Margaret of Milton

by Elaine Owen

  Each of them seemed startled by their sudden proximity, but neither one moved. It was as though they had become statues, frozen in place for a brief moment in time as they stared at each other. The tableau stretched on for several heartbeats while Hannah watched, transfixed.

  Then Jane came into the parlor in search of Hannah, her voice breaking the spell. “Mrs. Thornton, I am sorry to disturb you, but I cannot find the frock you asked me to mend. I have looked in the laundry and all through the – Oh! Begging your pardon, ma’am!” she exclaimed, drawing up short. She, too, had caught sight of the couple.

  Margaret immediately dropped her hand and stepped back, her face flaming. “I apologize,” she said, her voice so low it was almost a whisper. “I did not mean to cause any trouble.”

  “There is no need – “ Thornton began, moving towards her, but Margaret stepped around him, keeping her eyes averted.

  “Thank you for helping me retrieve the book,” she said, rather formally for the circumstances. “I will take it to my room to read there, and I will let you know when I am ready to have it put back on the shelf.” Before anyone could react she turned and fairly fled up the stairs.

  Thornton exhaled loudly, a sound between frustration and disappointment, and stood stock still for a moment, glaring at the floor. Then he whirled around on one foot. Without another word he placed his hat on his head and went out the front entrance.

  How long would this state of affairs continue, Hannah wondered. She truly believed what she had told her son on the night of their fireside conversation. The more she saw Thornton and Margaret together, the more she realized that Thornton’s heart had not led him astray: he had settled on the one woman who was most likely to make him happy. The docile, accommodating Anne Latimer would never have served; she could see that now. Thornton’s strong temperament required someone with an equal strength and intelligence, someone who could stimulate his interest and challenge him at the same time. In Margaret he had met someone whose iron could temper his steel.

  But they were in such an awkward position now – brought together by adverse circumstances, with Thornton not willing to open himself to disappointment again by speaking his heart. And Margaret, always on edge, not able to relax enough to open herself to his affections. There had been nothing like a proper courtship between the two. Now they each had demands on their time and attention, and any semi-private moments they might find themselves in were likely to be interrupted by one thing or another. With such barriers before them at every step, how would they ever be able to come together? It seemed a hopeless situation.

  The dilemma weighed on Hannah’s mind all morning as she took over the last-minute wedding preparations. Fanny’s trunks for her wedding trip had been filled to overflowing and could not be closed. She helped Fanny unpack, re-organize everything, and then pack everything all over again, this time leaving room for the little items Fanny was sure to bring back to Milton. After that it was time to have Fanny try on her dress one last time, to make sure all was in readiness for the ceremony the next day. But through all these preparations Hannah’s mind remained on her son and his wife. Neither Thornton nor Margaret would welcome her interference; yet Hannah would have given a great deal to help them, if any help were possible.

  The factory whistle blew loudly in the distance, drawing Hannah’s attention to the time. It was noon and the factory hands were stopping for lunch; Thornton would be wondering where his meal was. She left Fanny with Jane, discussing how to arrange her hair the next morning, and hurried downstairs. She would have to organize a lunch to go into the basket normally delivered to the mill office.

  But when she went into the kitchen, she frowned when she saw that the basket was not in its customary place next to the kitchen door. “Where is the lunch basket for Mr. Thornton?” she demanded irritably of Dixon, who was kneading bread for dinner on the kitchen table nearby.

  “At the mill, ma’am.” Dixon barely looked up from the table, working the dough ceaselessly in her hands. Hannah usually enjoyed the pleasing rhythmic sound produced by such an activity, but she had no time to appreciate it today.

  “The basket has gone already? Who took it?”

  “Miss Margaret came and packed a meal for the master. Then she said she might as well carry it over herself and not bother the servants with the trouble of it.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Half an hour or so.”

  Hannah looked at the clock, wondering what was taking Margaret so long. Five or ten minutes was more than sufficient for the small task.

  “Shall I go to the mill and fetch her back?” Dixon asked, as if reading her mind.

  “That will not be necessary. She must have decided to eat lunch with Mr. Thornton,” Hannah decided. If they were able to eat their meal together without interruption, so much the better.

  “I expect Miss Margaret will be back whenever she’s good and ready.” Dixon nodded emphatically to nobody in particular and continued with her kneading.

  Hannah turned away with mixed emotions. Perhaps all would be well between her son and his wife and they would come together on their own. But she could not be entirely optimistic when their relationship so far seemed marked by missteps more than by steps forward. She shook her head doubtfully as she returned to her work.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  It was the night before Fanny’s wedding and Margaret sat in front of the little mirror in her bedroom, performing her usual bedtime routine of combing out and plaiting her hair. She winced as the comb struck an unexpected snarl. With steady pulling and tugging of the comb the knot finally came loose, and she slid the comb smoothly through the remainder. She plaited it swiftly and then climbed into her bed, pulling the blankets up snugly around her waist.

