Chapter 6: Disputes and Negotiations
On Sunday John made his way directly to the Hale's house after church, unable to bear being away any longer. What a difference a week makes! He thought to himself. He had spent the previous Sunday restlessly unable to focus on anything. Every time he sat down to a book his mind would wander to conjectures about the great mystery of Margaret's brother. His mother's conversation he'd found irksome, Fanny's had been doubly so. He had bounced between elation that she might trust him and fear that she would not. Even this had been an improvement. The prior week he had spent his Sunday mercilessly throwing himself into work, only to be distracted and inattentive due to the festering wound of Margaret's rejection. And now he was briskly walking towards her home blissfully plotting out their future.
Prior to the incident at the Outwood station, he had gone nearly two months without more than brief chance encounters with Margaret. Now, the two days that had passed since he saw her last felt like a lifetime. Of course, the tedium of the previous evening contributed to that state. Fanny had ensured that word of their courtship spread like wildfire, so by the time he arrived at the Slicksons' the prior evening, his whole circle of society was already apprised. Fanny, of course, had insisted that Margaret trapped John into the courtship. No matter how frequently John stringently denied this accusation, his dinner companions continued to condole with him over the unfortunate circumstances. Miss Slickson, Miss Latimer, and Miss Collingbrook — the three marriageable aged women who had been unsuccessfully competing for his attentions for the past couple of years — were all somehow convinced that they could 'save' him from his 'unwanted' courtship by taking Miss Hale's place. Before the soup course had even been removed, John had been forced to overcome his typical aversion to discussing his private affairs and set the record straight by emphatically extolling Margaret's virtues, declaring her his superior, and assuring them that he felt all the advantage of the match most keenly. After such tedious company, he could scarcely wait for the day to come. Today would be the first time that they appeared in public as a couple, a tangible declaration of their courtship.
There was some bustle when he arrived over chaperonage. Martha was eager to join them both because a walk was preferable to housework and because she would have the best vantage point for the courtship that everyone in Milton was talking about. Dixon clearly did not wish to go — her knees would suffer from a long walk — but still insisted that she chaperone because she would be more attentive. In the end, a gleeful Martha ran to the kitchen to fetch her hat and coat while Dixon gave her explicit instructions that she had no intention of following.
Ten minutes later John was walking tall down the Crampton streets with Margaret's hand neatly tucked into his arm and Martha struggling to both maintain the proper distance between her and the young mistress and eavesdrop on their conversation.
"May I choose our route for the day Mr. Thornton?" Margaret asked, a hint of mischief in her voice.
"Of course," he replied and she flashed him a small smile. She turned to lead them back in the direction of Milton. John told her about the progress of the Irish hands since their training and other minutia about the previous two days at the mill. She asked him about dinner at the Slicksons and he found far more amusement in the emotions of her face as he progressed through the tale than he had in the entirety of the dinner party. She began with a flash of horror and embarrassment that their courtship was already so much a matter of gossip. This faded into outrage at the insinuations that she had trapped him. He had to place his hand over hers to prevent her from retreating from him altogether. She laughed at the antics of the silly girls who saw their courtship as a challenge — though he triumphed to see a hint of jealousy as well. She blushed furiously and looked at the ground as he repeated all he had said in praise of her.
"I am sorry," she said quietly. He quirked a questioning eyebrow at her and she continued: "you are a very private man, it must have been very uncomfortable to be the center of such a conversation."
"True, it was uncomfortable, but I did not say anything untrue. You are an extraordinary woman Miss Hale, and I don't mind if the world knows of my regard for you." Her blush deepened and she continued her avid study of the pavement as they walked over it.
John was afraid that this was perhaps a bit too close to a declaration for Margaret to handle at the moment, so he shifted the conversation. "And how have you fared these past two days?"
