In Consequence: A Retelling of North and South

by Trudy Brasure

  Her eyes languidly traced the faint outline of the open window. The moonless sky offered no light, shrouding her surroundings in impenetrable blackness. She felt the darkness envelope her, insidiously seeping into her very being and chasing every faint beam of hope into bleak despair.

  The happy life she had lived in the South was an illusive shadow, a mere figment of her mind. The sorrows that had accumulated since she had arrived in this dirty and desolate city were unimaginable.

  The suffering of the working classes and the bitter strife between masters and men seemed as suffocating and ominous as the gray, sooty cloud of industry’s filth that continually hovered over Milton. The only friend she had found in this place, Bessy, was dying. Margaret drew in her breath heavily and closed her eyes at the painful injustice of it all — Bessy was the same age as herself.

  Her anger flared at the thought of how little the masters of these mills seemed to care for the poor wretches who worked for them. It was morally repugnant to her that these men should grow rich whilst they wrung the life out of those who labored in their factories. Did not these men depend on the lower classes for their success? It seemed to her that it was not only their Christian duty, but a sounder method of improving their own business if they would only treat their employees with more respect. Surely there would be less likelihood for animosity and the outbreak of strikes if care was taken not to ignore the workers’ inherent intelligence and humanity.

  The futility of her indignation crept over her. Although she earnestly hoped that someday there might be some more permanent reconciliation between masters and men, it was too late for Bessy. No present improvements could restore her to health. Her friend would soon be dead and nothing could be done about it.

  And now, although she could scarcely bring herself to think on it without trembling, her own dear mother would soon be taken from her. Mrs. Hale was doing much better now, after a few day’s rest, but this respite would not last. Dr. Donaldson could offer only the cold comfort of easing her pain — there was no hope of a full recovery.

  Only here, alone in her room at night, could Margaret freely fathom the depths of her feelings. And yet she felt numb — void of emotion. She could not move, but stared into the dark as one insensate and separate from the world. It was safer to reside in oblivion, to avoid the convulsive grief that would surely overtake her if she allowed herself to feel the despair that lingered behind every waking thought.

  The daily burden of maintaining a hopeful disposition had steeled her heart. She resolved hourly to think of her duty as a helpful daughter. She knew she must rise every morning and go forward and do what needed to be done for her parents’ sake. If she allowed her heavy sorrow to overcome her — if she should falter in her comportment — her father would crumple in the face of fate’s harsh reality, and wither from self-inflicted guilt for bringing his family to this place, so far from home.

  She struggled to retain her fortitude and remembered the task that must be accomplished on the morrow. The doctor had suggested that a water mattress might alleviate her mother’s suffering. Tomorrow, she would go to Marlborough Mills and ask to borrow the bedding that Fanny Thornton had offered to her at the dinner party.

  It seemed so long ago — that grand formal dinner at Mr. Thornton’s residence. Returning home that evening to find her mother in paroxysms of intense suffering had blighted any opportunity to contemplate the pleasures and discomforts of that social affair. That had been but three days ago.

  She thought of the dinner’s intriguing host, the image of him coming clearly to her from the obscurity of her tortured mind. How impressive he had looked in his handsome attire, exuding the quiet confidence of one who knew his power! She had been taken aback by his regal assurance and the sound logic with which he spoke, commanding the respect of his peers. She had never seen him to so much advantage.

  Her fingers curled with an unconscious twitch at the remembrance of their handshake — how his fingers had grazed hers as he had released his hold. A faint fluttering arose in her breast at the recollection of his penetrating gaze — his eyes had seemed to speak to something deep within her. She had been spellbound for a moment at the intimacy of their silent communication.

  Swift upon the heels of this vivid memory came the painful recollection of her challenging retort to him at dinner, which had chased away the fleeting hope that any enduring harmony could be nurtured between them.

  She felt the sting of tears fill her eyes and her lip began to quiver. Could she not find solace in some measure of peace? Was life only to be an endless struggle here in Milton, with discord and adversity facing her at every turn?

