In Consequence

In Consequence - Chapter 9

The quiet of the morning was infused with an air excitement as Margaret threw back her covers and climbed out of bed to prepare for the long journey home. Bright sunshine already poured through the eastern windows while she padded about in her bare feet, hurrying through the motions of her toilette.

She stopped in front of the long mirror to study with new eyes the womanly curves revealed by her thin white nightdress. Spiraled tresses of auburn hair fell past her bare shoulders onto the pattern of lace and embroidery on her chest. Every pulse point began to pound with rising fervor as she imagined how she would feel to present herself thus to her husband.

The entrance of the chambermaid broke her reflective stupor, and she hastened to lay out the clothes to be packed in her small trunk.

She took a few sips of tea, but the toast on the breakfast tray turned cold and hard as the maid helped Margaret lace her corset and slip into her petticoats.

The thought of spending hours in close confinement with the man she had kissed last night stirred butterflies in her stomach and made her head feel light. She endeavored to think of other things while her hair was brushed and set prettily in twisted coils upon her head, but as the hour approached when Mr. Thornton would arrive, she was scarcely articulate enough to utter heartfelt sentiments to Edith, who had appeared at her door in her dressing gown to mournfully say her goodbyes.

Not long after, the footman announced Mr. Thornton’s arrival. Margaret took pains to descend the stairs with stately grace, quelling the schoolgirl zeal which beckoned her to clamber down the stairs.

“Good morning,” he greeted her, his tall figure standing by the open doorway.

The familiar timber of his voice, the bright sparkle in his eyes, and the slightly crooked smile - meant only for her - sent an effusion of warmth coursing through her body.

“Good morning,” Margaret returned airily, catching her breath at his ardent study of her.

She wondered if he, too, was thinking of what had passed between them hours before in this very location. Her gaze dropped to the soft curve of his mouth and she remembered with tingling clarity the tender mingling of their lips in the shadowed hallway. Her lips twitched.

His eyes darkened and she knew at once that he well remembered their kisses last evening. She cast her eyes to the floor, feeling a flush rise to her face.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked, proffering his arm to take her to the waiting carriage.

“Yes....yes, thank you,” she stammered. His question seemed at once casual and intimate and did nothing to calm the quaver in her voice. She threaded her arm through his and they stepped out into the sunlight.

Mr. Thornton assisted Margaret into the coach and then duly took his seat beside her. Fanny and the Latimers, seated across from them in the spacious cab, exchanged morning pleasantries with the newest arrival before Fanny began to mutter a litany of complaints as to why they should return home so early.

Margaret listened politely, although with divided attention. She was more aware of the seating arrangement within the cab. Unaccustomed to being seated next to any man other than her father, she felt keenly the significance of her new relationship to the Master. From now on, this would be her place: beside him.

The notion of becoming a wife was daunting enough, but the thought taking on the role of the Master’s wife was even more intimidating. She hoped to prove herself a worthy figure for the part she would play in his life, for whoever would be Mr. Thornton’s wife would wield an influence far beyond the average housewife. The importance of his position in Milton society was undeniable, and in his hands lay the welfare of hundreds.

Margaret surreptitiously studied Mr. Thornton’s face as he gazed out the window. The shape of his jaw and the strong angular lines of his profile were as perfect and defined as a sculpture cut from marble. Truly, there was no one like him in the world. The force and power of his character could be seen in one glance.

A small smile lifted the corners of his mouth. She held her breath and felt a stirring in her breast as she considered how it was that she should be the recipient of his ardent affections. She wondered if he knew how much his very presence affected her.

If Margaret had been privy to his thoughts, she might have been surprised to discover that the man that exuded so much confidence in all his doings was still struggling to discern the success of his most earnest goal: to win the affections of the woman who was to be his wife.

Mr. Thornton could not contain the joy he felt. The events of the day before, culminating with that ecstatic taste of the physical affection for which he craved, sent his aspirations above the clouds. To earn her love had seemed so long a dream, he dared not believe it could be bestowed upon him so easily.

He recalled with a twinge of shame the way she had been compelled to stop his amorous attentions to her soft beguiling lips. He knew such a lady of fine upbringing would never feel the dark, passionate need that swirled deep within his own desire for her. He renewed his resolve to be patient and gentle, as she deserved, for he was secretly frightened that she would grow wary of him if he should continue to allow his passions to overrule his self-control.

