In Consequence: A Retelling of North and South

by Trudy Brasure

  “Margaret, dear,” Mrs. Hale called out, giving her daughter a faltering smile. A pale, dainty hand reached to pat the empty sofa space next to her own skirts while her gaze drifted to the floor.

  “Good morning, Mother,” Margaret returned as she seated herself at her side, feeling a faint tingling of apprehension at her mother’s manner.

  Mrs. Hale studied her daughter’s youthful complexion with bittersweet affection. Her child was just beginning her life’s journey, while her own was rapidly coming to an end. “In another week, you shall be married,” she declared with reverence.

  Margaret nodded.

  “You are a good girl, Margaret,” Mrs. Hale began, dropping her gaze to her lap where she wrung her hands impatiently. “You can be quite spirited and very … strong-minded. Sometimes you remind me of Frederick. He was always so full of life, fervent in feeling and not always careful in uttering his opinions,” she added with a trace of affection for her long-absent son.

  “I know that you have had differences of opinion with Mr. Thornton in the past,” her mother continued with solemn purpose. “I trust they have been resolved since. You know well, of course, all Biblical instruction we are given concerning marriage.”

  Margaret felt creeping trepidation tighten in her stomach. “Yes, Mother.”

  “I wish only to remind you that he will be husband over you, and you must submit to him in all things … wholly to him,” she emphasized, glancing nervously at her daughter to discern whether she understood the import of her final utterance.

  “Yes, Mother,” Margaret repeated with bowed head, scarcely able to breathe as she comprehended the implication of her mother’s words.

  “You will share his bed on your wedding trip,” the elder woman posed to make certain her daughter understood her obligations, her own face nearly as flushed as that of her daughter.

  Margaret could not answer, but kept her head bowed as a furious blush warmed her face and made her pulse quicken in uncertain apprehension. Questions she would fain have asked her mother swirled within, but the notion of uttering them stifled her with painful mortification.

  Relieved to have discharged this vague counsel to her daughter, Mrs. Hale took a long breath. “The Thornton house is quite grand for Milton standards. I’m certain you will be given your own bedchambers upon your return, my dear,” she added, wishing to relieve the girl of any undue anxiety.

  Margaret could only nod, as a baffling melange of thrilling thoughts and startling images constricted her ability to speak.

  “Now then, hand me my sewing. We must finish our work before your aunt comes to town,” she commented, putting the uncomfortable discussion firmly behind them.

  *****

  By Wednesday, Margaret longed for a day of reprieve from the sedentary task of sewing and the endless talk of her wedding. Eager to find some freedom before her London relations arrived and the preparations took a dizzying pace, Margaret determined to go out of doors as soon as her mother took her first rest.

  Having decided to exert herself with purpose, she carefully folded one of her older dresses, a simple muslin dress of faded lilac, to take to Mary Higgins. Although she could have given the gift to the quiet girl on any of the days which she came to the house as a servant, Margaret wished to present it to her when the distinction between them was less in evidence.

  As she envisioned the route that would take her past Marlborough Mills, Margaret could not help thinking of the man who managed the great cotton mill and how sorely she missed him. The contours of his face, the timbre of his voice, and the remembrance of how his lips had travelled the curve of her neck were never far from her mind.

  She thought of the long hours Mr. Thornton worked with a swell of pride, and felt a zealous desire to offer him a respite from his burdens and succor for his ceaseless toil.

  She plucked several of Dixon’s delicious scones from the kitchen platter and placed them in a basket with a small jar of jam before she headed out the door, as she wondered if the Master ever took the time for proper nourishment.

  Margaret relished her invigorating walk to the Princeton district, taking in the sights and sounds of all around her. She no longer felt like a stranger to the bustle and noise of the streets as she had a year ago. It was her city now, and she was proud to be a part of its promise.

  When she arrived at the Higgins’ home, Mary blinked back tears at Margaret’s insistence that she take the offered dress to wear as a proper guest to the wedding. “If only Bessy could ‘ave come,” she moaned with wistful sorrow at her sister’s untimely death.

