In Consequence: A Retelling of North and South

by Trudy Brasure

  He put his quill up after scribbling the last line of his business proposition and sat back in his chair, expelling a long breath of weary relief. Raising his eyes to the clock on the wall, he noted the time. It was well after eleven. He turned in his seat to see the darkened windows of his house. The nightly prayers had been made some time ago.

  Another sigh escaped him. Markedly different from the exasperated sigh of obligation’s pull, this audible exhalation expressed the sweet, aching longing that centered in his chest and flooded to every tired extremity as he thought of the fair face that must be resting serenely on the pillow next to his own vacant space.

  He shivered as he shrugged on his overcoat, realizing at once how cold the office had become since the steam engines had ceased their fuming hours ago.

  The stillness of the hour was palpable as he crossed the dark, empty yard to the house. It was only a few hours before this place would begin to stir with life again at the first glow of dawn.

  He shut out the frigid night wind as he closed the door of his home behind him, then deftly navigated through the darkened house with his lantern. Thinking of the sleepers in their beds, he trod quietly up the stairs and walked with careful footfall along the carpeted hallway of the upper hall until he reached the entryway to his room.

  He opened the door slowly. Surprised to find the space within softly illuminated, he swiftly shifted his gaze to trace the source of light. A small corner of the room glowed from a table lamp by his wife’s bedside. She looked up with a start from the book in her hands, her thick hair falling carelessly about her shoulders in a manner both sweetly innocent and beguilingly sensual — a vision that he knew at once was his privilege, and his alone, to see every evening.

  “You’re still up?” he rasped, his wavering voice waking from the long hours of solitude.

  She heard the uncertain hopefulness in his voice. “I wished to wait for you,” she affirmed as she threw back the covers of her warm bed to go to him. It had not been some casual whim or anxious need that kept her awake at this hour. It was a conscious recognition of all the hardships he had endured in the past, and his present diligence in attending to all his responsibilities, that created in her a deep-seated desire to soften his days with all the comfort and companionship of her affection. She wrapped her arms around his waist as she reached him and lifted her face to his with a loving smile. “I could not sleep while you were still working … and not at home,” she whispered the last words as she stretched up to touch her lips to his.

  His lips quivered at receiving from her such a tender welcome, which melted away all his weary strain and sent his limbs to fair trembling as he enfolded her in his arms, for this was what he had dreamed of since he had slipped a betrothal ring on her finger. And further still, the soothing effect of her soft, intimate attentions sank into his very core, evoking and filling some buried craving he had locked away these many years.

  Their kisses, honest and gentle at this midnight hour, warmed every portion of his inner being. But his skin was yet cool to the touch, as Margaret discovered when she laid a caressing hand along his bristled jaw. “You’re cold!” she exclaimed, withdrawing to evade the entrancing pull of their continued kisses as much as to chide him for his lack of self-care. “You should not stay so late where there is little heat. Come to bed.”

  “I will,” he answered with an irrepressible grin at both her cosseting censure and her insistent directive. Surely she must know there was no place on earth he would rather be.

  A blush warmed her cheek at the implication of her words, and she turned to leave him, then swiveled back, remembering something she had waited all day to ask him. “Mary says she will become cook at the mill come Monday next. Why did you not tell me?” she questioned him, her inquisitive eyes sparkling with the anticipation of his reply.

  A twisted grin appeared on his face. He placed his hands upon the small of her waist and inched her closer to him with cloying fingers. She exuded an irresistible charm, some magnetic spell that made it quite impossible for him to bear her nearness until her form was pressed against his. “I was going to tell you myself, but now my surprise is ruined. Do you approve?” he asked, knowing well her answer.

  “Of course I approve. I think it a grand idea. From what Mary tells me, you have involved Nicholas in this. I only wonder how this all came about,” she said, relaxing in his arms once more.

  “The idea arose naturally from my dealings and conversations with Higgins. And I hold you partially responsible for the outcome of this experiment, since you were the one to put him in my path,” he added with teasing inflection, punctuating his warning with a stolen kiss. He felt her shiver in her nightclothes and admonished her to return to bed.

  “Is that what has been keeping you these long evenings?” she asked, climbing back under the covers as he had directed.

  “No, not at all,” he replied as he unbuttoned his waistcoat. “Mr. Colthurst has been kind enough to send me a potential buyer. I have been taking stock of my financial position and the mill’s ability to fulfill a substantial order,” he explained while he continued to prepare himself for bed in the shadowy lamplight.

  “The buyer has not yet decided?” Margaret inquired.

  “No.”

  “But you are prepared to meet his requirements?” she asked with earnest interest and confidence in her husband’s capability to meet every challenge.

  “I believe so. I have spent much of the evening writing a proposition that I hope will encourage him to consider giving us his business.”

  “And if he does not?” she hesitated to ask, but could not help herself.

  A long, low exhale could be heard from her husband, who had thrown on his nightshirt and now worked to free himself from the last remnants of his day clothes. “If he does not, we will need new work to keep the mill busy through the winter. If he does, we will be working at full capacity for quite some time. We would fare very well to win this order for Marlborough Mills.”

