-THE DREAM-
"A dinner meeting?"
Surprised, Margaret looked at John from across the small breakfast table in the master suite.
"Yes, this Saturday," he said. "You don't need to plan it. Grimsby knows what is required. And you obviously don't need to be present," he said and went back to his newspaper.
"Are these regular meetings?" she asked.
"Yes."
"How often do you meet?"
"Once a month."
Margaret picked up her toast and nibbled on it thoughtfully. "May I ask what is discussed in the meetings?" she ventured.
John lifted his gaze from the newspaper and gave her a long look.
"You don't have to tell me if it is a secret," she said, lifting the cup to her mouth.
He smiled. "It is no secret," he said, turning the pages of his paper. "We discuss trade, share information, make decisions."
"I didn't realise you dealt so closely with the other masters."
"The circumstances of the industry require it. We don't interfere in the functioning of each other's mills but there are matters that concern us all equally so it is best if we reason together."
"So you do have some influence on one another."
He paused, fixing her with knowing smile and then set aside the paper. "What do you want to ask, Margaret?"
She set down her cup. "I heard about a new rule," she began. "The workers are not allowed to contribute to the union. It is a condition of their employment. Is it true?"
"Yes."
"Do you approve of the rule?"
"I see why it is necessary," he said. "The money goes into a strike fund. The more money they collect, the longer they can prolong a strike, the more damage they can inflict."
Margaret remained silent. She hadn't forgotten how he had openly admonished her and blamed her for prolonging the strike with her baskets. She supposed she could understand his reason, but she worried about the workers. None of the mills had taken back any of the union leaders and now this. It seemed the masters were determined to destroy the union. Margaret remembered Nicholas telling her that the union was their only power, their only defense against the masters.
"I thought you didn't like telling the workers how to spend their money," she said, pausing to needlessly stir her tea, "or in this case, how not to."
She didn't look at him to see his reaction but she could imagine the small furrow between his brows.
"Matters greater than my personal views are at stake," he replied.
Of course, she thought dryly. He always had an answer for everything.
A maid came in to clear the breakfast plates. John checked the time on his watch and rose from the table.
"I might be late for lunch," he said, "I will send a note."
Rather than brooding over the matter, Margaret decided to leave the matter at that. She did not want to fight. Since their last argument, there was a tense, fragile peace between them that they were both unwilling to test. She instead focused her attention on the full day that she had planned for herself: planting saplings with Newton, a review of the inventory with Grimsby, a good piece of Dante, a visit to Bessy and Fanny.
Donning her apron and hat, Margaret spent a good part of the morning in the garden, digging and planting the bare-root rose bushes while Newton hovered grumpily behind her. After planting the last of the bare root, she turned to him with an expectant look. The old gardener acknowledged her careful labour with a "Humph" and moved off.
Margaret pressed down a smile. Newton was such a crotchety old man, nothing ever pleased him. He didn't think much of her gardening skills, having decided early on that she possessed none, and preferred that she stayed far away and left the work to him. Foolishly, she had told him about the books she was reading and he had declared them rubbish. "Botany fer ladies!" he had snorted. "Plants are plants, fine lady or not."
She was returning from the garden when she found that a letter from Edith had arrived in the morning post.
The letter was long and affectionate. Her aunt had returned from her Italy trip and would like Margaret to visit London. Edith had not written what her mother thought about the marriage, leaving Margaret to conclude that her aunt must be displeased. Her cousin had spent a great part of the letter describing the Crystal Palace and expressing her delight at discovering yards and yards of fabrics from Marlborough Mill at the exhibition. Margaret had not known that John was one of the exhibitors. Why had he not told her, she wondered. Did he think that she had no interest in the mill or its success? She hoped he didn't think her capable of only criticising it.
Margaret had just sat down to write to Edith when a knock sounded on the door. It was Grimsby.
"There is a girl, Mary Higgins," he said, "She wants to speak with you."
Margaret stood up, feeling a queer sort of dread. "Where is she? Is she outside?"
