In Consequence: A Retelling of North and South

by Trudy Brasure

  A fleeting image of Henry as the model of proper decorum came to Margaret’s mind, and she smiled devilishly at the realization that she much preferred the passionate nature of her untamed Northern manufacturer to the staid sophistication of the Southern barrister’s suit.

  “Mr. Thornton is a gentleman, Dixon, and he will soon be my husband. I wish that you will not speak against him again,” she stated as she reached the landing and turned to face her mother’s faithful servant.

  Dixon pursed her lips and gave a reluctant nod before the young miss disappeared into her mother’s room.

  *****

  A pink haze gathered in the sky where the ocean had swallowed the setting sun as Frederick Hale stood out on the balcony of the old building where he resided, the sound of echoing voices rising from the narrow, cobbled streets below. The smell of the ocean air, pervading this ancient southern port, sparked his senses with its pungent saltiness. The call of the sea tugged at all his memories, both dark and bright.

  Adventure had beckoned him — lured him — to the life of a seafarer. He had received his fair share of adventure, and more. Though his native country may have branded him as a traitor, never to welcome him home, he had experienced more excitement and seen more of the world than any other Helstone lad ever would. Mexico and South America had for a time been home to him, during his search for a place where he could belong.

  And now, just as he was certain he had found his place — his purpose and future — he was being called back to England, the country that had formed him. It would be his chance to embrace, perhaps for the last time, the mother and father who had given him birth, nurtured him, and still loved him. A twinge of helpless guilt gnawed at his conscience for having abandoned them.

  And Margaret! His sweet, fearless sister was only a child when he had left them all in Helstone. How well he remembered her happy laughter at his antics and her joy in freely roaming the fields and forests of their childhood home. He yearned to see her now, scarcely able to believe she was no longer a girl, but a woman who in a matter of days would be claimed in marriage by a man he did not know.

  His countenance darkened. What had impelled his father to move his family to the ceaseless hustle of an industrial city far from every familiar comfort and company? Was it this move that had sickened his mother? Frederick was not altogether convinced that she was truly dying. He would not believe it until he had seen her condition with his own eyes. Perhaps the sight of him might renew her strength and give her comfort to continue. He had hope that the doctor was mistaken.

  And what of Margaret? How had the move affected her? He wondered that his parents should consider a Northern manufacturer to be an agreeable match for his dear sister, despite her own written lines of encouragement that this man was well-respected and of fine character.

  What was his name? He brought the letter, still clutched in his hand, up to the fading light in front of him. Mr. Thornton of Marlborough Mills.

  He shook his head in doubt. Such a match would never have occurred had they stayed in Helstone. It was hard for him to imagine that the Margaret whom he had known — the girl who was so carefree in the countryside of Hampshire — would be happy to be paired to a tradesman who would confine her to life in a Darkshire city.

  He would go. He knew it as soon as he had opened the missive to read his sister’s pleading.

  His thoughts flew to his own love — Dolores. He took a deep breath and let it out with a long sigh. The very first time he had met her, Dolores had enchanted him with her silken black hair and bewitching green eyes. His heart had been captivated by her innocent adoration of him, an Englishman who worked for her father. He would ask for her hand as soon as she came of age and live his life here in Cadiz.

  He could envision the worry that would flash in her vibrant eyes when he told her tomorrow what he must do — what he must dare — to see his mother.

  He cast his gaze over the open sea. Twilight darkened the horizon where the distant waves faded from blue to graying oblivion. He felt the quickening excitement of embarking upon a dangerous journey, even as a sweep of dread chilled his heart at the thought of leaving his happy contentment behind.

  England was no longer home, not with Dolores here. But he would return one more time to the land of his birth and venture to the strange city his father had chosen, where no one would know his name.

