by Elaine Owen
“They’re mine now,” Higgins answered, looking at Thornton evenly. He offered no further information.
“They were Boucher’s children,” Margaret clarified, moving to the small table in the room. “You remember Boucher, don’t you? After he passed away Nicholas took in his children. He has been raising them ever since.”
Six young lives depended on this one man. Thornton again looked around at the cramped, spartan conditions, wondering how Higgins managed it. Higgins had been without proper work since the end of the strike months earlier, even though he had been to nearly all of the masters looking for a position. None of the mills were willing to hire a known strike organizer; Higgins was effectively blackballed. It was this very despair at being blackballed and unable to provide for his children that had driven Boucher to take his own life.
“I would ha' told you 'bout Boucher’s children yesterday, master, if I could ha' spoken t' you.” Higgins looked at Thornton knowingly, and suddenly Thornton recalled that Higgins had tried to approach him the day before to ask for work. He had utterly forgotten about the man until this moment.
“Were you at Marlborough Mills yesterday, Higgins?” Margaret asked curiously, glancing at him over her shoulder. Her hands were busy opening the basket and withdrawing a number of wrapped items, which she placed on the wooden table. “I was there in the early afternoon but I did not see you.”
“I were there fro' eight in the morn till past two, miss, waitin' t' ‘ear 'bout a job.”
Margaret did not pause in her work. “I’m sure Mr. Thornton would have spoken with you if he had known you wanted to see him. Did you announce yourself at the gate?”
Thornton winced. He had assumed that Higgins had left the mill after Huely told him Thornton was too busy to see him. What possessed the man to stay for so long after he had been turned away?
He had to intervene before Higgins made things worse. He took a step towards Higgins, trying to look contrite. “I was not aware you were waiting so long to speak to me, Higgins. I should have given you an audience at once.”
Higgins looked shrewdly between him and Margaret. “Tweren’t nothin' I’m not used to. The masters don’t care much fo' me, nor I fo' them, I reckon.”
“You waited all that time to see Mr. Thornton, yet you were not able to speak to him?” Now Margaret was looking incredulously between the two men.
“As I said, it was my mistake.” Thornton hoped desperately that Margaret would believe him. “If you come to the mill tomorrow we can talk then.”
“But you are together, here, already,” Margaret objected. “Can you not speak together now?”
“Only if t'would be convenient fo' the master.” There was a glint in Higgins’ eye, and Thornton realized he was cornered.
“I believe you wanted a job, did you not?” he asked, resigning himself to the inevitable.
Higgins spoke earnestly, eagerly. “Aye, I want a job all right. I’ve a steady ‘and and I’m a’ ard worker. Ask anyone – they’ll tell ye I’ve always put in my hours fair.”
“I know your work by reputation, Higgins. I’m not worried about your ability with a loom, but I do wonder what you’ll do for the union on company time,” he said challengingly. He half expected Margaret to object to this statement, but she stayed quiet, watching the two men carefully.
“I’ll do nowt wit t' union while I’m earning wages fro' ye, and that’s the truth. But I can’t answer what I’ll be doin’ at night. Off company time what I do is my own business, I reckon.” Higgins didn’t back down from the challenge.
“You are right about that. What you do off hours is none of my concern.”
“I’ll give yo fair warnin' if there’s any complaints being made 'bout ye, and tell ye if there’s any mischief bein' planned. Yo’ll get no surprises fro' me.”
“You’ll warn me so that I can bring myself up to your union standards? Thank you, but no. I’ll not answer to the union for how I run my mill.” Thornton was used to hearing threats couched as promises.
“’At’s not what I meant,” Higgins said, looking aggrieved. “I’m not lookin' to cause trouble, but to head it off 'efore it gets to anythin' as mean and nasty as a strike again. Yo can see for yo'self I’ve plenty of mouths t' feed. I need the work. Yo can count on me, master, sure as yo name is John Thornton.”
“Well! You’ve no end of cheek, I can count on that, at least,” Thornton answered, still watching the other man with narrowed gaze. He was not sure whether to be offended or amused by the man’s impertinence.
“Do we 'ave an arrangement, then? Can I come t' Marlborough Mills and run a loom fo’ ye?”
Margaret had still not spoken but stood silently by, watching. Thornton had not forgotten her presence, but he was more interested in evaluating the man in front of him. After months of railing against Higgins and the other strike organizers in his mind, he found that his anger had dissipated. The man was bold, yes, but also principled. Despite their past history Thornton had to admit a grudging respect for him. He wrestled with himself for a moment, remembering the trouble Higgins had caused him, but at last he extended his hand.
“Come sharp to first shift tomorrow and present yourself to Huely again. If he likes you he’ll give you a place. But mind you come sharp, or there will be nothing for you. Now you know where you are.”
“I know me place well 'nough already,” Higgins confirmed. “I’ll be there, master, and I’ll thank ye fo' t' chance.” This time the two men did not need Margaret’s encouragement to seal their agreement.
Thornton and Margaret did not stay for long after this exchange. The children swarmed to the table after Margaret finished unwrapping the foodstuffs and small sweetmeats she had assembled, and it was clear that their attention was directed by their hunger. Tonight, at least, they had a chance of going to sleep with full stomachs.