  The hardened walls of her stoic bravery cracked, and bitter tears began to stream down her face. She rolled to her side, clutching her pillow, and wept.

  *****

  In the heart of the darkened town, Mr. Thornton walked briskly alongside the anxious-looking men and women who had just arrived from Ireland. Were it not for the lighted street lamps, the streets would be plunged into blackest night.

  The Master glanced furtively around, hoping that they would not be seen at this late hour, and that his plan to replace the striking workers at his mill would not be divulged. The scraggly herd moved along in silence, the sound of scuffling feet and an occasional soft cough the only sounds in the warm midnight air.

  Shepherding them through the gates at Marlborough Mills at last, Mr. Thornton parted ways with the quiet crowd. Mr. Williams, his overseer, would conduct these newly hired hands to their sleeping quarters on the mill’s upper level. Holding his lantern before him, Mr. Thornton headed for the stone house across the empty yard.

  His home was dark. He was grateful that his mother had heeded his injunction and had gone to bed before his return. He tugged at his cravat as he trudged wearily up the stairs to his bedroom, muttering an oath at the cursed heat. Setting his lantern down, he cast off his coat as he stepped into the humid room. Continuing to undress, he stripped off his clothes until he was clad only in cotton drawers that fit snugly down to his calves.

  Hovering over the water basin in his dressing room, he splashed his face and neck to wash off the day’s grit and cool his skin. The water dripped off his face and beaded down his chest as he stood and unhurriedly wiped himself with a towel.

  Crossing the room, he noted with a disparaging glance the grand austerity of his private quarters. There was an efficiency to everything within — the furniture all of the highest quality. His mother had been proud to create such a fine habitat for the son who had earned his wealth by the sweat of his brow. The crimson and gold tones of the wallpaper and bed linens lent an air of magnificence, but there were sparse embellishments. The bedchamber that for so long had offered a welcome refuge from the world now seemed barren and cold.

  He snuffed out the lantern on the dressing table and moved to the massive four-poster bed that dominated his room. Flinging down the covers, he sank into the softness of his bed with a sigh of relief, relaxing in momentary pleasure at the feel of the cool cotton against his heated skin. He would require no covering tonight.

  He folded his hands over his midriff and closed his eyes to sleep. He was worn to the bone with the endless toil of the day, but his mind would not find repose. His thoughts were consumed with the plans and worries that had been his daily burden since this interminable strike had begun a fortnight ago.

  He swore silently against the cause of all his troubles. It smote him bitterly that his employees should think him greedy or dishonest. They refused to accept the authority of his word and could not comprehend that there were valid reasons he could not increase their wages. Did they deign to know his business better than he? Did he not bear full responsibility for the successful operation of the mill and therefore for their jobs? Their impossible demands would send the mill to financial ruin.

  He was adamant that the strikers’ foolish stance not destroy what he had so assiduously worked to build. He would not stand helplessly by and let
such misguided actions reduce him to insolvency or untenable compromise. He was vehement in his right to bring in workers from abroad. He had no other choice. The strikers had brought their suffering upon themselves; he refused to be held responsible in any way for their plight.

  His conscience pricked at this harsh dismissal, and he thought of the girl who earnestly bestowed her compassion upon the working class while refusing to see the difficulties and constant toil of those in positions of responsibility.

  The vision of the vicar’s daughter in her alluring dinner gown stole into his mind. The memory of her exquisite beauty that evening softened his features and lightened the tension in his arms and limbs like a comforting breeze. He had never before seen her look so stunning. He recalled the perfection of her form: the dress she wore had enhanced the voluptuous curves of her body and revealed expanses of creamy skin from which emanated the scent of rosewater. The sweep of her silky hair, piled elegantly on her head, had exposed the graceful column of her neck. He had noted the soft wisp of hair that fell just in front of her ear and another errant tendril that nestled beguilingly along her neck, brushing her bare shoulders.