  He would soon set sail for Milton.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The following week could not pass swiftly enough for Margaret as she waited for Thursday evening to arrive. Throughout the days, her thoughts inevitably drifted to the man she was to marry with a measure of joyous contentment. As the shadowy quiet of each evening wore on, her ears strained to hear his familiar footstep at the door. However, the deep resonance of his voice and the animated glow of his face were left to her conjecture for a time. So she turned over in her mind every cherished memory of him, keeping the special moments they had shared close to her heart until he would at last stand before her again in living flesh and boundless power.

  It had taken her mother a day or two of rest to recover from the exertion of going to luncheon at the Thorntons, which reminded Margaret all too forcefully that the days that remained to her under her parents’ roof were precious gifts to be cherished. She spent treasured time with her mother and listened patiently and cheerfully to the recounting of returned cards from the wedding invitations as well as to the rehearsal of a great many details concerning the forthcoming event.

  When Mrs. Hale had the energy, mother and daughter worked side by side embroidering or sewing lace onto the new nightdresses, camisoles, drawers, and petticoats of Margaret’s trousseau. The young bride-to-be was sent out to see about acquiring a new traveling dress as soon as her mother learned that Mr. Thornton planned to take his new wife to the sea. Margaret worried about the economy of purchasing so many new garments on her father’s humble income, but her mother had no compunction in insisting that her daughter look the part of a wealthy manufacturer’s wife.

  The day before the mayor’s dinner gala was spent fussing over the gown Margaret would wear, as they added a few faux rosettes to the wide skirt’s layered flounces of burgundy tulle and secured the satin trim at the hem of the dress she had worn once before in London.

  At last, the evening she had awaited arrived. All dressed and coiffed at a quarter to seven, Margaret turned herself about in Mrs. Hale’s chamber to accolades of praise from her weary mother and from Dixon, who proclaimed that Milton would be much enhanced with Margaret as a refined and gracious addition to its social circles. The young miss blushed and smiled at the compliments to her appearance. The energy of excitement at the thought of presenting herself to Mr. Thornton coursed through her until she almost felt dizzy in expectation.

  Her heart leaped and skittered erratically when the doorbell sounded and Dixon left the room to answer it.

  *****

  Mr. Thornton had similarly spent his week thinking of Margaret. Although his days had been consumed by work and the presentation of his factory to various visiting notables, he found that the image of her sweet countenance was never far from his mind.

  It was at the close of each day, when he finally retired to his empty bedchamber late at night, that he yearned to feel her arms about him and tortured himself with the sweet remembrance of her delectable kisses.

  His gaze was drawn to the new ornately carved dressing table that now sat next to his own dresser, contrary to all his mother’s intimated protests that there was ample room in the house to accord Margaret her own bedchamber. Satisfied by his mother’s dutiful efficiency in complying with his strict demands, he glanced at the new wardrobe, which had been placed along the back wall, ready to hold all the delicate feminine garments of a lady’s apparel.

  As his room was slowly transformed into a bridal chamber, the arrival of each new furnishing brought with it a palpable reminder of what was to come. He imagined his new bride sitting at the dressing table, b
rushing the long waves of her chestnut hair as he loosened the binding of his cravat and unbuttoned his waistcoat at the end of a wearying day. The vivid images parading through his thoughts only intensified his restless longing to bring her into his home.

  When Thursday evening came, he was impatient to go to Crampton and endeavored to quell the prickling energy of anticipation that flowed through him even as he bounded up the stairs to sound the bell at her door.

  Standing in the front parlor, Mr. Thornton awaited her arrival. His heart thudded in his chest as he steeled himself for the first sight of her.

  Moments stretched on until he at last heard movement from above. He watched her gradual appearance as she gracefully descended the stairs, the rustling of her skirts the only sound in the room.

  All power of speech evaporated as he stared in rapt adoration at the woman who would soon become his wife. Her hair was swept up elegantly upon her head, giving full view of the ivory skin of her bare neck and shoulders that appeared above a dark colored ruffle of gauzy fabric. Her bodice molded tightly to her body, revealing and amplifying the shapely curves of her feminine form. When she finally reached him and lifted her eyes to his, he felt something deep within clench in pain at the force of emotion that came over him. “You look…enchanting,” he was able to mutter, struggling to gather his proper sensibilities.