  “Then I will pray that all will work for the best of everyone’s interests,” she declared.

  He smiled at her sympathy that included the wider range of humanity involved in this concern. Any other woman would have thought only of her own fortune.

  At last, he climbed into the wide bed, and she turned out her lamp and slid to meet him in the middle. His limbs were cold against hers, and his nose nearly like an icicle. But Margaret radiated an inner warmth that far surpassed any temporal displeasure aroused by the touch of his frigid flesh.

  “And have you done with your figures and calculations at present?” Margaret teased, breaking the silence as his lips brushed against her forehead.

  “Yes.” The hushed answer was spoken into her hair.

  “Good, I am glad,” she said, nestling her face happily against the soft skin of his neck as she pressed closer to him in the darkness.

  *****

  The workers’ kitchen at Marlborough Mills fed a great multitude of curious hands during its very first day of operation and more came the next to try the convenience of eating at the adjoining hall for a pittance — after word of the very palatable fare spread to counter doubting aspersions of ill-prepared rations. The news of this venture at Thornton’s became the talk of the trodden and tired classes, and it perked the ears of those in command of similar working factories.

  The new experiment was only in its second week when Fanny spoke up at dinner. “Watson says you’ve started a kitchen to feed your hands at noon. He doubts very much you’ll gain anything for your charitable gesture. They’ll take what they can get, he says, and still make their demands. You’ll not rid yourself of strikes for your trouble.”

  All eyes turned to John.

  The master of the house looked across the long table to his wife for steadying calm before he opened his mouth. “If Watson is so interested in my affairs, it were best that he come talk to me to learn the facts,” he began with steely reserve. “I am not running a charity scheme. The
hands pay for their meals, which money, in turn, covers the cost of the food, service, and equipment. I have no lofty expectation I shall win their unfailing allegiance. My gain is that my workers will be stronger and better able to concentrate on their tasks than those who are half-starved should do.”

  “I only wonder why you should go to such trouble to help them when they have been so ungrateful in striking and beating down our doors,” Fanny pouted, dismissing the subject to take a delicate bite of roast duck.

  “But, of course, your effort in considering their needs can only improve relations. Your actions may indeed forestall their talk of strike in the future,” Mr. Hale commended with enthusiasm, pleased to see any development that would ameliorate the battle-ready attitudes between masters and men.

  Hannah Thornton took silent opposition to her son’s sudden interest in expending his effort to aid the hands. She knew he had been influenced by the Southern father and daughter, whose grandiose theories of philanthropic justice were unspoiled by the unpleasant reality of the inequity and toil involved in daily industry. “I’m surprised you take so much time to deal with such matters. Certainly, you have more important concerns that need your attention,” the long-suffering widow directed to her son.

  “I spend little enough time on it, Mother,” John answered in a gentler voice, willing to explain all to the one who understood his responsibilities. “From the very beginning, I have given to others the tasks of planning and putting things in motion. I have a buyer who seeks the best deals in provisions and my clerks handle all the accounting. I was consulted often at the inception of operations, but now, hardly at all.”

  Hannah gave a conciliatory nod to her son, although her lips were still pressed together in doubtful disapproval.

  “It seems to me that it is an enterprise of mutual benefit,” Margaret concluded, gleaning more than approval from her husband’s grateful glance across the table.

  *****

  The mill kitchen thrived as the weeks wore on, a hot meal at noontime during the cold dreariness of November and December being deemed a worthy prize by most hands. Mr. Thornton was tempted to count his experiment a success thus far, despite the mockery and deep-rooted cynicism behind the other mill masters’ craftily meted words of praise.

  The pattern of days took on new hues and habits for all as autumn hastened toward winter. The sought-after contract from the London buyer had begun, spinning the mill into thriving action and filling Mr. Thornton’s schedule with the steady stream of responsibility and swift decision at which he excelled.

  Mr. Hale found a new pupil to engage his enthusiasm — a sandy-haired lad of sixteen by the name of Ralph Thompson, who was heir to his father’s calico-printing factory but seemed much more fascinated with the philosophy and knowledge of sages and prophets than with the machinations of wood, iron, and cotton. The ex-parson was convinced the boy had the mettle of a scholar and would cede his manufacturing birthright to his younger brother, who seemed much more interested in his father’s trade.

  Margaret smiled every time her father’s newest pupil arrived for his lessons with a ruddy glow on his fair face and a twinkle of eagerness in his eyes. She was glad that her father had a ready recipient for the treasure trove of knowledge and philosophical musings he had accumulated. She knew well the great desire within him to be useful, to know that in some small way he was connected to the progress of good that would elevate all mankind.

  As for herself, Margaret found satisfying pleasure in making her home a peaceable retreat for her husband and all who resided therein. There was an art to harmoniously inclining the management of a well-established house to the guidelines of a new mistress and it took keen intent, Christian charity, deft diplomacy, and patient planning to establish the model she envisioned. By consulting and engaging her mother-in-law in the handling of many important household matters, she gained the elder woman’s growing trust and respect and avoided not a few simmering arguments originating from the widow’s deep resistance to Southern liberality.

