Chapter 2

"Oppose not rage while rage is in its force, but give it way a while and let it waste"

Margaret and her father spent the next few days visiting several properties. They had divided the task in order to cover more ground. Margaret was dismayed by what she had seen so far. The rent was reasonable enough on many of the properties, but viewing each one as her mother might, she knew none of them would hold up to her mother's exacting expectations. Milton placed much more emphasis on industry than society. All the houses Margaret had seen were modern and built with economy in mind. They were within close distance to many of the factories. In more than one house, the near constant noise of the street persisted through the windows, even when closed. Her father had spoken of a house that was entirely the same shade of grey inside as it was out, with no trimmings at all.

Margaret was also astonished to see just how many impoverished people there were in Milton. She had no real experience with poverty, not in the truly destitute sense. She'd seen poor people in London of course, but only ever at a distance. Aunt Shaw, and consequently Edith and Margaret, had never ventured outside of the fashionable areas. Here in Milton, the lower class far outnumbered the upper and middle ones, and they seemed to be everywhere. Along the streets selling their wares, packed into carts taking them to the mills and factories. They were dressed in plain threadbare clothes and all looked frightfully thin, even ill. Despite Margaret's unadorned day gown and coat, she felt she stood out shamefully, a beacon of wealth, against all these unfortunate people. She did see some other people of quality, but none were walking as she was. They were in gleaming carriages or crowded inside shops, anxious to get away from the smoke-filled air. The sights she saw in Milton as she went about her errand made her feel very disheartened. She was compelled to gave a few of her merger coins to a young mother and child she saw crouched listlessly in a doorway. She could feel her spirits being pulled downwards. Tears began to prick at the back of her eyes. How could she live here in comfort in a place like this, when there was so much sadness around her?

Margaret shook herself slightly and resolved to put the matter out of her mind for the present time. She must focus her energies on the more pressing issue of finding a place to live. She would be in a better position to aid others if she and her family was settled and receiving steady income.

On the third day of her errand, Margaret was more hopeful. She had an appointment with a landlady in Crampton. She hoped that a woman's touch to the rooms might help ease some of her mother's many misgivings about Milton. However, the landlady – Mrs. Collins – was a disappointment. Margaret expected a matronly woman, open and friendly. What she found instead however, was a grim bony woman who only wanted assurances that Margaret's family could afford the rent.

"What does your Father do, then?" she demanded, after Margaret had explained her errand.

"He is a tutor. He will be," she corrected, "once we are settled."

"Hmph. Not much call for that in Milton. Men here work, they don't sit in a dusty library nodding over books." Mrs. Collins' beady eyes ran over Margaret's plain gown and unfashionable hat. "It'll be twenty-seven pounds for the year. I know it seems steep, but I keep it in excellent condition."

Mrs. Collins led Margaret up the narrow staircase. The stairs creaked ominously under their feet. Margaret wondering if the stairs could hold up to the constant comings and goings of Papa's students. As if anticipating her comment, Mrs. Collins narrowed her eyes and said, "The house is in good repair. I've just had it papered and painted."

Mrs. Collins continued along the landing, opening doors for Margaret to inspect. She opened her mouth to remark that they all seemed a bit small, but Mrs. Collins beat her to it.

"The rooms may seem small but they're not. Not once all the furniture has been arranged. Anyway, how much room do three people need?"

Margaret bristled slightly. "My father will need to educate his pupils in his home. We will need room for them, he is expecting many." Mrs. Collins did not seem to appreciate Margaret's answer to what she clearly intended to be a rhetorical remark.

"I live in the house next door," she said crisply. "So I would prefer noise inside the house to be kept to a minimum."

Margaret bit back a sigh. She did not relish the idea of living so close to such an unpleasant landlady. And she knew her mother would dislike the small dull rooms. She bid Mrs. Collins good day, and was unceremoniously ushered back out onto the street.