He could not imagine a more perfect day than to spend it in her presence. Within the public eye, there would be no opportunity to test his resolve and he would be free to relax and enjoy her company with equanimity for the duration of the trip.

******

Alighting from the carriage at Waterloo, they were immediately surrounded by the bustle and commotion of London’s grand terminal.

The women gravitated toward the railway platform while Mr. Latimer headed for the ticket counter and Mr. Thornton attended to the cab and called a porter for their luggage.

Fanny and Miss Latimer sauntered off to purchase a few magazines, promising Margaret they would return in a moment. Margaret nodded in acknowledgment, but her eyes were riveted to Mr. Thornton many yards away. She watched every movement of his tall, dark frame and the subtle expressions on his face as he hailed a porter and gave his commands. His bearing and manner exuded an authority and dignity all his own.

When he finally turned to stride toward her, he caught her gaze and returned it with a smile that made her belly flutter. She stood in mute wonder at how it was that such a man had chosen her above all others.

A look of concern creased his brow as he reached her side. “How is it that you are left alone?” he asked.

“Fanny went to...” She had scarcely uttered her reply when a shout filled her ears and she found herself pulled abruptly against the strong, clothed barrier of the Master’s chest.

A crashing thud behind her made her body jolt. The protective arms around her tightened as the voice above her ear barked an angry warning. She felt the vibration of his vociferous speaking resonate from the depths of his broad chest and rested willingly there for a brief moment, nestled securely in his firm embrace as a child taking refuge from the onslaught of the world.

“I...I’m sorry....I didn’t see...” the frightened young porter stuttered, trembling at the sharp remonstrance of the commanding stranger and scrambling to recover the trunks that had fallen from his hand trolley.

Margaret gently pulled away from her protector’s grasp to observe the scene around her.

Mr. Thornton’s eyes grazed over her form with tender longing as he reluctantly loosened his hold and let her go.

“Take care not to stack your portage too high!” the Master cautioned the blundering porter, his harsh tone lessening slightly at the sight of the boy’s blanched face. “Do you not see what injury you could have caused?” he added with foreboding.

“Yes, sir. It will never happen again,” the young man promised effusively as he carefully rearranged the luggage in his care, grateful to be accorded only verbal retribution from the man before him.

“Thank you,” Margaret shyly offered the man who had saved her from harm, blushing as she observed the white cotton of his shirt, where her cheek had recently rested. She remembered the crisp scent of sandalwood and the comforting feel of his firm chest against her own.

Mr. Thornton’s lips curved into a smile. “It was my pleasure. I don’t believe it would have enhanced your aunt’s opinion of me if she were to discover that you had been grievously injured by wayward luggage within the first hour of my care,” he replied with a mischievous gleam in his eye.

A laugh bubbled forth from Margaret’s throat. “No, it would not have,” she agreed, her eyes sparkling with delight at his humor, which instantly banished her lingering tremors of embarrassed anxiety.

The others soon joined them. Fanny pouted when Mr. Latimer announced that first class had been filled and he had been forced to purchase second class tickets. Even these compartments were partially filled, so that the Milton group was forced to separate. Mr. Thornton and Margaret were obliged to sit across from a portly gentleman and his wife. A slender, fair-haired girl of about fifteen years of age fit snugly between them.

After brief civilities were exchanged between the strangers, the compartment grew silent. The girl kept her gaze lowered, although Margaret smiled to spy her stealing an occasional fascinated glance at the Master, whose head was turned toward the window.  Margaret, too, happily contented herself in observing the passing scenery of the city and its environs.

Mr. Thornton was greatly relieved to find fortune in his favor when, at length, the girl and her parents reached their destination and no others alighted the compartment to take their place.

As the train slowly lurched forward once more, Margaret felt a twinge of nervousness to be left alone with the Master. After several moments of silence she began to relax, admitting that it might be quite pleasant to enjoy each other’s company without the intrusion of others.

Mr. Thornton observed Margaret’s pensive face as she gazed at the ancient patchwork of fields and distant copses beyond the walls of their compartment. “Are you thinking of Helstone?” he asked softly, breaking the silence between them.

She startled somewhat to be roused from her daydreams. “No...well, yes - a little, I suppose,” she answered. She dipped her head a moment to collect her thoughts. “I was just remembering the last time I travelled this route,” she confessed somewhat hesitantly with a trace of melancholy.

