LIKE FATHER, LIKE SONS

From The Thornton Tales

PART 3 OF 5

As the two Mrs Thorntons gingerly padded towards the parlour, they could already hear the ominous clamour of raised voices. Well, they could make out one distinct raised voice, John's.

'I have told you both time and time again, the mill is out of bounds! What the blazes did you think you were doing?' However, it seemed the young master Thorntons were not going to be afforded the chance to answer, for the principal master, (or more like magistrate in this case), resumed his relentless rant. 'Why can't you get it into your irresponsible skulls how serious this is?' he snapped.

As the two mothers entered the fray, they witnessed John hunched over, his arms folded, and his face darkened by the oppressive cloud of his righteous anger. Oh my, he did look rather menacing, although Margaret tried to ignore the fact that he also looked terribly attractive. Darling John! Her Mr Thornton was irresistibly dashing when he was at his most grumpy. He was looming over the brothers, who stood side-by-side, like two felons before the bench. They each hung their heads low and glared, much like their dear papa was known to do when his mood had soured.

Margaret thought about how often she had been on the receiving end of one of John Thornton's infamous smouldering scowls throughout their early acquaintance, when their misunderstandings and prejudices had thwarted their fragile relationship. She also remembered his cold and aloof stares that had penetrated her very soul during the painful void that had separated them during the excruciating weeks between her refusal of his first disastrous proposal and their blessed reconciliation and engagement. If only she had recognised that his apathy and anger had been a mask, a disguise for his crushing agony caused by her rejection and his grief. Still, she was delighted to report that for the past eight years, his fearsome frowns had seldom been directed at her. Instead, Margaret now basked in the warmth of his hypnotising smile, made all the more priceless by its scarcity and the intimacy it conveyed between two friends, two lovers, two equals, two spouses, and of course, two parents.

On her arrival, Richard and Daniel both glanced up and they gave her a hopeful signal, as if she were their saving grace, the angel of mercy. With their bottom lips wobbling, they silently pleaded for her to rescue them from their father's inevitable and inescapable sentence of doom. With a sulk and a strop, they knew that the misery guts would no doubt be waving his boring black cap in their direction, killing their future hopes of having any fun at all. But Margaret ignored their appeal and merely handed them their dressing gowns, which she had fetched on the way. They may be in the gravest of trouble for trespassing, but as the defendants' mother, she could not abide the idea of the culprits getting poorly and spending a week in bed with the sniffles. As the disheartened lads pulled on their additional layers, Margaret continued to the nearby settee, and sat herself down next to Hannah, quietly taking up her role as mediator, or conceivably, as a member of the jury.

With a stern eye, she observed them both standing in their nightshirts and shoes with no socks. Their hair was sticking up at unruly angles and they had dirt smeared across their ruddy chins and grazed hands. Oh dear, they were such scruffy tykes. Still, even although they looked a shocking state, they were such handsome scamps. She smiled, for she recollected another certain Mr Thornton who had looked similarly unkempt in his office when she had nervously called to invite him to tea, many, many moons ago. He had accidentally sworn at her, she recalled, and had proceeded to choke on some bread, whilst appearing like he had been dragged through the mire, for he was missing half his clothes, there was an enormous smudge of ink across his bristly cheeks, and he had clearly not slept for some time. Yet, despite his messy mien, she had adored him then, just as she treasured all three of the Thornton men standing before her now.

Focusing her attention back on the scene presently playing out, she studied the figures of her eldest sons and her heart sang as she took in the likeness between her husband and their baby boys. Though, she was forced to admit that they were not babies anymore, far from it. Even so, there was no doubt who had fathered the boys, for they were the spitting image of John. The youngsters were the same height and build, with their broad shoulders, tall and lean frames, intense gazes, and sharp noses, but still, they were not identical. Richard clearly took after his father with his black hair, cobalt eyes, and angular features, whereas Daniel was more like her, with his brunette curls, rounded cheeks, and cloudy orbs. However, despite their outward differences, they both had unquestionably inherited their parent's shared dogged spirit and stubbornness.

'Well?' John growled impatiently, cutting through Margaret's musings. 'What do you have to say for yourselves?' It appeared that the cross-examination had begun and perceiving John's indomitable expression, she almost felt inclined to get the lad's a lawyer.

