Margaret of Milton

by Elaine Owen

  MARGARET OF MILTON

  A NORTH AND SOUTH VARIATION

  ELAINE OWEN

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Elaine Owen, 2020

  Margaret of Milton is meant to be read on its own, but it is based on the novel North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell. The reader may find it helpful to read that book first, or to watch the 2004 BBC movie adaptation.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  It was time. The minister was waiting for her at the front of the church. So was Mr. Thornton, her groom. Hannah Thornton, his mother, was there, along with Fanny, his sister. In a moment she would walk down the aisle, take Mr. Thornton's hand in hers, and promise to love, honor, and obey him for as long as she lived. Nicholas Higgins was there, along with a few of the masters, but besides these few there were no other witnesses.

  Margaret Hale looked down at her dress and drew in a deep breath for courage. It was white, the color currently favored by fashionable Londoners for a wedding dress, but it was edged with black to symbolize her mourning. Her father had only been dead for ten days. If only he had been here to help her make her decision! But it was really no decision at all; she had no choice but to marry Mr. Thornton. She had no relatives to open their homes and give her shelter. Her aunt and cousin were on the continent and were not coming home for years. Her brother Frederick was in exile in Cadiz, and her father's oldest friend, Mr. Bell, had given her no support. She could not live alone and still be considered a respectable woman.

  The minister cleared his throat and looked at her meaningfully, a subtle nudge down the aisle. She took another deep breath, smoothed her skirts once, and moved forward, keeping her chin high. Even if this marriage was not her choice, even if her husband did not love her, she was marrying a good man, one who was noble and willing to fulfill a promise made to a friend. He would give her a home and his last name, and she would maintain that home and promote his role in society.

  Margaret moved steadily and purposefully down the aisle, feeling suddenly shy in the face of such a solemn ceremony. Mr. Thornton — she must remember to call him his given name, John, after this — was standing motionless as he watched her. His eyes were serious; his mouth had no expression. He might have been carved in stone except that as she came to his side, he reached out and took her hand in his. Margaret could feel his warmth and strength through her glove and for a moment she felt glad to stand so close to him. She looked up and offered him a small, shy smile. He nodded once, an acknowledgment, and faced forward, not looking at her once as he repeated his vows during the short ceremony.

  And so they were married.

  CHAPTER ONE

  A few weeks earlier

  To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

  A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

  A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;

  A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

  A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

  A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;

  A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

  A time to love . . . .

  Richard Hale, former rector of the Helstone church and now serving as a tutor in the northern town of Milton, read the familiar Bible passage and smiled wistfully.

  Though he was no longer a minister of the Gospel, the words still bestowed on him the comfort of their simple, direct truth. Hale made a point of reading from the Bible every day, followed by treatises from some of his favorite philosophers: Aristotle, Plato, Aquinas, Locke, and many others. The Bible nourished his soul and the philosophers nourished his mind. Both were as necessary to him as air, for Hale believed quite firmly that what built up one of these faculties would inevitably strengthen the other. To him there was no contradiction between divine revelation and the brightest, most inspired learning of men. He did his best to learn all he could of both.

  It was a shame that more people in this busy manufacturing town of Milton did not give either their souls or their minds much attention. Most of them simply did not have the time.

  There were two sorts of men living and working in Milton, Hale had decided after careful observation. Most of the men were ordinary workers, who spent long hours daily in one of the factories that dominated the principal town of the district. Life for these souls was a trial, an unceasing round of tedious hours spent behind one machine or another, working for a master. Their labor was mostly manual and was paid for by fixed hourly wages, wages that were usually enough to keep bread on the table and perhaps afford new clothes occasionally, but rarely more than that. They had no time for either spiritual or academic enlightenment.

  The other sort of men, the masters, had enough leisure time for whatever they wished to pursue, but they lacked the desire. Rich in material goods and determined to make themselves even richer, they had no need nor hunger for anything else. Some of them had, indeed, acquired enough learning to add occasional comments on a subject in their club, or perhaps while drinking whiskey after dinner with other important men. They knew enough to nod sagely when Hale quoted Aristotle, "The whole is greater than the sum of its parts," but they could not explain what the axiom really meant. Nor did many of them appreciate the Biblical admonition, "The love of money is the root of all evil." No, in all this town, truly sympathetic minds were hard to find. And once found, it was painful to lose such fellowship.