Moments later, she reached the backyard and found Mary standing dejectedly in a corner, her face swollen with crying.
"Mary!" Alarmed, Margaret rushed towards her. "What happened? Is Bessy—"
"She is in a bad way . . . She asked for you, miss."
In the tiny bedroom on Francis Street, Bessy lay gasping, struggling to pull air into her lungs. A neighbour was sitting next to her but immediately vacated her seat when Margaret entered the room.
"Oh, Bessy!" Margaret hurried to her side. "It's all right. I am here." She held Bessy's hand in a tight grasp, trying to infuse her own strength into her friend. "I am here."
Bessy looked at her, her breath was shallow and rapid but her eyes were peaceful. Margaret pushed back the hair that clung to the girl's damp forehead.
"Get some cold water and a fresh cloth," she instructed Mary. Margaret tried to keep the fear out of her eyes but she had never seen Bessy so ill before.
"She were well enough in the mornin'," Mary told her as she brought a small bowl of water and a rag. "But she had taken worse in an hour."
Margaret gently wiped the sweat from Bessy's face and neck with the cool water. "Is that better?"
The girl closed her eyes, soothed by the temporary relief. "Pa," she breathed.
"Nicholas will be here soon. Don't worry."
Wheezing painfully, her pale, dry lips parted, trying to form words. "Keep him from drink," she said squeezing Margaret's hand with the last of her strength.
"Shush. Don't try to talk. Breathe slowly." She rubbed her hand over Bessy's chest. "That's it. Slowly."
The dying girl's calm gaze stayed on Margaret as she continued to rub in soothing circles.
For long, silent minutes, Margaret watched over Bessy as her friend's eyes began to close and she stopped struggling for air, the rise and fall of her chest grew fainter with every passing breath until it faded away entirely.
The room fell still and silent. Bessy looked as if she were sleeping. The face, often so weary with pain, so restless with troubled thoughts, now had a faint soft smile upon it. It was the only comfort Margaret could draw from such an untimely and senseless death.
She gently withdrew her hand from the loosened grip and laid it across the now still chest. She slowly turned away from the bed and saw Nicholas, who had just arrived, standing at the door.
He haltingly stepped into the room, his gaze taking in his elder daughter lying still on the bed and the younger one sobbing in the corner.
"Were you with her?" he asked, looking at Margaret.
She nodded. "It was peaceful. Look at her face, Nicholas. There's no more pain."
"She's not supposed to go before me." His voice was thick with emotion. "It doesn't make sense. It's not the natural way of things."
He continued looking at his daughter, trying to take in the reality of her death. "Are you sure she's dead?" he asked suddenly. "She's not in a faint or something? It has happened before."
"No, Nicholas," Margaret spoke gently. "She is dead."
At that, he sat down on the bed and gathering Bessy in his arms, finally sobbed his grief.
His misery was heart-wrenching to behold and Margaret, who had never had any encounter with death, stood helplessly. She was uncertain of her role as an outsider but was loathed to leave them in their grief. Tears gathered in her eyes but she brushed them away and held and comforted Mary as the girl wept.
When he had exhausted himself, Nicholas stood up abruptly as if he couldn't bear to be in the house for one more minute and rushed for the door.
"No, father! Not tonight!" Mary tried holding him back. "Help me! He's going out to drink again!"
"Nicholas, no!" Margaret pleaded and stood in front of him, blocking his exit.
He looked at her as if he couldn't quite believe that she would try to stop him. "Stand out of my way!" Margaret didn't know where she got the courage from but she didn't move, imploring him with her eyes to not go. He stared back at her with gloomy fierceness.
"What are you looking at me in that way for?" he asked at last. "If you think to keep me from going where I choose, you're mistaken."
"Bessy did not want you to drink," she said.
"It can't hurt her now." He lifted a pale, haggard face to her. "Nothing can. Whatever she said, she can know nothing about it now. I need a drink to steady me again sorrow."