  The book of Plato Thornton had helped her retrieve sat on her bedside table. She meant to read from it until she felt drowsy enough to turn out the lamp, but as the volume fell open in her hand, her eye was caught by her father’s handwriting on the frontispiece.

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

  How very odd. She had examined this book many times when she studied it with her father, but she had never noticed this writing before. Yet the heavy, formal script was definitely in his hand. He must have copied this out just before he died. She could picture him in her mind’s eye, sitting at his desk in the study at Crampton, slowly moving his pen over the page in his painstaking way.

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

  Margaret traced the words with her fingers, noting how appropriate they were for her now. She had seen many sad events, even the deaths of people she loved, since moving to Milton. And it could be argued that she had been “plucked up” out of Crampton and planted at Marlborough Mills.

  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;

  Margaret’s mind flashed back to that morning, when Thornton had put his hands on her waist to lift her down off the chair. She could still feel his warmth, standing so close. She could still see the way his blue eyes had reflected the light as he looked down at her, and she remembered the feel of his strong shoulder under her hand, noticeable even through the material of his jacket. For a moment she had wondered if he intended to kiss her; their faces were only inches apart.

  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 . . . .

  Margaret closed the book quickly. It was no use thinking about what might have been. Surely, if Thornton had any feelings remaining for her after all this time, he would have expressed them by
now. The only reasons they were married now were her father’s death and Mr. Bell’s sudden, drastic illness. She should not be pining for what she could not have. She should be thinking about Fanny’s wedding the next day, not wondering how her life might have gone differently if she had made different choices. She resolutely blew out the lamp and settled under the covers, hoping sleep would claim her quickly.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The wedding ceremony had been short and straightforward, and Fanny and Watson were now man and wife. Margaret gave a sigh of relief as she watched the couple greet their guests inside the hotel room that had been reserved for the celebratory meal and other events. There would be a meal and then time for the guests to mingle together before the celebration ended with dancing. The newlyweds would change into street clothes during the dancing and then leave for their wedding tour directly from the hotel.

  Thornton led Margaret to their seats at the great table that graced one end of the room, avoiding bustling waiters and other servants as they went. The table was on a raised dais and turned so that the wedding party would face the guests as they ate. “How lovely!” Margaret exclaimed as they stepped onto the platform, which was high enough to afford a view of the entire area at once.

  Hannah had outdone herself with the decorations. In addition to the expected white tablecloths and silver place settings, palms and fronds had been placed at careful intervals along each wall, giving the impression of standing inside a tropical garden instead of a cold hotel room. Each table also held a flower arrangement in the style that Fanny had admired so much. The oversized windows at the front of the room, facing the street, had been pulled back so that light poured in. Every glass and metal surface in the room gleamed.

  “Half of Milton society must be here,” Margaret marveled, taking in the scene. Well-wishers were milling about in every direction. Some were taking their wrapped presents to the table set aside for that purpose while others waited in line to greet Fanny and Watson. Still others were walking up and down the rows of tables, looking for their names on the little cards that had been set out next to each plate. It would take some time for everyone to be seated and the meal to begin.

  “Do you realize that we have been married a month already?” Thornton asked her, drawing Margaret’s attention away from their surroundings. “It was four weeks ago today that you and I had our own ceremony. Rather a different affair from this, of course,” he added.

  “I did not know,” Margaret admitted. There had been too much change to absorb in such a short time for her to pay attention to the dates, but she was pleased by his careful memory. “I wonder how Mr. Bell is doing. Have you ever heard anything more from him?”

  “No.” Thornton shook his head. “I sent him a letter informing him of our marriage, but he did not respond. I rather hoped he had written to you.”

  “He has not.”

  They were silent for a moment. Margaret was thinking about the man who had been her father’s dearest friend, the man she had instinctively looked to for protection after her father’s death, and wondered how he was faring. How would life have been different if he had not been ill at such a critical point in time?

  Thornton, however, was still absorbed in the spectacle around them. “Would you rather have had an elaborate event like this one?” he asked. “A grand society wedding with a large meal, and time to mingle with all your guests?”

  Margaret shook her head. “No,” she answered honestly. “I prefer simple things. I would far rather have walked to my wedding down a tree-lined path and repeated my vows in the outdoors.”

  Thornton’s eyebrow rose questioningly. “None of this appeals to you?” He nodded at the room around them.

  She shook her head. “The only thing I would really care for here is the dancing. I dearly love to dance, but of course that will be impossible today.” She looked down with regret at the black trim and mourning bands on her dress.

  After the meal was finished the guests left their seats and began to circulate among themselves while the servants cleared the tables. There was now leisure for Margaret to be introduced to some of the many friends and acquaintances of the Thorntons, a process she had not started before now due to her bereaved state. It would not have been seemly to give or receive calls in the wake of her father’s death, even as a new bride, but in this setting she was allowed to set aside some of her restrictions.