  John Thornton had been just such a man.

  "Margaret," Hale said, setting aside his Bible for the moment to address his daughter, "I have what may seem to be an impertinent question. Feel free to leave it unanswered if you wish. But I wonder: do you have any reason to believe Mr. Thornton ever cared for you?"

  Margaret Hale, folding table linens on the dining room table, started and nearly dropped the towel she was holding. The question was surprising and yet somehow expected. She should h
ave known that sooner or later her father would begin to question why John Thornton, the mill master who had become one of her father's closest friends, was choosing to spend less and less time at the Hale family home.

  Eventually Margaret managed to compose herself enough to nod briefly in response to her father's question. "Yes, Father, I believe he did."

  "Did he propose to you?" Mr. Hale asked, surprised.

  Margaret hesitated, then nodded.

  "And you refused him?" Mr. Hale felt his heart sink.

  "I did not see how I could do otherwise. I am sorry, Father. I ought to have told you."

  "There is nothing to be sorry for, Margaret. I am sure you were honest with him, and that is what matters. I did wonder why he was not coming here for lessons on Greek philosophy as often as he used to. He always seems to have a reason not to come now." The old tutor turned to gaze out the window at nothing in particular.

  "There was so much else going on, with Mother's illness," Margaret began apologetically, but her father stopped her.

  "No, no, you did nothing wrong. I should have realized . . . but I had no suspicion until Mr. Bell started asking questions about the two of you. I thought John was only here to study." He gave her a sad smile.

  Margaret felt a surge of remorse. Her father had enjoyed discussing the ancient classics with the intelligent owner of Marlborough Mills and now that avenue was closed to him. Mr. Hale continued, "If his presence makes you feel uncomfortable, Margaret, I will ask him to stay away. I can meet him somewhere else for our lessons."

  Margaret shook her head. "No, Father. You have so few friends in this town. I will manage."

  "I hope you were kind in your refusal." It was more a statement than a question. "I would not want to see John hurt."

  She folded a dish towel and smoothed it with her hand to avoid meeting her father's gaze. "I have done nothing that I would not do again, Father."

  There was a long pause, during which time Hale gazed out the window again, his expression troubled. His fingertips beat a restless rhythm on the tabletop. At length he turned back to his daughter.

  "Hadn't you begun to think more kindly of Thornton, Margaret? I even thought, at one time, that you might be starting to have a favorable view of him."

  "Mr. Thornton proposed some time ago," Margaret answered, "before Mother – went away." Her voice broke for a moment and she paused to regain control. "Since then, my opinion of him has changed somewhat. I have come to value his friendship, especially since I know what that friendship means to you. But I do not love him in the way he loves me."

  Her father's eyes softened. "So he told you that he loves you."

  The memory flashed into Margaret's mind, as vividly as if Thornton were standing here before her now. "You look as if you thought it tainted you to be loved by me. You cannot avoid it. Nay, I, if I would, cannot cleanse you from it. But I would not, if I could. I have never loved any woman before: my life has been too busy, my thoughts too much absorbed with other things. Now I love, and will love. But do not be afraid of too much expression on my part."

  Oh, yes, he had loved her once. She had heard love, passionate love, in the fervent words he had spoken the day he offered himself to her. She had sensed something of its depth in the tears in his eyes when he turned away after her rejection. But that love was gone now. Margaret knew he looked at her differently since seeing her on the train platform at Outwood Station that night.

  "A man like John does not give his heart lightly, Margaret. If you could learn to care for him, he would be a most excellent husband for you. He has a clever mind and an upright character – "

  "But I do not care for him, Father, and so the rest does not matter," Margaret broke in hastily. "Even if I were to come to feel differently, it would make no difference. A woman can hardly go to a man and tell him that she has changed her mind, can she?" She smiled at her father playfully, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

  "No, I suppose you are right," Mr. Hale said regretfully. "Still, I wish things had turned out differently for you, Margaret. What will happen to you when I am gone, if you have no husband to support you? What will you do? You would not want to live with Frederick in Spain, would you?"

  Her father was speaking of her older brother, who had been involved in a mutiny at sea and forced to flee England for Spain. He had recently married a Spanish girl, Dolores, and expressed a desire to renounce any tie between him and his native country. Margaret thought it unlikely they would ever see each other again.

  "Nothing will happen to you, Father, for many years yet," she answered with forced brightness. "And when it does, if I need to I can make my home with Aunt Shaw, or even Cousin Edith and her husband."