"No, you don't," Margaret said.
Margaret wasn't sure how to stop him. He had backed off and seated himself on a chair, close to the door, half-resenting, half-defeated but she knew that he would go out as soon as she left. Suddenly, inspiration struck. She could take him to meet father. Father would know how to comfort him, but no sooner had the solution occurred to her than she realised that father would be at the school at this hour.
"Come home with me," she said suddenly, surprising herself with her desperate and bold proposal. It would probably cross the limit of what John would tolerate. But now that she had said it aloud, she couldn't take it back. It was just as well as she couldn't think of any other way to keep Nicholas from going to the gin-shop.
"You are tired," Margaret said kindly. "Where have you been all day—not at work?"
"Not at work." He gave a short, humourless laugh. "But I have walked my feet sore going to see men only to be turned away. And all that time I never knew she lay dying here."
Margaret laid a gentle hand on his arm. "Please listen to me. Come with me. At least you shall have some food."
Margaret waited for him quietly and patiently. Eventually, he stood up and went to the bed and stood looking at his daughter for a long time. "My poor Bess," he said, almost to himself. "She lived the life of a dog. Hard work and illness. She never had one moment of rejoicing. But she'd been a blessing to her father ever since she were born." Stooping down, he kissed his daughter and gently covered her face with the cloth.
Margaret turned to Mary.
"Don't worry about me," the girl assured her. "I will call the neighbours to sit with me. But take father with you."
Nicholas slouched his cap low over his brow as he went out into the street, tramping silently along Margaret's side.
As they got near the mill, Nicholas hesitated as if only now realising what he had agreed to. She understood his reluctance but if she backed away now, it would be worse than ever and certain to drive him to the gin-shop.
"Come," she said firmly.
He gave her a complicated look: of resignation and irony, of camaraderie and acknowledgement of her apparent unconcern in bringing him to a master's house.
He looked down at his clothes, his hands and shoes. "I should have cleaned myself first," he remarked.
Margaret assured him that he would be allowed to go into the backyard and provided soap and towel to clean himself. While Nicholas followed a solemn Grimsby inside the house, Margaret darted a quick glance up at John's window. He was not there but surely, surely he would understand.
By the time Nicholas returned, clean and tidied, he had recovered his composure. He had slicked his hair down with the fresh water, adjusted his neck-handkerchief and borrowed an odd candle-end to polish his clogs with. He was a man used to the rough independence of his own hearthstone but he would give no one cause to point out his rough manner.
He sat with her in the parlour and quietly partook of the meal. Margaret had seen her father offer comfort to grieving parishioners by letting them talk and she did the same. As it turned out, Nicholas had a great many things he wished to say about the injustice of life.
"All this talk of the next world is just talk," he said. "All these sayings made by folk you never saw, about the things no one never saw. Maybe there are folks who've had time to think on these things but my time has been given up to getting my bread. There are many like me. They're real folk. They don't believe in the Bible. They may say they do, for form's sake, but do you think their first cry in the morning is, "What shall I do to get hold on eternal life?" or "What shall I do to earn my bread?"
It was strange to hear echoes of John in Nicholas' speech. It surprised her to think that the master and the worker shared similar beliefs. They were both practical men with scant patience for sentiments, religious or otherwise.
"I'm not saying I don't believe in your God," he continued, "but I can't believe he meant the world to be as it is. The masters ruling over us, the rest of us left to live a half-life in the shadows. That he gave some more than others and that was his will?"
"Nicholas, I . . ." she struggled, caught off guard by his sudden vehemence that seemed to be directed at her. What would father have said? Was this indeed God's will? "Nicholas, I am not trying to convince you of anything. I was only—"
"No, no. I didn't mean to say you were. I weren't blaming you. I—" He sighed. "I haven't forgotten who's lying dead at home and how much she loved you. You are a kind lass to bring me here but it's time for me to be going." He stood up. "I wouldn't like to cause you mischief."
"Will you be going home?" Margaret asked.