Margaret held back a simper as the twins lifted their heads and regarded their father with a glower, a look of petulant insubordination. Oh my! Her cheeky chaps! They were brave boys indeed, for few dared to stand up against the daunting John Thornton. To be sure, for so far, Margaret was the only person to have ever tried and succeeded to confront and tame the terrier that was Mr Thornton of Milton.

Now, a rational lawbreaker brought before a judge several times their size and strength, would surely apologise and vow most fanatically never to offend again. One would expect some humility, some deference, some accountability, some rudimentary common sense. Yes, that is what one would anticipate from a sensible outlaw who wished to save his skin. But sadly, for the twins, their tenacious and subversive mouths tended to run away with themselves before such good sense could be applied. Much like their parents, they did not know how to hold their tongues when their tempers were rattled.

'It's fun!' Richard declared, his eyes shining with the challenge.

Hannah stifled a snigger. In truth, being a grandmother had transformed her more than she could ever have anticipated. If her John or Fanny had misbehaved in the same way as her grandsons did, then she would have slapped their ears, smacked their bare bottoms, and sent them to bed without any supper. But she had soon found that time, experience, insight, and the reflection a generation afforded, had given her a new perspective on children and childrearing. She fully appreciated her son's fears, for undeniably, there was not just the risk of the mill suffering industrial damage to consider, but the blunt reality that the lads could be grievously injured, or worse. But as she watched her beloved boy attempt, (with very little success), to control his own children, she knew that they were not devilish delinquents, but rather, two imps with curiosity, and as an affectionate grandma, she could not blame them for that. But what is more, their pranks and tricks reminded her of another Thornton toerag, one who had been just as pig-headed.

Nevertheless, their father was not amused, no, his ire was already blistering, and their disregard for his authority was not helping to soothe it. 'What was that?' John scoffed, his tone thick with incredulity.

'He said it's fun!' Danny retorted boldly, although he promptly clamped his mouth shut when his father turned his incensed scrutiny his way. Margaret shook her head in disbelief, why-oh-why did they insist on winding their father up? It was like poking a grouchy bear, and it did not take a genius to work out how that sorry situation would end.

'Fun?' John spat out, his voice vibrating, for he was unable to believe his ears. 'Fun? It's not a playground lads, it's a place of work and contains countless expensive and hazardous machines.'

'Aye,' Danny refuted, 'Which are fun,' he tallied, rolling his eyes sarcastically.

'Don't get smart with me, my boy!' John warned, raising a trembling finger, although whether it was shaking with anger or anxiety, his wife was not sure. 'I've seen boys your age maimed by such machines. Broken bones, severed limbs, some of them scarred and smashed for life. Is that what you want…hmm?' he demanded to know.

Margaret was not convinced that painting such a violent picture was quite the right approach, but she held her peace for now. She tried to appreciate that John was not only talking to the boys as their parent, but also as a business owner, one who took the safety of those in his care very seriously. She understood that John had seen all manner of horrors over his years in trade and he knew too well what untold distress could be caused by naïve carelessness.

There was a moment of suffocating silence while the guilty party considered their rebuttal. After a while, they acknowledged that losing an arm or a leg was probably not in their best interests.

'No,' Danny finally conceded with a haughty huff.

'But Papa,' Richard piped up. 'Why can't we work in the mill? If other boys and girls get to do it?' he queried, his eyes wide, his intonation imploring. 'Some are nearly our age, we've seen 'em. Why can't we come too?'

'Aye,' Danny chorused in his gruff Darkshire accent. He had suddenly become exceedingly animated, his face aglow with enthusiasm, for he was evidently in full support of this proposal. Margaret tittered, for her boys were certainly not short of self-confidence. 'We want to work with you, Pa!' Danny explained candidly. 'It beats being stuck with stupid old Mr Stink-face!' he griped, the tutor's name coming out in a mocking quip.

'Stenkfarce,' their grandmother revised with a slight smirk.

John rounded on the twins. 'That's enough!' he clipped. He started to prowl back and forth around the room like a caged animal and his wife worried that his constant pacing would wear-out yet another perfectly decent rug. He let out a shuddering breath and rubbed his temple wearily. Margaret sighed; she could tell he was getting one of his migraines. He needed rest, he needed sleep, but first, the meticulous man in him needed his house, his mill, and most importantly, his family ship-shape.