Mr. Thornton was a quiet a moment, remembering with remorse how quickly she had defended her beloved south when he had disparaged it at tea months ago. “It must have been difficult to leave your life in Hampshire to come to Milton,” he said.

Margaret looked down at her hands, twisting them in her lap. “Yes. Perhaps if it had not been such a shock. I had scarcely returned home from London when...when father explained his decision,” she answered feebly, recalling the horrible despair that had descended upon her the day her whole world had seemed to collapse.

“You had returned to Helstone from London?” he inquired, curious to know more of her former life.

“Yes. You see, mother and father thought it would be a great benefit for me to be educated with Edith. Ever since I was nine, I spent the better part of the year at Aunt Shaw’s. I’m sure that is was a very good thing. I did learn so much, but I looked forward to the holidays and the wonderful summers at home, in Helstone,” she admitted, gaining encouragement by glancing at his attentive demeanor.

“Last summer, I had just returned from Edith’s wedding in London....I had so longed to enjoy a carefree summer....” she confessed, examining her hands once more.

“You were not aware of your father’s struggles?” he gently prodded.

“Not at all. And my mother was also unsuspecting. It was rather alarming, to say the least, when we discovered we would soon be packing our things and leaving our idyllic home for somewhere so far and....you will forgive me if I say... strange and foreboding,” she declared, glancing at him guiltily before returning her eyes to her lap, the bitter strain of those days evident in her speech.

The broad, thick-skinned hand of the Master’s silently reached to cover one of her own small, ivory hands and grasped it with gentle firmness. “I know it must have been a stark change from all you had known. You have endured much hardship; yet you have been a strength to your parents,” he affirmed. “But you need not be alone any longer. That is, I wish to aid you in carrying your burdens, if you will only share with me your sorrows,” he pleaded with utmost tenderness, the mellow tones of his voice enveloping her with comfort of promised care.

Margaret stared spellbound a moment at their clasped hands. The feel of his warm skin against her own was a scintillating pleasure, and the strength of his grasp a grateful release from the weight of responsibility she had long carried.

She trusted him. In a flash, she considered how well he truly understood her trials. It was he who had taken pains to arrange for their arrival in Milton and never once had he acted or spoken in a way that cast judgment on her father for his choice in abandoning his vocation. He knew her father well, and was kind to both of her parents. No one else in town was more intimately acquainted with her family.

Her eyes slowly lifted to him and her body stilled to see his face glow with tender compassion. Abashed by the sudden confluence of a mass of emotions rising in her breast, she sought refuge by turning her gaze to the window.

He waited patiently for her to speak, wanting to hear whatever words came from her lips. The clacking drone of the train continued heedless of time.

“My mother is very ill,” she uttered tonelessly. She forced the words out, the truth they bore almost too painful to reveal.

“I had suspected so, although I wished to be mistaken,” he answered so softly that Margaret felt tears prick in her eyes. “Your father is not aware of it?” he asked, knowing Mr. Hale’s natural inclination to avoid the dark pictures of discord on this earth.

Margaret shook her head. “I thought at first she was just fretful because of our move. She was very much put out that father should have given up his position. She did not love Helstone as I did, but the dirt and smoke of Milton was so much the worse.” She cast a sidelong glance at him, feeling uneasy in speaking unkindly of his native city, but there was no shadow of hurt on his face, only eager attentiveness to her story.

As pastures of cows and sheep, villages, and gently rolling hills passed outside their windows, Margaret began to talk freely of her mother, the impact of their move from Helstone to Milton and the changes their lives had taken. Occasionally, while she spoke, the Master’s thumb brushed slowly up and down the back of her hand, sending tremors of sensation through her entire body. But she continued on, although faltering to engage her voice at the moments his touch overwhelmed her.

When, after a time, Mr. Thornton inquired how a gentleman’s daughter from Hampshire had befriended a girl from his own factory, Margaret felt no compunction in relating how she had become acquainted with Nicholas Higgins and his daughters. She even began to explain Nicholas’ struggle to ensure that the workers were treated fairly.

She stopped mid-sentence upon glancing at his bemused expression. “I’ve been talking endlessly. I’m sorry,” she stammered.

“There’s no need to apologize,” he answered with a warm smile, clearly enjoying the confidence she displayed in him in all she had relayed.