"Aye," he smiled. "Home, miss. You may trust me."
"I do trust you, Nicholas."
She went out with him and they stood on the doorstep. She wondered if she had done any good. At least she had managed to honour her friend's last wish. She held his hand earnestly. "Look after yourself."
"Aye."
As she stood watching Nicholas leave, a dark figure at the edge of her vision caught her attention. She knew who it was even before she turned her head to look.
John stood on the steps leading to the mill building. His icy-blue gaze followed Nicholas as he disappeared past the gates and then came to rest on her. Even from this distance, his disapproval was visible. He began walking towards the house, no doubt to demand an explanation. She went inside to wait for him.
She could feel her bravado that usually rose up during such occasions drain away. She closed her eyes, tired of the thought of having to explain this to him. She wanted nothing more than to go to her room and be alone but she went into the drawing room. Taking a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders and faced the door.
His footsteps were in the front hall and a moment later, he was in the room.
Her efforts to appear composed was a failure because instead of asking what Nicholas had been doing here, he frowned at her in concern. "What happened?"
She dragged in a shuddery breath. "Nicholas' daughter, Bessy, she passed away this morning," she explained with forced impassiveness, trying to get it out as quickly as possible. "He was very distraught when he found out. He wanted to go to the gin-shop. I would have taken him to father but father is at school. I didn't know how else to stop him so I brought him here."
There was silence for a moment. "She was your friend, wasn't she?" he asked.
She bit her lips and nodded mutely.
"Were you with her?" he asked concernedly.
Suddenly, his face blurred before her eyes. She lowered her head and a fat tear plopped on the back of her hand. Swiping at her cheek, she averted her face and moved away from him.
"I need to be alone, please."
He ignored her and came and stood next to her. A large, warm hand settled on her back.
"It's all right," he said soothingly.
"It's not all right." She couldn't look at him, she was embarrassed that he was seeing her like this. She kept her face averted as she blinked and swallowed repeatedly to hold herself together.
"Hush." He put his arms around her and she immediately stiffened, unused to being treated so familiarly. But he was not having any of it. "It's all right," he said again.
"It's too sudden. I didn't think . . ." She swallowed a teary gulp. All at once, the grief was too much to bear and she turned to him shudderingly. He collected her against him and stroked her back in slow, soothing motions as she sobbed in shaky gasps.
After a while, she stopped crying and grew calmer, but he did not let her go. He held her, continuing to stroke her back. Beneath the layers of her sorrow, she was startled by the intimate gesture. She couldn't remember the last time someone had comforted her as she had cried. Probably not since she was a young girl. There was something astonishingly comforting about being wrapped in his strong embrace. She felt safe and secure. It seemed to her that he was all solid strength and steadiness. She turned her face and felt the soft wool of his coat against her cheek. Thoughtless, she nuzzled again, comforting herself.
But the next moment, she caught herself and stopped and grew excessively aware of him. And predictably, mortifyingly, her mind chased back to the memory of his kiss. She was shocked that she would remember such a thing even in the midst of her very real grief for her friend.
Pulling free of his arms, she stepped back, brushing away the tears with her hand. He took out his handkerchief and gave it to her.
He slid an assessing gaze over her. "Are you all right?"
She nodded, her throat still felt gluey. "I'm sorry," she muttered, wiping her eyes.
"Were you there all morning?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Mary came to the house to fetch me . . ." Her gaze wandered to the clock on the mantel. Had it only been two hours ago? It was hard to fathom that so much had happened in such little time.
"Who else was there?"
"Just Mary and Nicholas," she answered, "and some neighbour that Mary had called to sit with Bessy." When he didn't say anything, she added, "They needed me." She hated how defensive she sounded.
"I understand," he replied reassuringly, intending to set her at ease.
He understood but reluctantly, she saw that. But it would have to do for now.
On the night of the dinner meeting, Margaret retired to her room early. She asked Martha to draw a bath and help her wash her hair. She had dismissed the girl for the night and now sat by the fire as she combed and dried her hair.