'Enough!' John repeated, more calmly this time. 'Boys, you are extremely lucky, do you not see that? Those weans don't come here to have a lark, they come to work! They don't want to be stuck in the factory all day; they'd rather be at school like you. Don't you know how incredibly privileged you are to have teachin'?' John asked, his tone an entreaty.

Margaret felt her stomach clench, for she understood that the subject of education was a sore point for John. It had always been imperative to him that all his children be schooled properly and to the highest of standards, including Maria. Even though he rarely talked about it, she grasped that his obsession derived from a bitterness that he had never been able to complete his own studies, and as far as he was concerned, his children would want for nothing and would read every book ever written if it were possible.

By the same age the twins were now, Maria had readily forsaken her tea-parties with her toys and instead chosen to join her father in his office, helping him to copy out his ledgers and accounts. John often said that she had the neatest hand he had ever seen, and she was a testament to the theory that women were just as clever and capable as men, if not more so. Margaret recalled an occasion when John had taken his daughter to a scientific exhibition in Milton and he had been sneered at by his fellow mill owners, who claimed that educating girls was as futile as enlightening sheep. John had felt his temper flair as Maria had shyly hidden behind him, scared by the vulgar bullies and their narrow-minded insults. In response, the doting father had beamed down at his daughter and with a knowing smile, had loudly defended her, declaring that she along with her mother and grandmother were the smartest people he had ever met and the lot of them could run circles around the Master of Marlborough Mills and his acquaintances. At this, the sharp little Maria had tugged on his coat and hissed: 'Papa, you forgot Aunt Fanny,' to which he had cleared his throat and whispered: 'No poppet, I did-nay, she is as silly as a sheep,' to which the pair had shared a private chuckle.

Margaret adored how devoted John was to his children and she appreciated the way in which he afforded equal consideration to his daughter as he did to his sons, for not all fathers would be so avantgarde. She would blush when John enveloped his strong arms around his wife and murmured: 'That daughter of ours is such a bright spark, Meg. I am so incredibly proud of her…she must take after you, her perfect Mother.'

However, it was not Maria's intelligence or obedience being debated tonight, no, it was her brothers.'

'But Papa,' Richard debated, 'If we're meant to be learnin,' then why aren't those other weans? Why aren't they with us in the schoolroom? Why do you make them work in your factory?'

Oh dear!

Margaret could see her husband bristle and his festering boil of rage looked just about ready to burst. After being married for almost eight years, she could read him like a book, and her feminine instincts warned her that it was time to swiftly turn the page and amend the plot of this unpleasant chapter. Sensing that it was the opportune moment to step in, she swiftly rose from her seat and came to kneel within the boxing ring that had overtaken their once tranquil drawing room.

'Now boys, that is another matter for another day,' she said firmly, before John could unleash his escalating indignation, that if left unrestrained, would doubtless result in a diabolical tantrum.

'But Mama!' they began to argue.

'No!' she nipped, holding up a stifling hand. 'Now, I do understand that sometimes sitting in your lessons all day is not what you would like to be doing, but your Father is absolutely correct, you are very fortunate to be allowed to learn and expand your minds. You are such clever chaps, and it is only right that we feed your hungry little brains,' she said teasingly, tapping their foreheads and revelling in their giggles.

'You will get to do so many wonderful things with your life and I cannot tell you how excited I am to see who and what you both become. But for reasons we will not discuss tonight, not all boys and girls are so lucky,' she explained, her face twisted with regret. The world was such a merciless and unjust place, and her boys would soon discover its cruel disparity and discrimination, but for now, she would ensure that they held onto their blissful ignorance and innocence, even if just for a little while longer.

John gazed down at the serene scene before him and his chest puffed-out with pride at how wonderful his wife was. Margaret, his Margret, was so gentle. While he was always lumbering about like a bull in a china shop, she was as graceful as a swan. Where he was hot-headed, she was composed. Where he was irate, she was peaceable. Where he was insensitive, she was thoughtful. Where he was covetous, she was charitable. Where he was selfish, she was selfless. Where he was inarticulate, she was eloquent. And where he was dogmatic, she was diplomatic. She was everything he was not and every day, slowly but surely, this divine creature was helping the brute in him learn how to be a better master, a better husband, a better father, and a better man besides. She was his Aphrodite and his Antigone, and he was in awe that this angel had chosen to make her home in his arms.