  He let out a long sigh and relived the moment of his heightened pleasure when, with a captivating smile, she had taken his hand in both of hers to give him her unqualified respect. The bliss which imbued him at the feel of her delicate hand in his had been palpable. To relinquish his grasp had been a distinct torture, when his only wish had been to draw her even closer. His whole being had ached to linger in her presence and bask in the warmth and light that seemed to emanate from her large, expressive eyes. He had dared to imagine she reciprocated his feeling, so enchanting had her manner been toward him.

  But the leaden weight of the truth settled uncomfortably in his breast once more. His hopes had been dashed when she had opened her mouth later to counter his rebuke of her misguided sympathies. Those lips, which had smiled so sweetly at him earlier, defended her compassionate actions and decried his own logic as callous.

  She thought him uncaring and course, a tradesman whose only thoughts were of business and profit. She was without equal in spirit and intellect, and was born of grace and refinement. She saw him as he was — a great rough fellow. She reserved her affection and compassion for others. Such a woman could never care for him.

  The thought of her once conjured to his mind was not easily banished. The vision of her lingered, tantalizing him like a forbidden morsel of food. But he was a practical fellow and rightly reasoned that it was best not to dwell on fantastical things which no amount of toil or ingenuous thinking could bring to pass.

  With unhappy decision, he turned his thoughts to the morrow’s tasks, knowing full well there might be violent reprisals for bringing new hands to the mill. His mind resumed its familiar litany of business concerns as exhaustion steadily overtook him — the clamor of stratagems and anxious fears gradually ebbed until, at last, he slipped into calm unconsciousness.

  *****

  In the nearby Princeton district, a wan figure lumbered through dark, dismal alleyways. The summer heat intensified the fetid smell of refuse in the air.

  John Boucher headed purposefully toward the opened pub door, needing to release the anger that tore at him as he ruminated over the scene he had just witnessed. A working man with six children to feed, Boucher had resisted the union’s resolve to strike. Fighting to provide for his family, he had gone to the rail station to scavenge coal. There he had spied Thornton and his overseer meeting countless Irish immigrants as they disembarked from the train.

  Lurking in the shadows, Boucher had watched with fulminating fury as the men and women who would take his job from him and leave his children to die walked past.

  The desperate mill worker wasted no time in announcing Thornton’s secret plan to the men who still lingered at the Golden Dragon. The room exploded in outrage and disbelief; men cursed and threatened the Irish and their Master for this underhanded scheme. Their irascible shouts did little to salve Boucher’s bitterness at the injustice of his plight.

  Anger and terror battled within him as he made his way home. By the time he had lain down on the threadbare straw mattress he shared with his wife, word of Thornton’s knobstick workers was slowly spreading through the squalid homes of Milton’s poorest.

  *****

  The sun beat straight down upon the streets of Milton as Margaret walked the two miles to the Thorntons’ home the next afternoon. Absorbed in her own thoughts, she took little notice of her environs for the first leg of her errand. As she drew nearer to her destination, however, she slowly became aware of the peculiar behavior of the people she passed. Frightened whispers and vociferous mutterings accompanied anxious glances down Marlborough Street, and she realized that all interest seemed to focus on the cotton mill to which she was headed.

  When she reached the mill gates, she pulled the bell and waited to be admitted. Where the buzz of voices and roar of machinery would normally be heard, an eerie silence pervaded. Then, with her ear attuned to the silence, she heard a distant rumbling from the lane behind.

  The overseer, Mr. Williams, opened the gate a crack to peer at the lone visitor. “Oh, it’s you, miss,” he uttered in a measure of relief, his eyes darting anxiously past her.

  The sound of voices, indistinct but ominous in rising clarity, grew louder as she crossed the mill yard and entered the Thornton house.

