Chapter 9

"He hath borne himself beyond the promise of his age, doing, in the figure of a lamb, the feats of a lion"

Margaret threw herself onto her bed and began to weep for the second time that day. What a horrid day she'd had! First that sad business at the hospital and then Mr. Thornton brought back painful memories of Fred, before recounting his unhappy childhood. She had been angry with him after his rude insult against her brother. Even though he couldn't possibly know the injury he had caused, Margaret found herself lashing out at him. It had been as though Mr. Thornton had been detailing the very faults of Fred's that distressed her parents so. Fred was one of those men of leisure that Mr. Thornton had scorned. He'd rather spend all his time in the men's clubs and at the houses of his wealthy friends, wiling away money and time without any care at all. His exploits in the papers detailed all kinds of horrid things: fist fights, public drunkenness; blackmail and extortion. He'd even been accused of having an affair with the wife of a prominent London gentleman. Margaret had lost count of the number of times her father had been forced to pay a fine to the courts for Fred's behaviour or send a servant to retrieve him from the county lockup.

Margaret was also further vexed at herself by her comment to Mr. Thornton. She hadn't meant to bring up the treatment of his workers again, not after she promised herself to give him a clean slate. But she had been angry and had wanted to deflect from saying anything more about Fred. He had hurt her with that statement and she pettishly hurt him in return with one of her own.

A knock sounded at Margaret's bedroom door. She wiped at her eyes and stood up. "Come in," she croaked. Papa entered and was alarmed by her tears.

"Margaret! Whatever is the matter?" he asked, taking her hand.

"Oh Papa. I've had a bad day is all," she sniffed. Mr. Hale moved further into the room and sat on the edge of the bed. He motioned for Margaret to sit beside him. He wrapped his arm around her and they sat in silence for some minutes. After awhile, Papa seemed to remember his reason for following her up here. He cleared his throat.

"The handshake is used here in the North all forms of society... I think you gave Mr. Thornton real offence by refusing to take his hand," he explained, but without the intensity he might have had if she had not looked so miserable.

"I'm sorry I misunderstood the handshake. I was upset and tired and…in London, a gentleman would never expect a lady to take his hand like that... all unexpectedly, without invitation. And I was still shocked from his account of his childhood... why, his father might have died in debtors' prison!" said Margaret woefully. Mr. Thornton had only said 'miserable circumstances' but it was clearly a very painful subject for him, more so than he let on. His mournful eyes had tugged at Margaret's heart. Margaret knew that businessman, unlike members of the gentry, were imprisoned for the crime of debt in addition to losing all their holdings and property to creditors.

"It was something much worse than that, I'm afraid. According to Mr. Bell, Mr. Thornton's father speculated wildly, and lost. He was swindled by a business partner. He... um... he killed himself... because he couldn't bear the disgrace," he told her quietly, stumbling over the wretched explanation.

"What?" gasped Margaret. Her father nodded sadly. Margaret sagged against Papa's shoulder. Suddenly, many things about Mr. Thornton became clear. Why he always looked so sad and severe. Why he had leapt to the defense of Milton men against her accusations. It also explained why he detested risky ventures. Her father had told Margaret of the dinner party he'd attended at Marlborough Mill, how Mr. Thornton vehemently denied the possibility of any speculation to be worth the risk to his business.

"Mother, and son and daughter lived on nothing for years, so that the creditors could be repaid, long after they had given up any hope of settlement," Mr. Hale continued. "He is an honorable man, Margaret, even back then, at such a young age."

"Yes Papa, I quite agree. I was mistaken about his character before, I see that now," said Margaret shamefully. She hunted about her person for her handkerchief. Dabbing at her eyes, she said, "I'm terribly sorry to have offended Mr. Thornton. My only defense is that I had a very trying day." Margaret swallowed and few more tears dribbled down her cheeks. "Mr. Jenkins told me this morning that one of the patients I had been caring for had died in the night. She had been an affectionate woman and she seemed to be getting better. Her children will be so upset to hear of her death. Mr. Jenkins has written to them, they live in York…," Margaret trailed off. Her father enveloped her in his arms once more.

"I am sorry Margaret. I did not know."

"It is alright. I will be alright in the morning. And I will visit Mr. Thornton and apologize for my behaviour."

"Very good. I'm sure Mr. Thornton will understand once you explain it to him."

"Should I tell him of Fred also? Not of the particulars, not that he is my brother, but enough to explain why I was so angry about his comment about men in the South."

"Perhaps that would be the best course. So that there are no further misunderstandings. John seemed quite confused by our reactions to what I'm sure he meant as a general observation. And he was right in a way," her father whispered. "especially about a directionless life of carelessness."

"Oh Papa. That is why I was so angry. Because the very man he was describing could have been Fred." Margaret wept into her father's shoulder.

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John walked listlessly back to the mill, barely noticing the pound of rain against his back. His thoughts were in turmoil, as was usual after his encounters with Miss Hale. He could feel himself flailing, slipping back towards the very place he pulled himself from. John had purposefully not thought of his father in years. Not since that wretched wintery day many years ago. John only had flashes of clarity from that time. Those early years of grief.

The ground had been so frozen it took the undertakers hours to dig the grave. The lid of the coffin had been nailed shut haphazardly. Because he had committed suicide, his father was not permitted to be buried properly. Instead, he was buried without ceremony and without a prayer service on the north end of the cemetery in unhallowed ground. John had knelt on the grave and dug his hands into the earth, desperate for one last glimpse of his beloved father. He felt the sheer pointlessness of everything, until all that was left was a hollowness inside him that made him want to scream and scream.