"As I'm sure you are aware, your mother paid me a visit yesterday." John looked at her with worried expectation, his mother had told him little of what passed except that she had done her duty. "She had some very strong opinions about the indiscretion of walking train platforms with young men in the evening, even if he was only my brother. That I must protect my character from malicious gossip especially if ..." She trailed off and John mentally concluded especially if you are to marry her son.
He sighed, "I asked her offer you friendship and counsel after the passing of your mother. I am sorry that she took the opportunity to admonish you."
"She doesn't ..." she began then took a shaky breath and lowered her voice "... what does she know of Frederick?"
His eyes widened, did she think he'd betrayed her trust? "That he is your brother, he was visiting your dying mother, and you accompanied him to the train station. She knows no more." She released her breath and an uncomfortable silence fell between them. "Margaret, you must know I would never betray your trust."
She gently squeezed his arm and said contritely, "rationally I know that. It's just with Frederick ... I scare easily. I am glad your mother knows it was my brother and doesn't suspect something worse, I was just unprepared to discuss the matter with her."
"I'm sorry, I had planned to tell you of her upcoming visit on Thursday, but I'm afraid I lose rational thought at the sight of your tears."
"In that case I suppose I must forgive you," she cast him a small smile. Before continuing her account of the past days. "On Friday we visited Mrs. Boucher and the children again. The poor woman is too consumed with self-pity and grief to be of much use to her children. She actually showed them the body, discolored and disfigured as it is, the poor babes."
"It is difficult to loose a parent at any age, but their youth may work in their favor. Fanny remembers little of my father's death and the aftermath."
"Whereas some of us are both blessed and cursed with those memories," she said softly and squeezed his arm again lightly. "Unfortunately, I fear that unpleasant memories will not be the worst of their struggles. Mrs. Boucher is too ill and the children too young to work. Our friend, Nicholas Higgins ..." she paused and John felt his gut clench in anticipation of where she was going "... he has taken responsibility for the family in their father's absence. He spent the day yesterday searching for work, but as he was a union leader he has yet to find any. He came to see us last evening, thinking perhaps to move the whole family to the South where food is cheap and wages good." She glanced up at him with a self-deprecating smile. "Apparently I have been over-nostalgic in my praise of Helstone. Even if he could manage to get all eight of them down there, he'd never be suited to farm labor, nor the dullness of southern life. They labour on, from day to day, in the great solitude of steaming fields—never speaking or lifting up their poor, bent, downcast heads. The hard spade-work robs their brain of life; the sameness of their toil deadens their imagination; they don't care to meet to talk over thoughts and speculations, even of the weakest, wildest kind, after their work is done; they go home brutishly tired, poor creatures! caring for nothing but food and rest."
She was rambling now. He suspected she was talking around the question she most wanted to ask him, but her ramblings had hit upon a startling revelation. "So, you admit the South has its faults then?" He asked as glibly as he could, but he'd always had his concerns: that she would never truly adjust to the North; that she would always be dreaming of her idyllic home in the South; that if she stayed with him he'd be selfishly trapping her here.
"In my life I've lived in Helstone, London, and Milton. I was happiest in Helstone as a child and felt that I truly belonged there. When I went to London to be educated and polished I cried for weeks for missing my family and for the loss of my youthful bliss. London was not to my taste, everything was very grand and fine, but nobody was real, genuine. When I returned to Helstone for my holidays, everything seemed nearly perfect in contrast. However, when I returned to Helstone to live for some months after my cousin's wedding that veneer began to crack. The countryside was as perfect as I remembered, but our parsonage was so far removed from any cultivated society. We were secluded, seeing no one but farmers and labourers from week's end to week's end. There was certainly nobody who could read Plato with my father or engage us in philosophical debates." John smiled broadly down at her at this praise. "When we moved to Milton I was so unhappy at first that in the general happiness of the recollection of those times in Helstone, I had forgotten the small details which were not so pleasant. I spoke of Milton in disparaging terms without fully comprehending the North or its people. To be sure, there's granite in all you northern people, but it makes you strong, capable, unflinchingly frank."