John let a mollifying smile quirk his lips as he observed her resolutely but affectionately chastise and correct their children. She was the most marvellous of mothers, always distinguishing exactly what to do and what to say, almost as if she had been born for this saintly role. A primal part of John felt a superior arrogance in knowing that this darling girl had decided that he, out of all the men in the world, would be the only one allowed to make love to her and fill her with the physical proof of his passion for her, which would take root and blossom like a miraculous flower in her womb.

John had seen the jealous gazes that had been cast his way, as portly pigs of fellows envied the master's good fortune in procuring such a beauty for his bride. John did not mind their spite, for he congratulated himself on the knowledge that he alone would be able to come home to Margaret every night and revel in the pleasure of kissing her, holding her, undressing her, touching her, bedding her, sleeping beside her, and waking up next to her. But far more significantly than any of that, he alone would be permitted the right, nay, the honour of cherishing her, protecting her, learning from her, worshiping her, and walking through life with her trusting hand nestled in his. Thinking back on Mrs Hale's advice to him, John now fully appreciated that Margaret was not a prize or a possession, no, she was a person with a free and independent spirit, and he was privileged to love her and be loved by her.

Truly, John was blessed to have her as the mother of his babes, but a tiny part of him buried deep, felt envious of how seamlessly skilled she was at nurturing their little ones, when he himself always seemed to be falling short. Again, it reminded him that even although a simple tradesman from the north should never have been so lucky as to win the heart and hand of such a woman as Margaret Hale, here she was, kneeling in their parlour and parenting the very embodiment and evidence of their love, their dear children.

'Your father is right about a great many things,' Margaret went on and John twitched, for he still felt a surge of surprise every time his wife agreed with him, as it seemed not so very long ago that she had staunchly challenged every miniscule thing he said or did. Goodness, how far the Master of Marlborough Mills and Miss Hale of Helstone had come. If anyone had told him all those years ago, when he had watched her and waited in the desperate but despondent hope that she would someday come to care for him, that he would be married to her and that she would love him tenderly and unconditionally, he would have laughed in the fellow's face. Then, if the fortune-teller had prophesied that the lovely and majestic lady would have welcomed his rough and fervent ardour, allowing him to saturate and satisfy her with his seed, so that she would bear and give birth to five of his beautiful babes, then he would have had the fellow carted off to an asylum right there and then.

But John was brought back from his daydreams as Margaret had not finished her speech. Blinking 'eck! How on earth did he expect the twins to concentrate when their parents gave a sermon on attentive listening if he himself was always permitting his mind to wander? He shook himself and refocused his attention towards the matter at hand.

'Your Father is telling the truth when he says that toiling in the mill is not all fun and games. No, it is arduous and taxing, and I think you would both be very sorry indeed that you asked to do it, believe me,' she assured them. 'So, sneaking in at night to run amuck is not a smart thing to do.'

John felt a spasm of shame, for he knew that Margaret did not approve of children working at the mill. The couple had experienced many emotional arguments and discussions about her fears for their welfare and her wish that they could be spared from such gruelling labour. John had tried all he could to guarantee that the youngsters in his mill were safeguarded and that their work was not heavy or harsh. But alas, children were not protected by the law and their families were more than willing to sacrifice their schooling and safety if it meant they could earn a shilling or two in order to save them from the stark alternative of starvation. To John, his conscience informed him that if he did not employ them, then someone much less mindful of the little mite's needs would. But right now, he had other concerns to contend with.

'That's not all,' John announced. 'They had a candle, Meg,' he bit out, trying not to let his frustration bubble over and scald them all. 'That's what I saw through the window,' he clarified, for as he had been in bed, his focus had been filched by the sight of a blinking light scampering towards the mill doors.

Thinking back, John reddened at the recollection of what he had been doing at the time, an act that he would much rather be engaging in at present. After directing a sideways frown at the mantel clock, he bitterly guessed that the said act would most likely be reaching its glorious climax right about now – damn it! He may have gone thirty years without knowing the gratification of Margaret, or indeed of any woman, but now, the absence of it for three months was driving him stark-raving mad. Some men were dependent on drink, some on drugs, and others on gaming or totties, but for John, he was addicted to the honeyed suppleness of his wife's lips, the thrill of her tongue mingling with his own, and the sensation of her smooth legs wrapped around his hips.

But John was dragged back to the moment when he caught sight of their eldest sons stealing a sneaky glance at each other. In response to John's mention of their pyromania, the twins had shot each other a conspiratorial peek, both promising not to give the other up even under the pain of death…well, under the pain of their father's disapproval more like.