  She dipped her head demurely at his appraisal and duly flushed. The fluttering in her stomach had not abated but intensified from being in such close proximity to him once more.

  He took measured breaths as he helped her drape a lace shawl about her shoulders. The sight of her silken skin and the scent of rosewater that emanated from her neck and hair intoxicated his senses so that he very nearly cast aside all decorum in the impulse to take her in his arms and show her his strong feelings.

  The cooler outside air helped to steady his resolve to behave in a gentlemanlike manner, and he assisted her into the carriage with a renewed determination to restrain his ardor while enjoying the privilege of her company on this distinctive occasion.

  “Fanny was not yet ready when I departed, so we are constrained to return first to Marlborough Mills to collect her,” he explained with some annoyance once they were settled in the coach and moving forward through the streets.

  Margaret responded with some light remark pertaining to Fanny’s diligence in her preparations, and as Mr. Thornton happily held her gloved hand in his, the couple soon fell into comfortable conversation concerning the events of the week.

  A burst of energy pierced the pleasantly calm atmosphere of the coach upon Fanny’s arrival. Exclamations, questions, and gossiped tidbits readily poured forth from Miss Thornton, leaving Margaret little to say as they traveled the cobbled streets toward their destination.

  *****

  A calm din of genteel conversation suffused the opulent Green Room of the Lord Mayor’s mansion. Mr. Thornton listened patiently to the distinguished Member of the House of Lords query a small circle of Milton’s wealthiest investors and bankers about the cotton trade. The Master of Marlborough Mills cast a restless sidelong glance toward the back of the great room where his future bride stood engaged in conversation with a gathering of ladies and a few gentlemen, all dressed in their finest attire.

  She was spellbinding in a shimmering gown of deep maroon that hung just off her shoulders, clung to her shapely form, and cascaded from her slender waist in full-fashioned elegance to the floor. Inclining her head to the person addressing her, she gave her genuine attention to the speaker even as her whole bearing emanated an easy grace, reinforcing to Mr. Thornton what he had known from the day he had first laid his eyes upon her — that she was a superior being who walked among them.

  Mr. Thornton had thoroughly enjoyed the privilege of entering the mansion with Margaret on his arm, relishing every opportunity to introduce her as his intended. How they had slowly been separated in the social whirl, he remembered not; he only knew he wished desperately to return to her side.

  He let out a low sigh and renewed his outward attention to the surrounding milieu. He dared not continue to stare at the object of his affection, lest he hurl himself in her direction without compunction.

  When at last he deftly wrested himself from the conversation about financial interest in the northern trade, he headed straightaway to rejoin the company of the most glorious woman in attendance.

  Undetected by those surrounding her, Margaret watched as Mr. Thornton approached. She took a long, deep breath as she drank in the sight of his commanding frame. Dressed in black coattails with a formal white waistcoat that dipped low to reveal the broad expanse of his starched shirt, he looked magnificent. She thought him more admirable and regal than anyone in the room. Her pulse pattered uncontrollably as she caught the warm gleam in his eye, amazed to recognize the strong bond between them. How much had changed since the formal dinner at his home just a few weeks ago!

  Arriving at Margaret’s side, he placed his hand at the small of her back for a fleeting moment. It was the merest touch, the gentlest of gestures, but it evoked in him profound emotions, for he yet marveled that he could do this — touch her with such intimate familiarity, claiming her as his own in the midst of this assembly. He let his hand drop to his side with great reluctance, for all he really wished to do was to hold fast to her in some tangible way, to make that connection which seemed to course through him as some powerful, magnetic urge.

  The feel of his hand upon her, even through the layers of fabric that bound her waist, was to her as a searing touch, announcing their attachment to everyone present and evoking in her such potent emotion that for a few moments she was aware of nothing else but the rush of glowing pleasure she received from this possessive gesture.