She had been in an odd, pensive mood ever since Bessy's death. Sighing, she set her brush down on the table. She stood up, stretching and blew out the candle and slid between the soft sheets.
Margaret dreamed that she was in Helstone. She was sleeping on the heather at her favourite spot. Even though she was sleeping, she could see everything. A black-clad figure stood above her. She opened her eyes. Sun-blind, she couldn't see his face but she knew who he was. She got up and started walking and the man fell into step beside her, his dark city boots sinking into the green, spongy grass. She began telling him about the trees and the flowers and the village while he continued walking quietly beside her. They glided for miles and miles over grounds that were thickly carpeted with ferns and flowers as she talked and pointed out things of interest to the silent man.
After a while, it wasn't Helstone anymore. She was lying in the garden behind the mill house and all around and over her were heavy, voluptuous roses, their scent cloying the air and strangely oppressive. She stood up, brushing the rose petals from her clothes and nearly swooning from their heady fragrance. The quality of the dream had changed; it was a different dream—darker, deeper.
She moved towards the house and went into the dining room. A lavish spread was laid out on the table. The man was there, waiting for her to join him. She sat down and saw that Mr Bell was there as well. She ate in silence as anticipation built inside her. She wanted the meal to end and she wanted Mr Bell to hurry up and leave so that she could be free to go upstairs with the man. It was her secret and she didn't want Mr Bell to know about it. She tried waiting patiently for him to finish his meal. But he was crafty, taking his time about it, chewing slowly, pausing often, his movements deliberately unhurried. She felt hot with anticipation of what would happen later upstairs and was wild with impatience that Mr Bell was still at the table. But the dinner went on and on and on. It was maddening. She wanted to scream with impatience. Half-awake with frustration, she forced the dream to move forward.
Suddenly, finally, she was standing at the foot of the staircase that led up to her room. The man was not with her but it didn't matter. Her dreaming self knew that he was upstairs waiting for her. Gathering handfuls of her skirts, she clambered up the steps, hot and eager. She was about to reach the top when, without warning, she slipped and then she was falling and kept falling and falling, plummeting down in empty space while she flailed in terror, trying to stop.
Margaret jerked awake the moment her body hit the ground, heart hammering, palms clammy with fear, barely suppressing a cry.
She reached for the glass of water kept at her bedside. It took her a few moments to regain her breath.
She did not dream often and when she did, they were simple and unremarkable; she hardly remembered them upon waking. She was a sound sleeper. Edith had often joked that she slept like a baby.
Pushing her hair away from her face, Margaret didn't feel so . . . innocent. She had no doubt what was supposed to happen when she went upstairs to the man, why she had been so impatient to get there. She could still taste the keen anticipation and the frustration at the incompleteness of the dream.
She threw off her covers and sat on the edge of the bed.
She should have let him continue on the wedding night. Would it have been so wrong? They were married. What did it matter that they didn't love each other? It didn't seem to bother him. Nor did it seem to bother so many couples she knew in London. She even recalled Aunt Shaw mentioning it once. Clearly, no one thought it was wrong. And maybe this was how most marriages were.
Her head understood all this, agreed even, but her heart rebelled against thinking of her marriage—her life—in such cold and practical terms.
Wrapping her arms around her knees, she let her forehead drop wearily. Sometimes she did not understand herself. She did not want to say no to him, but she did not want to say yes either.
Why had he married her, she wondered. It wasn't a new thought. She had wondered it many times before. She knew it was to save her reputation, but surely it couldn't have been just that. Sometimes she fancied that he might have been lonely. She knew that he enjoyed the lunch that she had established, noticed and took quiet pleasure in the small comforts she added to the house and that he found their supper conversations relaxing after a long, busy day of work. But those were hardly sufficient reasons. Having lived a large portion of his adult life alone must have given him enormous self-sufficiency. He lived a well-ordered, regulated life; a wife would be an unnecessary addition at best and an encumbrance at worst. She did not understand him then, but she did not completely understand him now. It was useless to wonder, still, she could not stop puzzling about the essential strangeness of him: his complete absorption with his work, his relentless drive, his inexplicable temper, his reticence.