Margaret adjusted her bonnet and checked the next address on her paper, also located in Crampton. She weaved her way though the busy streets in a rapidly darkening mood. She was disappointed that her hopes for the previous house had been dashed. The frustrations of her task were also beginning to weigh on her. They did not have the funds to spare to continue to stay at the hotel for an indefinite period. It was becoming a matter of urgency that they find a suitable place soon. Margaret was certain that they might have to redefine their parameters of what they considered suitable. However, Margaret also did not want to have to deal with her mother's and Dixon's constant grumblings about the inadequacies of a substandard house.

Having found the correct street, Margaret made her way down towards address she had marked on her paper. She skirted around the crowds of people outside the shops. Sellers were yelling their sales at the tops of their voices, competing to be heard over one another. A tired woman was sitting on a stool was plucking a chicken, its feathers ghosting through the air around her.

Margaret paused a moment to look at the outside of the house. It was among a row of terrace houses, blending seamlessly in with all the others. The houses in this street seemed to exude a sense of strength, of solidness, that the previous houses had lacked.

The front door to the house was already open and Margaret quickly climbed the stairs and into the house. Margaret noted immediately that it seemed quieter inside. Unlike the last property she viewed, the architect had clearly designed this row of houses in such a way that minimized the noise outside. The rooms were spacious. As she walked around, Margaret saw that there would be space enough for a drawing room, her mother's parlor and a study for her father to entertain his pupils. Margaret was pleased to see that the kitchen had a stone floor and a good size stove. Peering through the windows, she was surprised and pleased to see a small garden out the back of the house. Hearing voices above her, Margaret moved further up the staircase. She ascended slowly, inspecting the walls for damage and the stairs for any unevenness. Finding none, Margaret smiled. This was the nicest house she had viewed so far. The advertisement did not state a set price, but Margaret was confident that she would be able to negotiate a fair amount, having heard what others in the area were charging. Margaret walked towards the sound of the voices. She paused at the door, which stood slightly ajar. She could see two men inside, and was chagrined to realize that they were discussing her father.

"I'm making inquiries on behalf of one of my master's business acquaintances. The man is still living as a clergyman. Or rather a former clergyman. He's used to living simply. I don't think he's ever been a man of great property or fortune," said the shorter of the two.

"Strange behaviour isn't it? For a man to uproot his wife and child to come all the way to Milton from the South!" said the other genially, as though sharing some great joke.

Margaret could not believe what she was hearing. Two complete strangers discussing her family and their private affairs! She pushed the door open wider and strode into the room. Both men turned to look at her.

"Excuse me, madam, can I help you?" asked the shorter one, rather rudely. Margaret drew herself up to full height.

"My name is Margaret Hale," she informed them cuttingly. Their expressions changed from annoyance to embarrassment, realizing that she had no doubt heard their conversation about her father. "Who are you?" demanded Margaret.

"I'm Williams, Mr. Thornton's overseer," he told her, as though she should already know this. He pronounced his master's name with a slight reverence, which irked Margaret even more. When Margaret did not respond, Williams continued. "He asked me to look out properties for your father."

Margaret thought that very presumptuous. Her and her father were already doing so, why did a stranger need to involve himself in the task as well? She wondered how his master came to know of her family and their situation.

"How much is the rent for the year?" She inquired, moving further into the room towards the windows.

"These are details Mr. Thornton will discuss with your father. There's no need to concern yourself in money matters, ma'am," said Williams, in what was clearly meant to be was a warm tone. Margaret turned to him, annoyed.

"I've no idea who your Mr. Thornton is," she said coolly. "I thank him for his trouble, but my father and I are sharing the task of securing a property."

Williams and the landlord glanced at each other, clearly uncomfortable with her. Margaret fixed them with a hard stare. "I have spent two days viewing what Milton has to offer, so I have a fairly good idea of price," she told them, attempting to bring the conversation back to the matter at hand.

"Mr. Thornton thinks this will do very well for your father," Williams said evasively. Margaret felt her anger growing, even though that was what she herself had also thought about the house.

"Where is Mr. Thornton?" Margaret asked, taking a step closer to Williams. The men seemed taken aback by her question. Margaret looked from one to the other. Margaret could not tell if their surprise was because of her directness, or because they assumed that she should already know who and where Mr. Thornton was. She couldn't believe the arrogance of this Mr. Thornton. To assume that she would know him instantly, and what's more, welcome his help with a task that she had been undertaking perfectly well on her own for the past two days. Margaret found she had suddenly lost her patience for these two evasive and lackluster men.