  The mayor’s son, one of the gentlemen in Margaret's company, addressed the respected mill owner upon his arrival. “Mr. Thornton, I believe Mr. Chesterfield was impressed by his tour of your factory,” the young Cambridge student cordially assessed.

  The Southern man from Parliament concurred. “Quite so. But I daresay you never told me, Thornton, that you have won over a Hampshire girl to your Milton ways,” the large, grandfatherly figure remarked jovially. “I believe you have found a natural spokesman for promoting your causes. This young lady has been telling me what she admires in all your hustle and practical methods,” he said, gesturing to Margaret.

  “Has she?” Mr. Thornton returned, giving Margaret a meaningful glance. He smiled to note the faint blush that came to her cheeks.

  When they were called for dinner, Mr. Thornton was more than pleased to take the opportunity to escort Margaret to the long decorated tables where gold-rimmed china glistened and crystal sparkled in the glow of gaslight chandeliers. Chagrined that they would be duly separated by the seating arrangement, he was nevertheless grateful his place across the table was near enough to allow him to maintain a pleasurable view of her and hear her voice.

  Conversation centered upon the subject for which the honored guests had been gathered: the progress of Milton’s industry and the obstacles and conditions that would hinder or promote her future.

  “And have you recovered from this strike?” Lord Garthwaite posed to the cotton mill masters upon discovering that the mills had been dormant for nearly a month.

  “I believe Thornton has had the worst of it,” Slickson answered. “He took the trouble to hire Irish replacements which ended the strike very well, but must have added to his expenditures.”

  “And you were injured during that horrible riot, were you not, Mr. Thornton?” the mayor’s wife interposed.

  Mr. Thornton smiled uncomfortably at being the center of concern. “The injury itself was quite inconsequential, but I own that the events of that day were of great magnitude,” he replied calmly, giving a purposeful glance to Margaret which made her cast her eyes to the table.

  Fanny and Claire Lawrenson also shared a knowing glance with sardonic haughtiness, remembering well the circumstances that led to Mr. Thorn
ton’s engagement.

  “The mill is running at full capacity now and with extended hours twice a week. The strike has set me back and the Irish have indeed been a trouble, but I expect Marlborough Mills will recover to former prosperity before long, barring any unforeseen economic difficulties,” Mr. Thornton finished with a hope that was edified somewhat by the conviction in his own voice.

  “Certainly, there must be a way to forestall such violence and put an end to strikes,” suggested Mr. Pearce, a visiting member of the House of Commons from Surrey. The middle-aged man looked inquiringly around the table.

  “The workers won’t heed our word,” Henderson responded. “We tell them we can’t pay higher wages but they continue to make their demands as if we did not know our business. There’s no reasoning with the likes of them. We can constrain them to work for a time, but they will always rise up to rebel against us when the rancor of some blithering discontents rile the mass of them to expect more. It’s a bitter relationship, I’m afraid,” he concluded as a matter of fact.

  “I believe Miss Hale here considers that there is hope that the working classes might be instructed out of their ignorance. Is that not right, Miss Hale?” Mr. Colthurst inquired, remembering their discussion of this topic at Harley Street.

  Margaret raised her head serenely and turned up the corners of her mouth in polite deference as she felt the pressing gaze of every guest rest upon her. She looked to Mr. Thornton, who signaled his encouragement with a twitch of a smile and the merest nod. “I’m certain that the workers are not aware of all the issues confronting the masters. They are, I admit, uneducated in such matters. I see little hope for the future if they are dismissed as unreasonable without giving them opportunity to understand. If there was a way for masters and men to talk to one another — if the masters could explain to the brightest of them why it is that their demands cannot be met — then the strikes might be forestalled,” she proposed, presenting her position as simple logic, the tone of her voice both confident and respectful. Her adroit logic and graciousness in speaking was matched only by her perfect poise and attracting beauty. She was incomparable to any other woman in the room.