Yet there was something undeniably fascinating about that. She was not immune to the fact that other women regarded her with envy and interest. She had experienced a completely inappropriate thrill at the realisation and in the private knowledge that such a man found her desirable. But the reality of him overwhelmed her. She oscillated between excitement and heat in his presence and womanly reserve and apprehension.
She instinctively understood—and this was the heart of it—that if she gave in she would lose in some essential way. She would truly become a possession, something that he had acquired without any effort on his part and with no consideration to her wishes. When she had accused him of it, he had told her that it was not true. She knew he did not think of her as a possession but that did not change the fundamental fact that she was one.
Their marriage was so profoundly unequal. He had offered to marry her to save her from disgrace and she was supposed to be grateful and give herself over to him in return. Already she was indebted to him for his thoughtfulness and consideration but she also knew that a great deal of his kindness and tolerance for her beliefs came from his desire to win her and her secret fear was that if she gave in to him, she would lose herself. At the moment, she could challenge him, argue with him, and make him listen to her viewpoint. He would never have softened his stance about the school if he had not been worried about antagonising her. But once he had what he wanted, he would have no real reason to care about her views. She didn't think that he would ignore or completely override her opinions. On the contrary, she thought he would indulge her greatly but it would all be within the limits of what he judged reasonable. He would have all the say in the relationship and she would be like some fancy creature that he had caught, much admired but bound—a butterfly in a glass jar. She could never abide that.
She did not know how to resolve this situation, how to correct this imbalance or if it could be corrected. How would this end? The future was like a fog she couldn't penetrate. For a fleeting moment, she thought of confiding in him but the very next instant her mind shied away, horrified by the idea of repeating the humiliation of the wedding night. Besides, it didn't seem like the sort of thing a man would understand. Only women were cursed with such thoughts, such caution.
There was little point in going back to bed. She would never sleep. Her brain teemed with too many thoughts.
She remembered the letter that she had been planning to write to Edith. Slipping from her bed, she went to light a lamp and set it on her writing desk. Drawing a sheet of writing paper, she sat down to write her letter.
John watched as the cigar smoke unfurled in a cloud above the men's heads and listened as they laughed at some joke. Grimsby was moving around the dining table with silent efficiency as he refilled empty glasses and offered cigars to the men.
With the main agenda for the evening accomplished, the masters were in a relaxed mood, some of them had discarded their coats, and the conversation had moved on to less urgent matters.
"The cotton machineries are drawing crowds at the exhibition," Henderson said, leaning towards the candle to light his cigar. "Hibbert and Platt, especially. They have a full installation. And Harrison as well."
"Latimer thinks it would be a good idea to go there to raise finance," Collingbrook supplied.
"You can try," John said, recalling Margaret's cousin enquiry about dabbling in cotton, "but don't get your hopes up."
"Thornton may not wish to go looking for investors," Slickson spoke, rolling his cigar between his fingers, "but it may be a good opportunity for others. The strike is over, the market is starting to pick up, people are interested, so why not?"
"It would be a fool's errand," Henderson said. "Starry-eyed Londoners think they only have to snap their fingers to make a fortune in cotton."
Collingbrook snorted with a huff of amusement.
"Did I tell you, Thornton, about that fellow of yours, Boucher," Harkins was saying. "He came to me begging for work. He was even willing to forsake his Union dues. I had him tossed out of course. But you should have seen him, crying like a baby," he said with a disgusted sneer.
The men chortled.
"By the way, everyone, we are forcing the rule, eh?" Harkins looked around the table. "We must all stick together and show the men we mean business."
There were murmurs of assent around the table.
John briefly wondered what the deuce he was doing before asking, "How do you propose to enforce it?"
Harkins looked at him as if the answer was self-evident. "We make them take a pledge."