  "Perhaps you might be willing to reconsider your answer to Mr. Thornton," her father began, but Margaret broke in hastily.

  "I am not worried for the future, nor should you be. Now, since I am finished with this folding, let us go into your little room and read together until dinner. We will let the future sort itself out."

  Hale nodded at his daughter and agreed. Margaret gathered the linens in her arms and walked out of the room, putting a firm end to the conversation.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Across town at approximately the same time, John Thornton, the stern and hardened master of Marlborough Mills, was unaware of eyes that rested on him.

  Hannah Thornton, John's mother, had come to the mill that afternoon in order to bring her son something to eat. Thornton was so dedicated to his work that it was not unusual for him to labor straight through the lunch hour without stopping, a habit Hannah found alarming, especially on days when he had not bothered with breakfast. So here she was, with her heavy basket on her arm. Thornton would protest the interruption but she would insist. After that she might perhaps go around the floor of the factory and help her son by surveying the efforts of his laborers and resolving small matters that did not need his personal attention. But before she left Thornton's office she was determined to tell him something she should have told him weeks ago. He would protest this as well but in the end her will would prevail. It usually did.

  As Hannah stood in the doorway of the mill office, watching, Thornton copied sums from one book of accounts into the pages of a larger ledger. This, she knew, was her son's way of tracking the finances of his business, recording all transactions twice and using the resulting sums to check for errors. It was an intelligent and thoroughly modern way to maintain financial records for a business enterprise, but it required concentration and careful attention to detail. She almost regretted interrupting him.

  While Hannah watched, Thornton's brow furrowed and he drew a weary hand over his eyes, closing them briefly. He had been working without rest, she knew, since before sunrise. "John," she finally called, advancing into the room, "I have brought you your noon meal. Stop working for a few minutes and eat something.”

  Thornton looked up at his mother with an inscrutable expression. "I am not hungry."

  "I insist that you eat. You had nothing for breakfast."

  "I had to leave early so that I could supervise shipments going on the first train to Liverpool," Thornton countered, looking down at his books again. "I have no time to waste."

  "What are you working on now?"

  "I am reviewing the list of orders paid in the last two weeks and adding them to the sums in the general ledger. After that I will need to visit the bank to arrange a payment for the equipment we purchased last year."

  "Will you be able to make the payment on time?" Money had been tight at Marlborough Mills ever since the strike that had ended late last summer. Thornton and the other masters of Milton had won the battle with their workers, but the cost to everyone had been immense.

  He nodded tersely. "This month, yes. Next month we may not be so fortunate."

  "Then you have done all you can for now. Put your books aside and eat. You cannot go without food for a month while you worry over something you cannot change."

  Thornton he
ard the steel in his mother's voice and sighed, pushing the ledgers away from him. He knew she would not stop pressing her case until he gave in. And secretly he appreciated her fussing over him, in the same way a young boy complains at being told to stop playing but comes to the dinner table anyway.

  Hannah sat heavily on the chair across from the massive desk as Thornton inspected the contents of the basket she handed over. She studied his face while he ate, wondering how to begin the conversation she knew he would find objectionable. It was probably best to start with something relatively simple and straightforward, nothing that would make him suspect her true motive for coming here today. "How is the mill doing, John?" she asked. "Have we recovered from the strike?"

  "Yes – and no," he answered with a frown. "The mill is fully operational, as you know, with every loom in production. We have plenty of orders on hand. But some of our buyers have not been paying their bills on time, and the cost of cotton continues to rise. Our margins are thinner than ever before."

  "You have a reserve of capital to see the business through hard times, do you not?" she probed. She was unaware of the specifics, but she knew the general outlines of how Thornton had structured his business.

  "The strike drew our reserves down considerably, and the rest of my capital is wrapped up in the new machinery. I was counting on maintaining a certain level of production in order to pay off the debt according to schedule. The strike ruined that plan. But I think we have enough to see us through for now," Thornton answered. He hated giving Hannah any reason to worry. "We will get past this, Mother. All businesses go through their trying times. Now, tell me the real reason you came here today. I know you too well. You could have sent a servant with the food." He smiled mischievously at her, daring her to contradict him.

  Hannah acknowledged the truth of the statement with a small huff. She should have known she could not fool her son. "Fanny and her Mr. Watson are engaged."