  Margaret nodded in perfect sympathy. “Please tell Nicholas that he must come as well. Mr. Thornton has given his word that he may abdicate his duties at the mill for the morning,” the Master’s future wife explained, placing the printed, formal invitation to the wedding on the rustic table.

  Mary nodded as she stroked the soft fabric and lace edging of the dress. She had never owned anything so delicate or pretty.

  Margaret stayed awhile to talk and was pleased to discover that Mrs. Boucher was being treated for her ailments. If she seemed only a little better, it was well that she no longer took to her bed for days.

  She bid a fond goodbye to her friend before long, eager to accomplish her final errand. The anticipation of seeing Mr. Thornton quickened her steps as she walked the streets to Milton’s largest mill. Her pace slowed as she entered the side of the factory near the Master’s office, as she suddenly questioned the propriety of her unannounced visit.

  The door to his office was ajar. She knocked and pushed it gently open, her pulse hammering at her boldness. He was scribbling at his desk.

  He looked up from his ledger to see who requested his attention. “Margaret!” he breathed as he began to rise from his chair.

  “No, don’t get up!” she commanded with some force, gesturing for him to remain seated. “I do not wish to disturb you from your work,” she added as she secured the door behind her and drew closer.

  “I thought perhaps you might not have taken the time to eat. I’ve brought you some scones. Dixon learned to make them from her mother in Dorset; they are truly delicious,” she babbled as she came around to set the basket on the desk beside him, doubting her own motives in coming now that she stood within inches of him.

  She pushed back her loosely tied bonnet, letting it fall carelessly on her back before she began her task.

  He watched her pull back the napkin and place it carefully beside the ledgers and documents that no longer held any interest for him. He stared, entranced, at the graceful movements of her slender fingers and hands as she laid out the small repast, handling each item she touched with a gentle finesse that spoke of everything soft and feminine.

  The notion that these were the hands that would tenderly care for him in the days and years to come enthralled him. His gaze travelled up her arms, the form of which could nearly be seen underneath the gauzy fabric of her feminine blouse. Her lips were loosely parted as she bent over her task, intent upon her purpose.

  It was not merely desire but a palpitating need to feel her soft form against his that bade him to act. He grasped her wrists, and before he knew what he was doing, pulled her steadily toward him across his lap.

  Mr. Thornton’s pulse pounded at his audacity and he closed his eyes to grasp at self-restraint. He had not been prepared for her appearance; her very nearness had been his undoing. To hold her so intimately close to him after two long days of loneliness was a delicious torture. Moved by forces beyond his control, he began to nuzzle the skin behind her ear, breathing in her sweet scent as if he drew his very life force from her being. He kept still, one hand at her back, determined not to frighten her with any further claims upon her person, yet eager to gain her trust with utter tenderness.

  Margaret’s heart beat wildly. Never before had she been so intimately situated with a man. She could not move, but closed her eyes to feel his warm breath on her neck, which caused shivers of anticipation to
ripple through her every nerve.

  Moments passed. He did not stir. She felt the weight of his arm lying across her lap and fluttered her eyes open to observe it. She studied with fascination the sinewy strength of his forearm, noting how masculine his dark-toned skin appeared against the white cotton of his sleeve, which was rolled nearly to the bend of his elbow.

  Instinctively, she sought to touch what her eyes feasted upon. Her fingers hesitantly traced over the skin at his wrist, brushing over the fine hairs of his arm as she slid her hand along his bare skin.

  She heard his breath catch with an inarticulate sound as her own breathing grew ragged and uneven at the sensations that the simple feel of his skin under her hand aroused in her.

  The muscles of his arm grew taut as he tightened his grasp on her. His lips, once still, now began to nip and brush against her neck with excruciating slowness.