Margaret gasped and a hand flew to her mouth. 'Ricky, Danny…is this true?' she questioned; her voice small. She spotted the way they shuffled uncomfortably and that gave her all the confirmation she needed. 'I am exceedingly displeased to hear it! We have warned you many times how perilous fire is in the mill. Just think, if you had dropped that candle, or if the flame had caught something, the whole place could have been alight within minutes.'

Everyone in the room noticed her face turn as white as milk as she envisaged the terrifying prospect.

'You could have cost your Father his livelihood, do you know what that means? Not only would he lose all his property, that I will remind you that he has worked tirelessly to build up and secure, but we would have no more money.' This was not strictly accurate, for Margaret's substantial inheritance from Mr Bell still sat largely untouched in the bank, but it would not hurt to tell a white lie or two, if it succeeded in hammering the message home.

'That would mean we would not be able to buy you nice things like clothes, or toys, or holidays to the seaside. And lots of hardworking and honest people would have no employment,' she said accusingly, for undeniably, the thought of the poor workers being without the means to earn a crust of bread, or keep a roof over their head, troubled her far more than any thoughts of their business or fortune burning to the ground.

But then, an even more ghastly image floated into her head and she began to shudder as her mind's eye conjured up the most grim and horrifying vision of all, a mother's worst nightmare. 'What if you had been trapped inside?' she whispered, almost unable to put into words the petrifying question that chilled her to the bone. 'You could have been killed!' she shrieked.

Seeing their mouths open in protest, she persisted: 'Your Father and I are extremely disappointed in both of you!' she stressed, attempting to scold them, but in reality, she was struggling to speak amidst a series of sobs. 'There are so many dreadful things that could happen to you in there. You could have seriously injured yourselves and the doctor may not have been able to make you better,' she snivelled. 'And your poor Father and I would be heartbroken if that happened,' she added, squinting up at her husband. John nodded miserably and squeezed his wife's shoulder in mute agreement and encouragement, although, if truth be told, he felt wretchedly helpless.

But where their father's words of censure had failed, their mother's blubbering succeeded, and the boys seemed to crack under the weight of her suffering. 'We're sorry,' they whimpered. Trundling towards her, they threw their arms around their weeping mother and burrowed their noses in her hair and neck as they clung to her for dear life. 'We did-na' want to make you cry, Ma!' they whined.

John extended his hand and massaged Margaret's back, uttering soothing sounds as he patted placating circles. 'It's alright, love,' he promised reassuringly, 'It's alright.'

But it was far from alright. He would not have this, no! He would not have Margaret frightened that something would happen to her babies. Hell's Bells! He was her husband; it was his responsibility to shield her from sorrow, and he was doing an inexcusably shoddy job! As God as his witness, John would put an end to this mutinous mischief, this mayhem that was threatening to tear his family apart.

'Right boys,' he started, his stern tone rousing them all. 'This stops now! Do ya hear? You are not to go anywhere near the mill. If I so much as see you loitering around the place, there will be Hell to pay! I have never beaten you two and I hope I never will need to, but…it seems that I just can't get through to you.'

He noticed the alarmed look in their eyes as they contemplated the foreign concept of a thrashing, but John could not fret about that now. 'The mill is treacherous, and you are forbidden, forbidden, I say, from ever going there again without my permission and presence. So, do we understand each other? Hmm, well?' he asked, folding his arms and towering over them.

The boys said nothing but stared at the carpet.

'WELL?' John roared like a lion.

Whipping their heads up, they both raised their chins in stubborn defiance, rather like their mother was known to do, and it almost made John smile…almost. 'Yes, Father,' they both replied in unison, although he could tell their hearts were not in it. But still, it was a start.

'Good,' John concluded. 'Now, off to bed, the pair of ya.'

'But Father…'

'NO!' he bellowed, his resounding rumble ringing out and cramming every nook and cranny of the house.

The boys tried not to quake, but Margaret saw their spindly legs quiver. 'Not another peep out of either of you! Go! Off! To bed, NOW!' he barked, pointing towards the stairs with fierce finality. The bulldog in him may have been tamed by his mild mistress, but by God, the savage wolf could still snarl.

With their tails between their legs, the two pups scurried off to their beds, their eyes brimming with unshed tears, leaving behind them three anxious adults, each at a loss of how to be a good parent to their own children.