  “You may have heard that my brother has brought in Irish workers,” Fanny explained as she led Margaret up the stairs. “Some of the strikers came by this morning shouting horrible threats and have frightened the Irish so that they don’t dare work! John is seeing to their safety. Here is mother,” Fanny declared at last, ushering Miss Hale into the drawing room.

  Margaret made a polite request to Mrs. Thornton to borrow the water mattress. “I’m sorry, I’ve come at a bad time,” she added, observing the agitated state of the usually staid woman before her. Mrs. Thornton’s head was turned toward the window, her eyes flashing with controlled fear.

  The thunder of footsteps and the angry clamor for justice could be heard at the bolted gates of the mill. The heavy wood groaned as fists pounded ferociously against the barrier.

  Margaret rushed to the window to see Mr. Thornton hastily locking the factory door across the yard. Pale faces huddled in the windows above him. He glanced up at them and then ran toward the house.

  A pounding at the door below sent Fanny flying downstairs to unlock the door for her brother, who had been inadvertently locked out of his own house by the panicked occupants within. She raced up the stairs before him, shrieking in a fit of terror.

  “Keep Fanny here in the back of the house!” John instructed his mother, who was endeavoring to handle her daughter’s hysterics behind the drawn doors which separated the dining area from the front drawing room.

  “Miss Hale!” Mrs. Thornton called out, suddenly remembering their guest in the front room.

  Mr. Thornton darted away to join the dauntless girl who stood riveted to the window.

  The Master’s voice came with unsteady breath as he strained to reign in the rush of his anxiety. “Miss Hale, I’m sorry you have visited at this unfortunate moment.”

  She glanced at him briefly before both turned to watch the frightening drama unfolding outside. The rioters pounded frantically on the gates to claim entry to their former place of work; the splintering of wood signaled their success. Raging cries filled the summer air as a mass of gray-clad bodies poured into the mill yard below, determined to oust the hastily imported Irishmen who would dare to steal their jobs.

  Mr. Thornton set his jaw in stern defiance as he watched the swarm try to find access to the factory, as they shouted for the Irish to get out.

  “Let them yell. Keep up your courage for five more minutes, Miss Hale,” Mr. Thornton bravely called out, as much to quell his own cold feeling of panic as to calm the beautiful parson’s daughter, who stared out the window with him.

  “Be not a
fraid for me,” Miss Hale answered. “But can’t you soothe these poor wretches?” the young lady questioned him brusquely, her earnest eyes flashing in confusion that the proud mill owner should stand sentry behind the walls of his house when distress and calamity threatened to erupt into chaos and spill into the fortress of his precious mill.

  “The soldiers will be here directly and bring them to reason,” Mr. Thornton replied with blank reassurance, unable to think beyond the desperate hope that the protection he had requested would arrive before irreparable damage was done.

  “Reason ... what kind of reason?” Margaret demanded, alarmed at the Master’s intransigence and seeming indifference to the fate of the men below. “Mr. Thornton, go down there this instant and face them like a man! Speak to your workmen as if they were human beings. They’re driven mad with hunger. Don't let the soldiers harm them. If you have any courage or noble quality in you, go out and speak to them, man to man,” she ordered him with a moral rectitude and authority beyond her years.

  He stared at her with wrinkled brow, stunned silent at the power she seemed to wield over him. Her impassioned reasoning struck a tone of truth in his conscience, and he was at once uncertain of his formulated plans. Her expression bespoke her adamant expectation that he should speedily act.

  He could not do otherwise. Giving her one last look of concentrated amazement at her directive, he turned on his heel to take flight for the stairs.

  “Oh! Mr. Thornton, perhaps I am wrong … only … take care!” she called out after him.

  Margaret looked anxiously over the crowd below and cried out in horror when she spied several men stoop to gather up stones. Picking up her skirts, she immediately ran to stop them from hurling their ammunition upon the figure of their accumulated misery. She raced down the stairs with alarming speed and swung open the heavy door to the portico where Mr. Thornton silently stood, his arms crossed in defiance above the clamoring sea of angry faces.