  She was lost in the headiness of his soft touch, the nearness of him drowning out everything around her. She gripped his arm to steady herself. Her mother’s words swept through her thought. If this was submission to him, then this duty was sweeter — and more thrillingly natural — than any obligation she had ever known. It was a consuming compulsion to bend to his every motion.

  His lips traced the path of her jawline, inch by inch.

  Delirious in her need to feel his kiss, she turned her face haltingly towards his as if moved by magnetic force to the pull of his sensual power.

  At last his lips slowly slid over hers, brushing them tentatively before he fused his mouth to hers with an urgency that was willingly met by her own desperate need.

  He felt her delicate arm reach up to wrap about his neck, and his whole body shuddered at her willing submission. The notion that she had sought his kiss — wanted his touch — shattered any expectation that he would receive tempered love from the woman that would be his wife.

  Their kisses deepened. His body was on fire, his passion ignited by the unquenchable yearning to be one with her. The promise of what was to come sent every emotion into an agonizing frenzy of desire to claim her.

  It was well that there was no surface on which to comfortably recline, or he would be sorely tempted to take her as his own, casting aside five days as naught against the years of their binding union.

  They were lost in the all-consuming ecstasy of sensual communion, starved from their days of separation. The emptiness they had endured in each other’s absence had only increased their latent passion. Mr. Thornton fleetingly prayed for strength to halt the outpouring of his amorous affection before it reached a perilous brink.

  A rap at the door brought them abruptly apart. Margaret scrambled to her feet, taking up her place beside the basket she had brought.

  “Come in,” the Master called out as he leaned over his desk, his voice taut with forced brusqueness.

  The door opened, and Higgins took two steps into the stifled quiet of the room.

  “Nicholas,” Margaret breathed in a quavering voice. The bloom of shame tinted her face as she flashed her eyes to his. Bowing her head again, she busied herself emptying the contents of her basket.

  A comprehensive glance at the flushed girl’s manner and the Master’s rather evasive and guilty expression gave the intruder a fair picture of what he had interrupted. Higgins contained the sly smile that pulled on his mouth.

  “What is it?” the Master demanded with creased brow, a trace of annoyance in his voice. He tried to muster some semblance of authority as he sat behind his desk, trapped in his seat at such an untimely interruption.

  Higgins looked to him, endeavoring to hide the spark of amusement in his eyes. He swallowed as he recalled the seriousness of his purpose. “I’ve the names of a round of men who would work after hours,” he revealed.

  “I should go,” Margaret interrupted in flustered haste, her body still quivering from the passion that had been so abruptly halted. She had no desire to intrude upon business affairs.

  Mr. Thornton shot her a desperate glance, unwilling to let her go without further words between them.

  “My aunt arrives on Saturday. Perhaps you could join us for luncheon on Sunday,” she posed as a parting hope to arrange their next meeting.

  “It would be my honor,” he replied with some relief at her wish to secure his company. He watched helplessly as she nodded and disappeared through the open doorway.

  “She’s the pick of the crop. There’s none like her in all of Milton,” Higgins offered after she had gone. “Yo’re a lucky man,” he appraised, studying the forlorn lover’s face.

  The Master’s lips twitched. “Fortune has not always smiled upon me. I believe ‘luck’ comes most often by hard work and self-sacrifice. But I do not, and will not, take for granted what is given to me,” he uttered in solemn tones as he returned the steady gaze of the man before him.

  “What of this list?” he added, turning the conversation to business once again.

  “Aye, there’s more than on here that’s looking to put a few more coins in their pocket. I’ve got men from Hamper’s and the like who’ll work for yo’. Yo’ said yo’ll give us Monday morning if we got the work finished by Saturday,” he reminded him, eyeing hungrily the good-smelling ware laid out on the desk.

  “I’ll give you all of Monday if the work is done by the last whistle on Saturday,” the Master offered with dubious hope. “You’re welcome to a morsel of food,” he added, noting the laborer’s longing glance at the small pile of scones.