"A pledge?" John looked at the man in disbelief. "You think you will be able to impose a pledge?"
That seemed to take a bit of air out of Harkins. "So? Are you suggesting we do nothing?"
"Unless you can actually enforce this rule," John said, "all we will succeed in is making liars out of the men. Besides, I doubt the men will be striking again in a hurry."
"Be that as it may," Harkins said, "we cannot go easy on them just because they are clamouring for work."
"You will have to leave me out of it," John said. "But you can do as you wish."
"Aye, and we will," Harkins said, regaining some of his bluster. "We got to keep them on their toes. It's a war and we masters have to win it or go under."
"Hear, hear!" the men thumped the table and signalled for more drinks.
John shook his head and tossed back his whiskey. It was useless to reason with them. Not when they were flushed from having crushed the strike. And certainly not when they were in their cups.
"I heard Nicholas Higgins was seen at Marlborough Mills," Slickson spoke in the lull, looking lazily at John.
The men around the table turned to John with surprise and a trifle worriedly.
"Well?" someone asked.
"If you are trying to ask whether I have taken Higgins on," he said to Slickson, "I have not."
The men visibly relaxed but Slickson was not done. "That's not all I heard," he said, flaring his nostrils at him, "I heard it was Mrs Thornton who had brought him to the mill."
In the ensuing silence, the men shifted uncomfortably while Grimsby stood straighter and taller, and protectively, he imagined. Only Slickson was leaning back in his chair, blowing smoke in the air, looking satisfied. If he hadn't known before, John knew it now. Slickson hated him. The dislike was rooted in professional competitiveness and John's refusal to support any of his underhand schemes. Slickson fancied himself some sort of Machiavelli but lacked the courage and imagination for any sustained tactic. Instead, he resorted to petty villainy and taunts but this crossed a line.
John managed to keep his expression neutral. Anger was, however, kindling inside him. "Your point?" he asked, setting his glass down carefully.
"You surprise me, Thornton," he said, smiling facetiously. "Surely you don't allow your wife to associate with the workers."
"What if I do?" he asked with deceptive calm.
Slickson's insinuating, slimy façade cracked at that. "Come now," he rallied with a forced laugh to ease the tension. "It would hardly present a united front if your wife is seen sympathising with the workers."
"You didn't seem to care about a united front when you were ready to give in to the striker's demands."
"I was trying to protect my business. Same as everyone here." He gave a quick glance around the table for support. "But what you are allowing is dangerous."
"Are you telling me it is more dangerous than playing tricks on your workers and deliberately deceiving them?"
"I am merely trying to warn you," he said all stilted dignity now. "All this misguided charity and sympathy is what makes them forget their place. Encourage it and you might as well hand over your mill to the union."
John'd had enough. "I know that," he interrupted curtly. "Your concern is unnecessary."
"Come now, Slickson," Henderson intervened. "Leave it alone. Let the women do their little charities."
"Better than shopping trips," Collingbrook said feelingly. "You won't believe the bills. Might as well buy a Harrison with that money."
There were usual noises of heartfelt agreement and commiseration as the men shook their heads. "Women."
The conversation gradually resumed and everyone, including Slickson, behaved as if the two hadn't come to blows a minute ago.
"You took his remarks well," Henderson said as the dinner came to a close and the men began shuffling out of the room.
John wouldn't say that. He had been a hair's breadth away from tossing Slickson out but doing that would have only lent credence to his tirade. But that hadn't been the only reason. If he were to be completely honest, there had been a thread of truth in Slickson's baiting that he couldn't deny or ignore. The fact was even though he had allowed it, he had a great deal of misgiving about Margaret's visits to Princeton and her close connection with the workers.