Higgins was as grateful as any man could be, both for the contents of the basket and for the job Thornton had given him. He was not an effusive man; years of rough work had made him coarse and broad, not apt to fine speeches and expressions of gratitude. But his manner towards Thornton warmed considerably, and by the time they left Thornton felt that the icy anger between the union and Marlborough Mills might have started to thaw. The union would never look to Thornton or any other master as a friend, but some of the bitterness of the strike had finally been set aside.
As they walked back towards Marlborough Mills together Thornton looked down at his wife. “Was it your idea for Higgins to ask me for a job, or did he decide to approach me on his own?”
“I have not seen him since our wedding, but Mary told me how he was struggling, and I sent him a note saying that I was sure you would give him a fair hearing.”
He had to be honest with her. “You almost proved me wrong. I thought he was only there on behalf of the union, to cause trouble.”
She frowned slightly at his admission but said nothing. He continued. “Without your intervention I would have carried out a great injustice. Thank you for saving me from my own stubbornness.”
“You would have given him a hearing sooner or later. You are a very fair man.”
“You give me too much credit.”
“I think you do not give yourself enough.” Margaret looked up at him with her mouth upturned slightly. Thornton saw that her eyes had the soft, starry look he admired so much. Her glossy dark hair shone as though she were walking in full sunlight, and there was a rosy glow, pleasing to see, on her alabaster skin. In fact her appearance was so lovely, her whole aspect so unintentionally inviting, that Thornton nearly forgot to breathe. He stopped walking and Margaret stopped with him, her eyes widening in surprise.
Thornton was not aware that he was leaning towards her. He only knew that he wanted to kiss her and that it was too soon. Surely she would push him away if he declared himself now. Surely this would be the end of their newfound accord. Yet Margaret had not moved, and there was an expression of trust on her upturned face, a look of wonder
he had not seen there before as she held his gaze with her own. He honestly did not know what would happen next.
A clap of thunder overhead broke the moment and they both looked up to the sky. A few small sprinkles of rain fell, then several more, and it was apparent that a real downpour was about to start. Thornton shook his head as if to clear out a fog. “I do not suppose you have an umbrella in there,” he said, motioning towards the basket in Margaret’s hand.
“I did not think to include one.” Margaret looked amused by their sudden predicament, not distressed. “And I suppose you will tell me that gentlemen do not carry umbrellas in their jacket pockets, either.”
“Not this gentleman, anyway.” He could not help grinning at Margaret’s lighthearted expression. Even being caught in a rainstorm was a pleasure, as long as he was in it with her. He glanced at the threatening sky, then back at Margaret again. “There is only one thing for it – we shall have to run and do our best to go between the rain drops!” He extended his hand to her and was delighted when she took it in her own. Laughing like children, breathless with excitement, they ran together through the advancing rain all the way back to Marlborough Mills.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Hannah could sense the change in the air, a difference in the relationship between her son and his wife, as surely as she could sense the rising of the sun or the arrival of spring after winter.
The first time she noticed this change was on the day after her talk with her son, when John and Margaret came hurrying into the house in the midst of a sudden rainstorm. Hannah was surprised to see them together. Margaret had left just before noon on some sort of errand, and Thornton was supposed to be hard at work in his office in the mill. Yet here they were, lunging through the front door as though being pursued by a gang of footpads. Thornton closed the door behind them with an unceremonious thump and they stood together in the entryway, gasping for air and laughing at the same time.
Hannah was standing in the parlor giving instructions to Jane, so she had full view of the breathless, bedraggled pair. Margaret was wearing Thornton’s jacket around her shoulders, incongruously large on her petite frame, and Thornton’s hat was nowhere to be seen. Both of them were wet from head to toe and graced with speckles of mud besides. They did not notice Hannah standing slack-jawed, staring at them as the rainwater dripped off them and onto the floor.
Finally Hannah recovered from her surprise. She did not ask what had happened to cause the sorry state of affairs in the entryway. The answer was too obvious in the rain now beating against the windowpanes. “Where have you been?” she demanded instead. “Take off your shoes before you dirty the carpets! You should have come in through the kitchen.”
They sobered immediately. Thornton looked at Margaret who looked down at the floor, embarrassed. He volunteered, “It is my fault, Mother. I met Margaret while she was out and insisted on accompanying her on her errand.”
“What does that have to do with muddy shoes in my hallway?” Hannah crossed her arms over her chest.
“If I had not held her up she would have been back before the storm started. We shall carry our shoes to the kitchen for you and try not to ruin the rest of the house as we go.” He balanced awkwardly on one foot while he tried to pull the shoe off the other.
Hannah studied her son for a moment, frowning at his careless tone. This was not the strict, stern master of Marlborough Mills, with his mind firmly focused on business. His cravat hung loosely and his hair was tousled, blown in every direction. “Where is your hat?” she demanded.
“Somewhere on Baker Street, I think. It blew off when an omnibus went by.” He and Margaret exchanged an amused glance.
“And you left it there?” She could scarcely believe her ears.