"Take me to see this Mr. Thornton," Margaret snapped at Williams. "If you won't deal with me, I'll have to deal with him."

Margaret stomped down the stairs with much more force than was entirely necessary. Once back on the street, she waited impatiently for Williams to catch up with her. He hailed a carriage and offered her his hand to assist her inside, which Margaret, still seething, did not take. Williams himself climbed up next to the driver. Margaret watched the scenery move past out the windows. She clenched her hands together in an effort to control herself. She should not barrel into the encounter ready to start a row. There may be a logical explanation for Mr. Thornton's interference.

The carriage was forced to stop several times to make way for a crowd of people or carts. Milton was as chaotic as London, but in a different, less leisurely way. The people here always seemed to move with such urgency. Despite her anger, Margaret wondered how her father would fare in such a place. He preferred to do things slowing, appreciating each and every action or decision. He was a ruminator, a scholar to his core. Watching the busy people outside, Margaret began to wonder how anyone in Milton could possibly be of a similar disposition.

The carriage rolled to a halt outside an enormous stone archway. A carved sign above the archway proclaimed the place to Marlborough Mill. Thick wooden gates stood at the entrance, but were currently propped open, giving Margaret a view of a stately manor across a courtyard from an enormous mill. The arrangement of the structures was reminiscent of a castle. A great manor hidden away inside a stone barricade, guarded by a wooden portcullis. Only the expansive shape of the mill was out of place.

"Does Mr. Thornton live here?" she asked Williams in disbelief. She couldn't imagine someone wanting to live in such close quarters to a factory of any kind.

"Aye, but he'll be at work," Williams replied.

Margaret followed Williams through the courtyard. People were loading goods in and out of carts, everyone was shouting and yelling. Margaret could hear machinery churning, drowning out almost every other sound. Williams steered her towards the mill. He led her up a wooden staircase and into a richly furnished office.

"Stay here, miss. I'll find Master," he told her before leaving her alone. Margaret found herself in a beautiful room, paneled with oak. She breathed in the scent of ink, leather and metal. Bookshelves lined almost every available space on the walls. Wide windows faced out towards the courtyard. Margaret was instantly captivated by the room. It seemed to her to be the very image of an industrial man that Milton was known for. Margaret peered closely at the titles on the shelves and saw they were all about manufacturing, economics, cotton, machine repairs. She stood by the window and watched the workers load the carts with a seemingly ceaseless number of paper-wrapped bolts of cloth. After a while, Margaret moved towards a large desk upon which an enormous leger rested. Flipping cautiously through the pages, Margaret noted that Mr. Thornton kept painstaking detail about his business. Every shilling spent or earned appeared to be recorded in the book, along with detailed notes on orders past and future. Margaret glanced at the clock on the wall and saw that she had been left standing alone in the room for almost twenty minutes. Her irritation with Williams and Mr. Thornton returned threefold.

Margaret walked purposefully out of the office. She clattered down the stairs to the floor of the mill. Her half boots clicked with every step on the stone floor, echoing in the large room. The workers bustled back in forth in front of her. Some did not even glance at her, others stared, openly curious as to what she is doing in a place like this. There was a glint of white floating in the air. Margaret realized that it was cotton fluff, coming loose as the workers went about their tasks. She coughed, shocked, as she felt the lint get caught in her throat. Margaret waved her hand in front of her face in an effort to dispel the thickness of the particles. The sounds of machines became louder and louder as Margaret strode towards the back of the room. Pausing a moment at a large wooden door, Margaret could hear voices on the other side. No doubt Williams and Mr. Thornton were in there. Margaret rolled open the heavy door and gasped.

Dozens, hundreds of machines took up every inch of the floor. They were whirring and churning, the sound of them intense. Sheets of snow white cloth spilt out of every one of the machines. Workers moved between the contraptions, operating the mechanisms. The cotton fluff was thickest in this room. It seemed to Margaret as though it was snowing, right here inside the cavernous room. For a brief moment, she thought it magical.