"So, you no longer see us as a society driven by the gambling spirit of trade that serves to grind men into sufferers and haters through injustice?" John asked in a voice tinged with trepidation and hope. That granite she spoke of had protected John from the gossip and shame following his father's suicide and through countless business negotiations, but it had been vulnerable to all of the barbs she had sent his way.
"No, which is why I feel equal to asking you this question ..." John's heart stuttered, she couldn't expect ... "Nicholas has been to Marlborough Mills in search of work, but your overlooker turned him away. I was hoping, for the sake of those children that you would hear him out."
"Margaret ..." John began but found himself unable to continue. Hiring a union leader would be like putting a firebrand into the midst of the cotton-waste, particularly with tensions so high between the Irish and the Milton hands. It did not make good business sense to willingly hire a mischief-maker. But Margaret was looking at him with those beseeching eyes "... it's not that simple. It's admirable for Higgins to take care of a man such as Boucher's children but ..." Before he could finish Margaret reared back from him, removed her arm from his, and shot him a glare of shocked disdain.
"A man such as ... I am disappointed in you John Thornton. That you of all people could judge children based on the actions of their father. Would you look down on a grieving widow and children who are struggling to survive on nothing after their father took his own life because he had made errors and was unable to support them? I have falsely attributed many faults to you, but I never thought you such a hypocrite!"
John stared at her with barely concealed rage. Nobody in Milton had dared mention his father's suicide so directly to him for years. He and his mother had worked tirelessly to cleanse their reputations of that stain — to pull themselves out of poverty — to move past the pain and anger and social snubs. To have that thrown back in his face by Margaret ... Good God, was she right? Was he as bad as the merchants who had revoked their credit, the dozen or so shop owners who had refused to hire him with no work experience before one had taken pity on him and hired him? His anger was rapidly cooling to shame as she glared at him with disappointment — as he watched all of the progress he had made with her crumble before his eyes — as she began to turn and walk away ... "Margaret!"
She stopped but did not turn. He stepped closer and said quietly, "forgive me, it was an unpardonable thing to say." When she finally turned to face him he saw tears pooling in her eyes. "You spoke just now of forgetting the faults in your past because the recollections were overall too pleasant. I believe I'm guilty of the opposite. That time after my father ..." he swallowed down the pain of these recollections and she took his hand in hers as if she had done so a thousand times "... that time was miserable. But in the face of that misery it is easy to forget those blessings I did have. My mother, at least was capable and thrifty, a kind draper did eventually hire me, though my Latin declensions proved a poor education for shop work. I should hate to think that in my success I have become like those people who tormented me in my darkest hour."
She smiled at him and he breathed easier. "If you and Higgins would speak out together as man to man — if you would be patient enough to listen to him with your human heart, not with your master's ears ..." She looked at him expectantly and added softly, "I know there is a human heart beneath that granite."
He traced his thumb over her knuckles and smiled. "Aye, though it's had little exercise before you arrived in Milton." She blushed and averted her eyes in that bewitching way of hers and John felt for the first time since she had pulled her arm from his that there was still hope for the future.
"So you'll speak to Nicholas?" She asked expectantly.
"Yes," he sighed and pulled her hand back into the crook of his arm.
"Good," she replied and directed him down the street. It wasn't until they were in motion again that their current situation came crashing back to him. They were on a residential street of moderate traffic in Milton. Martha was trailing behind them watching as if she would commit every moment to her memory. Women were staring down at them through their parlor windows as his mother was wont to do, some shop keepers had halted their progress down the street and were unabashedly watching their dispute, and — to his horror — Miss Collingbrook was walking toward them with a determined smirk and her maid trailing behind.
Aware of their audience, he leaned closer to Margaret's ear. "I fear we're in for another confrontation, this one with less satisfactory results." He said softly.
Margaret managed no more than a confused "hmm?" before Miss Collingbrook bore down on them.
"Mr. Thornton! How delightful! What brings you to our neighborhood?" She simpered, as if he'd intentionally thrown himself in her path. Was the woman blind or daft to be openly flirting with him while he was walking out with his future wife?