His mother had dragged him away, back the tiny one room flat that their destitution had forced them to into. He was put to work immediately. His mother believed that you could overcome anything if you worked hard enough and so John had worked. He had worked ceaselessly for years while his hands bled and his head ached, until he had dragged himself out of darkness and ash, to a place higher than even his father had been.

His mother had such a strength of will that it was impossible for her to comprehend what her husband had been feeling in the moments before his death. What John himself felt, although he would never ever tell her so. When he was younger, it would grip him for days, even weeks. He'd buried it deep inside himself, so he might never think or feel, until it suddenly clawed its way to his consciousness and left him in such utter agony that it was all he could do not beat at his chest and tear at his skin. Now that he was older, John had better control over it. Oh, he could still feel it; it was still there, rippling beneath the surface of his skin. Sometimes it was a heat, other times a bitter cold that left him almost breathless. He didn't know if it was in his blood or in his soul, but it was definitely there, lying beneath. Waiting.

But he understood it better now. He'd used it as fuel for his ambition. He made it his life's pursuit to never end up like his father. Everything he did was done thoughtfully, carefully, so that he might never find himself in the position of discovering what that feeling would do to him if it succeeded in dragging him into its depths.

After he'd left the drapers at the age of nineteen, he became an overseer in the very mill he now owned. He'd driven himself hard and developed a reputation as harsh and hard-hearted man. At the death of the previous owner, John took all of his hard earned money to the bank and persuaded them to loan him the rest he needed to purchase Marlborough Mill. He'd paid off the loan within three years. Now the mill his in its entirety, and he'd made enough profit to build the manor within its gates so that his mother and sister might live in comfort and revel in the source of his wealth. He turned all that bitterness and gall to a golden triumph, spitting, clawing and grasping all the while. He had been unapologetic in his ambition. He knew what he wanted and he was not ashamed of it.

It was not until recently, this past year or so, that the dark feeling began to return. For the first time, John was afraid of it. He couldn't think what else he might achieve with it. He was wealthy; a businessman, a magistrate. He'd lavished extravagances upon his mother in gratitude for all she had done for him. He gave Fanny gifts too, and let her spend what she liked at the milliners and drapers, in addition to the generous dowry he'd settled on her. It did not seem to be enough to dispel his dark feelings.

John had soon realized that what he was feeling was an intense loneliness. He had plenty of friends among the other manufacturers, and he always enjoyed the company of his mother and Fanny, usually – when she wasn't banging away at that infernal piano. But it wasn't that kind of loneliness, he concluded. It was an emptiness that he wanted to fill with companionship, discussion, thought, laughter, affection and love. He'd realized sometime ago, after a heedless comment of Fanny's about his bachelor state, that the person who would fit this description was a wife. And ever since Miss Hale came into his life, John noticed that the tightness in his heart would lessen whenever he was in her presence; her kind smile a balm on his battered soul.

Like the darkness in him, John was also to afraid to name this lightness, as though naming it would bring it to the surface and let it utterly consume him. Instead, he attempted to control this one too. He limited his time with Miss Hale. He tried not think of her. He tried to remember his promise to his mother, to always do his duty and put the mill first. But even so, John would go about his day at the mill wondering, 'What would Miss Hale do here? What would she think of this?' He wanted to know what thoughts lay behind her clever eyes. Slowly and cautiously, John had begun to prod at the lightness, experimenting. He would spend some time with Miss Hale, and then he would wait to see its affects. His next few days would be filled with a happiness unlike any he had ever felt before. If he ignored her presence, he would go about irritated and despondent. It seemed that all his years of teaching himself control and self-denial were ineffective where Miss Hale was concerned. He was also startled to notice that this did not unnerve him as much as he thought it would. He decided to prod further, open himself up more to Miss Hale. He had wanted to show her a glimmer of what he felt, so that he might gauge what she felt towards him.

But despite his efforts, Miss Hale remained indifferent to him. He certainly seemed to spark emotions in her, but none of the kind her wanted her to feel. Miss Hale was also stirring up all the things he disliked about himself, forcing him to face them. She'd dressed him down for his brutish and callous behaviour. John would not apologize for who he had to become in order to survive. But he did see that some of his actions were merciless. He was harsh with his workers. He tried to balance this with fairness, but knew that he sometimes missed the mark. He was not deliberately sadistic but nor did he really go out of his way to improve their conditions; he knew there was more he could do.

Their disastrous encounter earlier this evening had also made John aware of the fact he had no practice at courting a woman. He'd been terribly awkward. He had tried to be open and honest and had only hurt them both and dragged himself though all these thoughts he had been avoiding for years. He'd insulted her and her family. She'd been so offended by his remarks that she couldn't even bring herself to touch him. John groaned at that, hating himself.

He opened the front door to the manor as quietly as possible, so as not to alert his mother to his arrival. He trudged slowly up the stairs to his room leaving wet footprints in his wake. He sat down heavily on his bed.

John's turbulent response to their strained encounter also told John what he had been dreading and longing for in equal measure; that he had begun to care for her. He could lie to himself no longer. His carefully crafted walls were beginning to crack. His composure lay in tatters.

Burying his face in his hands, John began to weep soundlessly for his father, for his childhood, for all he had lost.