  She quickly discovered that she was an object of curiosity to many of the people in the room. Milton society, it seemed, had heard of Thornton’s marriage, but most of its members had not made Margaret’s acquaintance before now. She had met only a handful of them at the Thornton’s dinner party so long ago. Now it seemed as though they were all eager to make up for lost time. She wondered if Fanny might be resentful of the quiet attention she and Thornton were receiving, but a quick glance in Fanny’s direction showed that she was utterly absorbed in the people around her and paying no attention to her brother and his wife.

  A stately, middle-aged couple made their way to Thornton and waited to be recognized. The man greeted Thornton with a hearty handshake. “There you are, chap. I was hoping to see you here! I understand Watson is not the only man accepting congratulations today.”

  “You understand correctly. My wife and I were married just four weeks ago today.” John’s voice was smooth, sophisticated. “Mr. and Mrs. Dilbey, allow me to present my wife, the former Margaret Hale. Margaret, these are Anthony Dilbey and his wife Harriet. Mr. Dilbey is an underwriter at the bank.” Greetings were exchanged all around, and Margaret decided that Mr. Dilbey, with his warm and open manner, would probably be a pleasant addition to any dinner party. His wife, however, left her a little in doubt.

  “You have stolen quite a march on us, Mr. Thornton,” Mrs. Dilbey now said. “Not only by marrying without a warning, but by picking a bride so entirely unknown to us.” Her voice carried a faint note of reproof.

  Dilbey gave a polite, social laugh. “My dear, Thornton knew his wife well enough to propose to her, and surely that was all that was needed.”

  “I suppose so,” Mrs. Dilbey responded, her tone making it clear that she did not agree with her husband. “Tell me, are the Hales well established in Milton? I thought I knew all the first families, but I do not recognize the Hale name at all.”

  Beside her, Margaret felt Thornton stiffen. She answered quickly, before Thornton could do so for her. “We are not a Milton family at all, Mrs. Dilbey. We are originally from the south, and only moved here two years ago.”

  “I should very much like to make your family’s acquaintance, then. Are they here with you?”

  A lump rose in Margaret’s throat but she answered steadily. “My parents have both passed away since then, madam.”

  “Dear me!” Mrs. Dilbey raised her glasses to her eyes and looked at Margaret as if she had suddenly discovered a new exotic flower, while her husband coughed uncomfortably.

  Thornton placed a hand protectively on Margaret’s elbow. “You will have to excuse us,” he said to the other couple. “I see someone else who has been asking to meet my wife.”

  “I did not mean – “ Mrs. Dilbey started, but Thornton cut her off.

  “I am sure you did not. Good day to you both.”

  Thornton led Margaret away before the Dilbeys could say anything else. He waited until they were out of hearing before speaking. “I apologize for exposing you to this sort of atmosphere, Margaret. We should have stayed home.”

  “Impossible. We could not miss your sister’s wedding! And I am not as fragile as you think, John. I am ready to take on my social responsibilities.”

  Thornton studied her face, frowning slightly. “Will you let me know if you need to leave? Or if you feel uncomfortable in any way?”

  “I promise to let you know if I am in distress,” she said firmly, knowing she would not allow herself to burden him in such a way. “You need not worry for me.”

  Thornton seemed to accept her assurance and turn
ed from Margaret to courteously greet another family friend. Margaret, too, turned with a smile on her face. Yet inside she could not help feeling disquieted. Thornton was playing the role of loyal husband to perfection and she, too, was playing the role of devoted wife. But it was all an elaborate facade, a play being staged for the benefit of outsiders. No onlooker would ever guess that they were in a marriage strictly of convenience.

  There were times during the long afternoon when Margaret and Thornton found themselves separated by the press of the crowd. Usually it was because the people in their immediate vicinity had sorted themselves into the usual social pattern of men in one group, and ladies in the other. It was during these moments, when Margaret had room to stand back and observe Thornton from a distance, that she recognized he was in his element in this setting. He had an air about him, a forceful magnetism that drew people’s attention and made them want to gather around him. He would attract a crowd wherever he went. She could hear him now, speaking to a small huddle of masters just a few feet away from her. They listened to him respectfully.

  “We are privileged to live in a marvelous age,” he was saying, “when technological changes are coming more quickly than we can keep up with them. New technology is being devised every day. Only those concerns which are able to adapt in a timely manner will be able to survive the onslaught of new inventions. At the moment, for example, we power our mills using water and steam, but there are devices being invented right now which will allow them to be driven by electricity.” He stopped speaking long enough to take a sip of his wine.

  One of his hearers scoffed. “Impossible!”

  “You only say it is impossible because you have not seen it done,” Thornton countered. “I say that such a development is not only possible. It is inevitable.”