He was being a rather lenient husband, he realised, never asking where she went or what she did, unwilling to risk the ground that he had gained with her. He had wanted to tell her that it was not her place to stop a grown man from going to a gin-shop. Or associating with one who visited such places but he had held his tongue. He couldn't find it in him to reproach her for her simple, straight-forward kindness and while he had no sympathy for the union leader, he was not so callous to not feel sorry for his loss and the girl, he remembered, had been a spinner in his mill. Regardless, he could no longer allow her to continue visiting Princeton. It was hardly appropriate or safe for her to do so.
He opened the door to the master suite to find Margaret shuffling about at the table, opening and shutting drawers. She was in her nightgown, her feet bare. Her hair was open and it lay along her back and over one shoulder in a gorgeous, gleaming fall.
He said her name and she spun around, startled. "Oh!"
"What are you looking for?" he asked.
"I ran out of writing paper," she said, a little breathless. "I was writing to Edith."
"At this hour?"
She lifted one slender shoulder in a vague half-shrug.
He stepped inside, closed the door behind him and turned to face her. They stood looking at each other, each aware that it was night and that they were alone outside their bedrooms. Silence hung in the air between them.
"Edith would like us to visit London," she said, breaking it. "She fears that Sholto has quite forgotten me. And my aunt has returned from Italy. She couldn't attend the wedding and I think she would like to meet me . . . meet us."
"Would you like to visit them?"
"Oh, I am not sure," she said uncertainly. "I mean aren't things still quite busy at the mill?"
"The mill is always busy," he replied. "We have caught up on those large orders I told you about so I can spare a few days if you wish to go."
She looked indecisive. "I'll let you know."
Another silence and then, "Edith mentioned about the Crystal Palace," she said. "She wrote that she saw fabric from Marlborough Mills at the exhibition. I didn't know you were showing there."
"The samples were sent some months back," he said. "I'd no occasion to tell you."
"Have other Milton mills been selected to exhibit?"
"No."
Marlborough Mill was the only mill from Milton that had been chosen for the exhibition. The mill had sent muslin, calico and gingham for consideration and all three samples had been accepted and were currently on display in London.
She gave him a hesitant, encouraging smile. "You must be very pleased. I think I would very much like to see how they are made."
"Tomorrow morning, then?"
She nodded, was silent for an awkward moment and then burst into speech again: "How was the dinner?"
He knew why she kept talking.
"It was all right," he replied. He debated whether to tell her that Marlborough Mill would not be enforcing the new rule. He didn't need her to think that he had done it because she had suggested it, he didn't want to set a precedent. He knew that he would have eventually decided against the rule without her prompting. But, on the other hand, it would please her.
"It is late," he heard her say in a brisk-sounding voice. "It is time I went to bed. You must be tired as well.
"You are forgetting something," he said.
He went to the small cabinet and took out a stack of paper from one of the shelves. Her eyes skittered away and every line of her body tensed as he closed the distance between them and stood before her. He held out the sheets and she took them from him.
He knew he should let her go, but he couldn't. He couldn't look away—her soft, long hair, the warm, ivory skin. She smelled like a garden, fresh and sweet, and the fragrance stole into his lungs removing the reek of tobacco that he had to endure all evening. Her unfussy, white nightgown glowed in the dim room, its shoulders, wide and loose, had slipped off a little to one side.
He tried not to be seduced by the intimacy of the moment but it wasn't easy. He was tired of being treated with courtesy and polite smiles. By now, he knew her loveliness and her warmth, he had seen her petulance and her temper. They were not polite, cautious strangers. They were man and wife. They had to start somewhere.
Unable to resist, he stepped closer and lifted his hand to touch her hair and drew it gently behind her ear.
"Margaret."
"Please," she whispered.
Two days ago, she had allowed him to comfort her, hold her but now, her body tensed in rejection. Feeling himself on the verge of anger, he tried again.
"Would you like me to leave?"
"I am not ready. I need—"
"Fine." Now it was anger, pure and simple. He turned away from her and headed for his room.
He heard her call his name, her voice apologetic.
"John, please understand . . ."
Ignoring her, John opened the door to his room and shut her out.
A/N: Please review while I hide behind the sofa ;-)
-SQ