front of your fellow masters!” she returned, her blood hot in righteous fury.
Their raised voices caused heads to turn in their direction.
Embarrassed to be caught thus, they softened their hardened postures, and Mr. Thornton turned to engage in conversation with others.
Mr. Bell came to Margaret’s side to deflect scrutiny. He himself had seen their private arguing. It had struck him they had appeared as husband and wife, so intense seemed their connection in their apparent bickering. The possibility of such a match intrigued him greatly.
Margaret’s subdued mood thereafter made it difficult for her to smile politely the rest of the evening. When it was time to take their leave, she said goodbye with scarcely a glance at Mr. Thornton. She was certain that others noticed the unresolved tension between them.
Settled in the coach, Margaret felt tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. Conflicting flares of anger and disappointment troubled her heart.
Riding with them to his hotel, Mr. Bell divined the reason for her somber expression and gave her a crooked smile of compassion.
As they rode through the streets in the dark, Margaret began thinking out loud. “Mr. Bell, if you are Mr. Thornton’s landlord, he does not own his land, or the factory?”
“I own the land and the buildings, including his home. He owns the machinery and all that may be within,” he answered.
Margaret was silent for a moment as she digested this. “If Mr. Thornton must pay for use of the property, that will affect his profits,” she reasoned.
“Indeed, my dear. He must balance his profits against a host of costs: cotton, coal, machinery, and of course the wages of his workers. I don’t envy the man’s work at all. The computation of all the figures involved would have my head spinning,” he explained.
“Yes, I see,” Margaret quietly replied, still considering the magnitude of what Mr. Thornton must be responsible for.
A new conjecture entered her mind. “But who will own the land when you are gone?” she blurted out, realizing as soon as the words came out how indelicate the query was. “I’m sorry, I was only thinking that since you have not married—“
“Yes, yes. I see your point. But do not hurry me to my grave!” he teased.
“As I have no progeny, it would only be natural to wonder who should inherit old Adam Bell’s wealth.
I suppose now is as good a time as any to reveal my intentions.
My holdings will be given over to you, my dear,” he stated, looking straight at Margaret.
A huff of incredulity escaped her throat. She smiled broadly at his jest until she caught the seriousness in his demeanor. “You cannot mean…”
“Indeed, I mean to do so, and have intended such for some time. And now that I have seen the scampering little girl all grown up, I am more certain than ever of my decision.”
“Oh, Mr. Bell!” Mrs. Hale exclaimed. “You are too kind!”
“Nothing of the sort. It is a very practical decision. I must delineate an heir, and I have chosen the nearest of kin that I have,” he stated, not wanting a shower of effusion poured upon him.
The thought of Bessy’s prediction that she should be an instrument in bringing some kind of peace between masters and men recurred to Margaret.
Perhaps it would happen differently than Bessy had imagined.
For if she owned Marlborough Mills, she might have influence in its operations in that way.
Marriage to Mr. Thornton would not be the sole avenue to such ends.
This reasoning did nothing, however, to relieve an underlying discontent that weighed upon her. What was it that disturbed her so? She told herself it was the masters’ stubborn indifference to the conditions of their workers. But there was more than this that upset her.
She could not discern the precise reason a few tears trickled down her cheeks in the darkness; she only felt that everything had turned out wrong. Happiness seemed always out of reach here.
Mr. Thornton gruffly tugged at his cravat in the dim candlelight of his bedchamber. The evening had started with so much promise—only to turn into more impassioned arguing between them! He cast off his waistcoat and pulled off his shirt impatiently.
She refused to understand his position, taking only the view of the workers from her contact with that Higgins man. He paced from his wardrobe to the dressing table for a few moments with his fists curled tightly.
He stopped to stoop and splash some cool water on his face, taking a measure to soothe himself. As he patted the moisture with a towel, his thought traveled back to the moment he had first glimpsed her this evening. He had expected to admire her beauty, but he had not expected to be stricken by it.
He had seen her in an evening gown once before, but this time an intoxicating ripple of desire coursed through him every time he looked at her. The way her dress clung to her voluptuous form, her lithe throat, the exposed shoulders, the teasing curve of her breasts—called to him as a Siren.
When he had taken her down to dinner, he had exulted in every moment of their pairing. The touch of her arm on his was a scintillating pleasure. All else around them was naught but the two of them. All was as it should be.
Until she had spoken against him concerning the workers’ children.
He remembered how those intelligent eyes had flashed fire at him as they had argued after dinner.
And even as she challenged him—perhaps more so because of it—her bare shoulders and the soft flesh of her bosom drove him almost to distraction.
He had wanted nothing more than to sweep her into his arms and carry her upstairs right then and there.
He hung his head, gripping the bureau in front of him at this onslaught of this torturous yearning to make her his own.
He wondered whether he was mad. Surely, it would not be rational to want her when she did not return his love.
But all his reasonings did nothing to assuage the constant ache that plagued him and that only she could cure.