  Although largely ignorant of the effort and particulars involved in creating the more casual and colorful atmosphere, John nevertheless noticed that his home was changed to one more like the Hales’ rented rooms, which he had so often admired for its lived-in feel and appearance.

  That her husband was pleased with these domestic changes, Margaret knew to be true, for he sometimes told her of his pleasure by making small observations about the new arrangements, which were affirmed by his kisses, when they were alone in the evenings.

  As Christmas approached, Margaret asked Fanny to help her select the greenery, fabrics, and ribbons for decorations. However, shopping excursions with her sister-in-law were always eventful, and Margaret lost all certainty of the wisdom in requesting Fanny’s assistance when Miss Thornton enthused over the displays in every window and was not content with purchasing the more modest supplies traditionally borne home at Christmastide.

  Fanny’s enthusiasm for all things modern and beautiful was catching and Margaret was persuaded to indulge in ordering a spruce tree to be sent to the house. Fanny proclaimed that everyone of the least importance had a Christmas tree these days, but her mother had never capitulated in following this trend because she deemed it a nonsensical extravagance. Margaret felt a nervous qualm at the notion of her mother-in-law’s silent disapproval, but she reasoned that it was the perfect time to usher in new traditions. Besides, she believed the addition would add a freshness and gaiety to the drawing room at a time when she knew her father’s thoughts, and her own, would be drifting to the simple Christmases her family had shared in Helstone when her mother had been alive.

  On the Sunday morning before Christmas, Margaret climbed out of bed and tied on a dark blue muslin dressing gown with cream-colored ribbons and lace. She stopped at her mirror to absently pull at the tangled strands of her long auburn hair.

  Although patterns of frost decorated the outside windowpanes, only a faint chill remained inside the master chamber. Fiercely protective of the one day he had to spend his time as he willed, her husband had expressly forbidden any servant to enter their room on Sunday mornings until called for. And so he had lit the fire himself upon first awakening some time ago.

  A faint blush tinged her face as she recalled the time spent under warm covers this chilly morn. She, too, waited for Sunday all week long and cherished all the hours of that glorious day when they were never more than a few steps away from one another.

  Her mind drifted to the consideration of the secret she held, her heart quickening its tempo at the determination to tell him soon — now perhaps, while she had him all to herself.

  As if in answer to her unspoken thoughts, he was suddenly there, wrapping his arms around her from behind. She tensed at first, and then relaxed against him as he held her close. She closed her eyes. A flood of pure love filled her, and a tingling sensation traced up her spine as she marveled at how natural it felt to be in his embrace when they had only been quarreling strangers to one another not long ago.

  His crossed wrists pressed gently against the soft flesh of her belly, sending a cascade of warm sensations through her as she thought of the natural consequences of their intimacy. Her insides fluttered in nervous exhilaration.

  “John,” she began, endeavoring to steady her tone as her pulse beat in anticipation of sharing her news. “I have something to tell you,” she announced somewhat boldly, turning in his hold to raise her face to his.

  She wavered for a moment from her decisive impulse, feeling tremulous as she looked into his eyes. “I … I believe I am with child,” she faltered, her voice fading to a whisper.

  She watched his expression change from curious amusement to a stupefied intensity. Their gaze met in shared wonder of what was to come.

  “You are not certain?” he stammered, reigning in the sweeping euphoria that rose from the pit of his stomach and prickled his skin.

  She dropped her gaze and blushed under his searching stare. “I�
�m fairly certain….”

  He let out a sharp breath of incredulous joy as he gathered her to him. He could not speak, but only held her tight. A swarm of powerful, swirling emotions filled his breast. He blinked back the tears that turned everything into a blurry haze at the thought that she would bear the evidence of their union, that even now she carried within her a child — their child.

  “Are you well?” he asked, loosening his hold to search her face in sudden concern.

  “Yes,” she nodded, a smile breaking over her face in her joy at his eager reaction to her condition.

  “Margaret!” he breathed, pressing her gently to him once again in desperate elation, remembering in a flash how much his world had changed since the girl from the South had come to love him.

  Tears coursed down Margaret’s cheeks as they held each other for some time.

  “Have you spoken to my mother?” he inquired softly with creased brow, pulling back just enough to see her face.

  “No. I have told no one. You are the first,” she answered, her eyes gleaming in honest adoration.

  For this, she was rewarded with a kiss that lingered gently as they marveled at the deepening ties of their bond.

  At Margaret’s suggestion, it was decided that they would keep the secret to themselves for a little while, and then reveal their happy news on Christmas Day.

  Neither the father-to-be nor his wife could concentrate on the sermon preached that morning. Margaret’s thoughts were filled with trepidation and excitement at considering all that the coming months would require of her. Her husband’s thoughts, however, were swept away with more ephemeral dreams of the family life he should lead and the more potent contemplation of how he should feel to hold their infant in his arms.

  Margaret was both amused and touched by the barely restrained elation in her husband’s manner that day and in those that followed. She suspected that his mother might guess their secret in observing the frequent smiles, affectionate touches, and tender glances he gave his wife. The look in his eyes as he furtively sought her gaze across the dinner table stilled her breath and caused a certain throbbing in her womb.