“But what of you? Have you lived all your life in Milton?” she asked, suddenly curious to learn more of his own history, knowing only vaguely how he had come to hold his current powerful position.

Mr. Thornton shrank instinctively for a moment at the thought of disclosing the more sordid events of his past which he had never revealed to anyone. His smile vanished but his eyes lit with new hope as he surveyed the contours of her bright, expectant face.

“Born and bred,” he answered with a furtive grin. He took a deep breath and shifted his glance. “We lived on the east side of Milton, in a comfortable town house. My father worked in the cotton trade.”  

He paused. A shadow passed over his features, and Margaret’s heart lurched to banish his sorrow. “Father told me...” she whispered. “I am sorry. It must have been so very hard for you...” she choked out the words. She gave his palm a squeeze and gently laid her other hand over his in sympathy.

He searched her face with fierce hope and incredulous wonder that she might care to understand him. Seeing only earnest tenderness in the bewildering depths of her blue-gray eyes, he longed to take up her hand and kiss it fervently as a flood of love and gratitude for her existence almost overwhelmed him. He turned his gaze to their hands, marveling at the magnitude of meaning which this simple gesture held. The feeling of her delicate hands surrounding his own an unutterable, sensuous delight.

He wanted to tell her everything that his heart had endured. He wanted her to know how much he needed her to heal it. All the pain and emptiness, all his self-doubt would be wiped away if she would only love him.

“After my father died, we could no longer keep the house. I needed to find work, and my mother wished to get away.  No one offered us help; there was too much...embarrassment in our situation,” he continued solemnly. “We moved west and southward a ways to Altrincham, not too far from Milton, but far away enough. We found lodgings that were barely suitable and I found work in the draper’s shop. Fanny was only a small lass - three or four. It was a strain for my mother to care for her properly when she would have taken work herself to help pay off my father’s debts. I was proud to keep them both from starving. My mother’s plan gave me hope that we would resettle ourselves once we paid all. Never would she allow that I should hold my head in shame,” he recounted.

“It was not your fault that your father took his life. You did everything right and bore responsibility beyond your years. It was just that you should be given reward for your honesty and diligence. Is that not how you came to work in the cotton factories?” Margaret interrupted him with her ardent assurances.

He could only smile at her vehemence on his behalf. “Yes,” he answered. “When old Mr. Oglethorpe discovered I had come to pay him the money my father had borrowed four years earlier, he offered me a job in his mill - Marlborough Mills,” he explained.

“You must have been a quick study,” she teased him, her eyes shining proudly at the thought of his position now.

“I was determined to know everything,” he answered with a gleam in his eye. “And I am relentless when set to work. I believe that is my greatest strength - if it is not construed as stubbornness,” he added with a grin.

Margaret grinned bashfully in return, remembering how Higgins had compared him to a bulldog for his strong determination.

“When did you become master?” she asked.

“I took over when Mr. Oglethorpe died at his request. I was two and twenty. I am now one and thirty,” he answered straightforwardly.

Margaret studied him with a glimmer of admiration and respect. She knew of no other man who had risen to such responsibility at so young an age. How the years must have been full of toil and care for him, she considered with a new wave of compassion.

And so they continued to inquire about and compare the lives they had led before the threads of circumstance had woven their fates inextricably together upon the Hales’ arrival in Milton.

Midway through their journey, they alighted the train for a brief walk about the platform together.  They conversed briefly with Fanny and Ann Latimer, who introduced them to a well-dressed young man who had obviously kept them entertained for many miles. His father, a London banker, was still talking animatedly with Mr. Latimer on board the train.

At the warning whistle, Mr. Thornton led Margaret back to their compartment, relieved to find it still unoccupied. Margaret adjusted her skirts as she took her seat while Mr. Thornton lowered the window. The air had grown humid as the noon hour approached.

Taking his seat next to her, Mr. Thornton was at once preoccupied with the notion of taking up her hand again. He hesitated only a moment before following this impulse, reaching over to reclaim her small hand and pulling it to his lap.

Margaret smiled to feel this welcome contact again. “We are still a long way from Milton?” she asked, endeavoring to cover the flustered thrill she felt at his touch with a flurry of words.

“We have more than an hour yet,” he answered, his face beaming with the joy of her acceptance of him.

Margaret shied away from the warm gleam in his eyes and turned to the window, watching farmers work in sun-soaked hayfields as blue-black rooks soared overhead.