  “I’ll not take what’s meant for thee,” Higgins politely countered.

  “Go on,” his employer encouraged, gesturing with a quick jerk of his chin.

  “I reckon we can finish that order if we work every evening ’til then,” Higgins proposed, taking a bite of scone. “I thank yo’. I’ve not eaten a thing since this morning, as my belly is sorely aware,” he added with a rueful grin.

  “You’ve not taken lunch?” Mr. Thornton inquired, his brow knit in perplexed interest.

  Higgins met the Master’s inquiring gaze with a sheepish expression. He’d let his stomach rather than his brains govern his mouth, and now he would have to out with it. “I gave what I’d brought wi’ me to another who was starving hisself to feed his family, so his children would have a bit o’ bread and meat,” he answered, satisfied to have revealed to the wealthy mill owner the hard choices some of his employees faced every day.

  The Master’s gaze shifted from the Union leader’s scrutiny, and his brow furrowed deeper. He took a long breath. “When can the men start? Have you got the list?” he asked, pressing forward with the issue at hand.

  “I told ‘em to come today, after hours. I figured yo’d not want to waste time. I’ll give yo’ the names then, when we can count ‘em,” he returned.

  Mr. Thornton could not suppress his inclination to be impressed by Higgins’ prompt diligence and quick initiative. “I’ll commend your boldness this time if it will not grow your head. You’ve got a mind to get things done which I like; as long you still take your orders from me, I think you’ll be a fair help,” he assessed, giving his collaborator a wry smile.

  Higgins’ eyes sparkled and the corners of his mouth quirked upward in response. He nodded in acknowledgment of his usefulness and turned to leave.

  “Higgins,” the Master called out as he reached the doorway. “How many of the workers go without sustenance at midday?”

  “More than yo’d suspect, I reckon,” he replied without cavil.

  “But a man cannot attend well to his work if he’s hungry,” his employer returned.

  “I know,” the long-time laborer replied soberly, giving the Master a penetrating look before he turned back into the mill.

  The Master sat and stared at nothing for several long minutes, a crease of concern etched on his forehead.

  *****

  Mr. Thornton’s eyes glossed over the newspaper in his hands although he comprehended not a word. Sitting, but not truly relaxing in his accustomed seat in the gas-lit drawing
room of his home, the groom-to-be endeavored to treat this Sunday evening as any other when the next morning would bring the most significant day of his life.

  It would be the last night he would spend with just his mother and sister. For his mother’s sake, he was present with them although all his thoughts centered upon the girl who lived two miles hence. Fanny’s chatter about expected wedding guests, apparel, and the spectacle of every arrangement did nothing to alleviate his distracted nerves.

  Throwing down his paper at last, he walked the room aimlessly before returning to the long windows overlooking the mill yard. He stared through the panes of glass to the darkening night scene. It was here, on the portico below him, where everything had begun to unravel between them. The electrifying moments that they had shared the day of the riot were as vivid to him as if they had transpired yesterday. The mere thought of all she had done to save him, her touch and the way she had looked at him, still evoked powerful emotions of amazement.

  Although he did not claim to comprehend how it all had happened, he would be forever grateful for the dizzying succession of events that had led her straight into his waiting arms. All that he had vainly dreamed of had tumbled into his hands; he had only to wait hours before everything he had hoped for — longed for, waited for — would be his.

  At times, it seemed too perfect. Gathering clouds of uncertainty began to form in his mind, his impatient anxiety to hasten the morrow instilling the fear that something might mar this happiness. Mrs. Hales’ declining health and Frederick Hale’s intrepid arrival loomed over the bright image of the day that was planned. He prayed with all his soul that every contingency would work in their favor, leaving the morrow unscathed by calamity of any sort.

  His mother silently eyed his restlessness as she sewed to calm her own nerves, enduring the prattle of her young daughter on this auspicious eve. Startled when he broke his reverie to briskly gather his coat, she called out to him. “Where are you going?”