“I offered to chase it down, but John would not hear of it,” Margaret answered, speaking for the first time. She retained her usual calm composure, but the corners of her mouth were twitching suspiciously. “It was raining hard by then, and John wanted to get home before we both got soaked through.” She quickly removed her own shoes, placing a hand on Thornton’s shoulder for balance as she stepped daintily out of each one. “Shall I send one of the servants out to find it?”
Hannah was nearly as surprised by that familiar gesture as she was by their appearance. “There’s no point. By now it is ruined anyway.” She sniffed and turned away. But as she walked away she heard the couple break into laughter behind her. She had a strong suspicion that if she turned around and looked, she would find that they were laughing at her expense.
The next event that drew her interest occurred that evening, after the family had left the dinner table. Margaret stayed in the kitchen for a few minutes, supervising the final cleanup of the day, while Hannah and Fanny went into the parlor. Hannah took up her knitting while Fanny opened the pages of the latest fashion book from town. Thornton followed them rather reluctantly, it seemed to Hannah. He lingered in the dining room before making his way to the parlor with his mother and sister, where he made a show of spreading out the newspaper and perusing its pages. But Hannah noticed that he had picked the one seat where he had an unobstructed view of the entrance to the room. Though he kept his eyes on the paper in front of him, Hannah was not foolish enough to believe that it held his complete attention.
It was not many minutes before Margaret came into the room, but to Hannah’s surprise she did not join the other two ladies where they sat, a little off to the side. Instead she approached Thornton. She held a small red book in her hand. “May I ask you a question?”
“Certainly.” Thornton put his paper down at once, giving Margaret his full attention as he looked up at her.
“In the mill, how does the thread in the loom change from the draw stroke to the return stroke without breaking in the process? I have been reading in this book how the machine works but I cannot make heads or tails of it.”
“It is remarkably simple. Allow me to show you.” He took the book from her hands, the better to answer her question, and Margaret sat down next to him without hesitation.
Hannah did not listen to Thornton’s explanation of the machine’s movements, which she herself understood so well already. Instead her attention was focused on the way her son and his wife sat together, their heads inclined over the pages in front of them. They made a pretty picture, with Thornton’s head bent protectively over Margaret’s and Margaret’s dark hair gleaming in the lamplight. Each held one side of the book between them. Thornton’s other arm was on the back of the settee, not quite touching Margaret’s shoulders but not pulling away either. Margaret did not appear to notice. They looked utterly absorbed in their conversation, oblivious to the presence of the others in the room.
“They really are a handsome couple.” Fanny’s voice broke through Hannah’s preoccupation with her son and his wife. “I could not see why John married her at first, but they get on well together. I hope my Watson will be as devoted to me as he is to her!”
“Hush, Fanny. They will hear you.” Hannah tried to stop the flow of words.
“Their children will have dark hair, don’t you think?” Fanny continued artlessly. “My hair is so fair and Watson’s is so dark that we have no way of knowing how our children will turn out. But John and Margaret are sure to have children who will look just like them!”
“Fanny!” Hannah exclaimed. She had never tried to explain the conditions of John’s marriage to Fanny. Such matters were private and a discussion of the topic would not be seemly. But now she wished that she had, for Margaret looked over at Fanny with wide eyes, her cheeks blazing. Then she looked down at the floor, away from John, in deep embarrassment. Thornton, involved in his explanations, had not heard Fanny’s words.
“You must learn to hold your tongue! I hope Watson will be able to teach you since I so obviously never could!”
“Why, Mother, what have I done?” Fanny’s innocence was genuine. She wore a look of startled surprise as she looked back at her mother.
“No
thing. Never mind, you will only make it worse,” was Hannah’s rather incoherent response. She was distressed to see that Fanny’s overheard comments had made Margaret intensely uncomfortable; the ease between her and Thornton was gone. As soon as Thornton finished speaking Margaret expressed her thanks, stood, and moved to a different chair. She was still close enough for conversation, but Hannah could see her son’s disappointment that their small moment of intimacy was gone.
The final notable moment occurred the next morning, after breakfast was over but before Thornton left for work. He had gone back upstairs after the meal to retrieve some forgotten item, and on his way out he happened to glance in the door of his study. Margaret was standing on a chair, nearly on her toes, one hand high overhead, reaching for a book on one of the upper shelves. Looking through from the parlor Hannah could see the whole encounter.
“Margaret! What are you doing up there?” Thornton exclaimed, walking into the room. He had been just about to go out; his hat was in one hand.
“I saw Papa’s Plato the other day, the copy that I gave you, and thought I would get it down. There were some notes he made in it that I would very much like to read again.”
“You should have asked me to get it for you, or one of the servants. I would not like to see you fall.”
“I almost have it!” Her hand grasped the volume just as Thornton reached her side. She held the book triumphantly in one hand as she turned and looked to climb down off the chair.
“Allow me.” In one swift motion Thornton placed his hands on her waist, lifting her down and onto the floor again. At the same time Margaret instinctively laid her free hand on his shoulder. When she landed they faced each other, her hand still on his shoulder and Thornton still holding her waist. Their faces were only inches apart.