The room was shockingly white. Even the workers were wearing light colored clothing. Margaret walked slowly through the lines of machinery, utterly captivated. She had never seen industry on such a scale before. There must be thousands of yards of cloth just in this room, enough to clothe hundreds of people. She lifted her hands, palms up, to catch some of the fluff. She rubbed it between her fingers and marveled at its softness. Margaret moved further into the room, errand entirely forgotten. She examined the closest machine, mesmerized by the rhythm of its movements. The workers took no notice of her as she walked between them towards the centre of the room.

Movement above her drew her gaze abruptly upwards. Margaret halted and stared. A tall gentleman was standing on a raised walkway. He was so out of place in this white room that it seemed deliberate. He was clad entirely in black, his clothes expensive and well cut. His eyes were sharp and calculating, taking in everything in front of him. Margaret realized this must be Mr. Thornton. The master was surveying his manor.

As she watched, the man's gaze rested on something to her left that she could not see. Then suddenly, his unreadable expression transformed into one of outrage.

"Stephens!" he bellowed. "Put that pipe out!"

With surprising speed, Mr. Thornton raced down the metal staircase to the mill floor. The man at which he shouted ran towards Margaret and out through the door she had just entered. Margaret watched in astonishment as Thornton raced after him.

"I saw ya! Stephens! Stephens! Come here!"

Without comprehending her actions, Margaret followed the two men. She could hear Stephens pleading with his master and the sound of a violent confrontation.

"You stupid idiot!" Mr. Thornton yelled. The sound of fists hitting flesh was heard again and again.

"Please, sir!" Stephens words were garbled as though he was having trouble speaking. "I 'ave little ones!"

Rounding the corner, Margaret couldn't believe the repulsive sight before her. Stephens was curled up in a ball on the floor and sobbing, his nose bleeding profusely. Mr. Thornton drew back and kicked the fallen man in the chest, once, twice. That brutal action snapped Margaret out of her stupor.

"Stop!" Margaret cried in anguish. "Stop! Please, stop!"

Mr. Thornton turned to her, panting. "Who are you? What are you doing in here?" he demanded angrily.

"My name is Margaret Hale," she responded, shaken. She couldn't take her eyes off the poor creature on the floor. He was wiping at his face, trying to stop the flow of blood.

Williams came up running up next to her. "Miss Hale!" he gasped. He turned to Thornton. "I'm sorry sir, Mr. Thornton, I told her to stay in the office."

"Get her out of here!" Mr. Thornton shouted, not sparing Margaret a second glance. He turned back to Stephens.

"Aye, crawl away on your belly and don't come back," he spat. Stephens rolled over and crawled towards Mr. Thornton. He was gasping and crying, still trying to stem the flow of blood with his sleeve.

"Please, sir," he whimpered. "I promise it'll not 'appen again!" Mr. Thornton snarled, a shocking sound, and kicked him again, violently enough that Stephens fell back hard against the floor, his body making a sickening thump against the stone.

"You know the rules!"
"My children will starve, sir!"
"Better they starve than burn to death! Get out before I call the police!"

Stephens heaved himself up on all fours and put one shaking hand to his midriff. Mr. Thornton spun towards Williams and Margaret.

"Get that woman out of here!" Thornton barked at Williams. He then threw himself away from the group and stormed off.

Stephens had managed to rise to his feet and stumbled away from them, using the wall as a support. Margaret barely heard Williams urging her on, he mind was full of the gruesome scene she had just witnessed. Mr. Thornton, whom she had assumed to be a gentleman, has just beaten one of his mill hands for no other reason than to bring a pipe onto the mill floor. And more than just giving him a sound smack, Thornton had rained blow after blow down upon him until the man could barely stand. His nose was almost certainly broken; his ribs might be as well. Stephens pleas for his children rang in her ears.

The sudden rush of cool air to her face made Margaret aware of the fact that she was now back in the courtyard. Margaret marched towards the stone archway, determined never to set foot in the place again.