"Miss Hale, actually. I've given her leave to direct our walk today and I paid little heed to our direction as my mind was more agreeably engaged." He smiled down on Margaret, then looked up to see Miss Collingbrook's sickly sweet smile had turned sour. "Miss Collingbrook, this is Miss Hale." Miss Collingbrook gave the slightest nod in their direction, still aimed closer to John than Margaret. "My dear, this is Miss Collingbrook." Margaret gave a demure curtsy, full of elegant grace even in the face of such evident hostility.
Miss Collingbrook looked as if she'd gladly detain them all afternoon if it spoiled their solitude, but John had no patience for the silly girl and quickly extricated them from the conversation. "I am sorry for the intrusion," he said once they were out of hearing range.
"While your mother did once inform me that you were sought after by all of the young ladies of Milton, I confess I did not expect to be accosted by them in public." Margaret replied sarcastically.
"As I care only for one young lady's good opinion," he said with a tender look in her direction, "you have little to fear from their silliness." She blushed and averted her eyes and John reveled in a renewed sense of progress even after their quarrel. They walked for some time in contented silence.
Margaret turned them down another street and the buildings suddenly seemed much closer. They were still drawing the attention of the people on the street, but he noticed that their audience had shifted. The eyes turned in their direction now were those of mill hands and domestic servants milling about on their day of rest. His instinct was that Margaret had simply ambled into the wrong area of town while they were walking, but her stride was confident and she navigated the streets with an ease bred from familiarity. They passed the Golden Dragon pub and John felt a sense of foreboding. "Margaret, where are you taking us?"
"You agreed to meet with Nicholas Higgins," she replied.
"Yes, but ..." John looked uneasily around at the inquisitive faces, "to come to his home on a Sunday afternoon..."
Margaret gave him a contrite smile as she took the second turn to the left onto Frances Street through a narrow passage between buildings. "I feared that between his pride and reluctance to see you, and your busy schedule, you might never come to the point." He looked around and felt like an intruder. He saw many of these people daily at the mill, they were his employees, there was a set structure and he was at the top of it. Here they were at home and he was the interloper. Here he could see the squalor that they lived in, the hunger in the children's eyes. Seeing his apprehension, Margaret squeezed his arm and said softly, "I'm sorry. We could pass through this street and be on our way. We do not need to stop today."
"No, we are here. I've made up my mind to hear Higgins out and I'm not one to tarry once a decision is made." Margaret smiled up at him and approached the door to number nine.
A large rough man opened the door and John felt the urge to shield Margaret bodily. Before he could act on this impulse, however, Margaret greeted him for all the world as if this were a typical morning visit. "Hello Nicholas, are you alone today? Where is Mary?"
Higgins' eyes had fallen on John and remained set in a suspicious squint, but he answered Margaret's inquiries curtly "Hoo's gone fustian-cutting."
"Nicholas, this is Mr. Thornton," she began.
Higgins cut her off with a gruff: "I know who he is." John chaffed at the harsh tone directed toward Margaret, whose only purpose here was to aid the man in gaining a job.
"Yes, of course. Mr. Thornton, this is Nicholas Higgins," she completed the introduction and John gave the smallest possible nod in acknowledgment.
"Nicholas, as you informed us yesterday that you were unable to speak to Mr. Thornton himself on your previous visit to Marlborough Mills, I thought I might take the opportunity to stop by today on our walk." She looked hopefully between the two men, who were silently sizing each other up. In the face of this charged silence, Margaret merely added: "I'll just step over to check in on Mrs. Boucher and the children while you speak." Then she was gone in a rustle of skirts and knocking on a door down the street.
Higgins opened the door wider and John stepped into the small room. "Hoo's direct, I grant yo'. But meddling 'twixt master and man is liker meddling 'twixt husband and wife than aught else: it takes a deal o' wisdom for to do ony good," Higgins said with a wry smile.
"True, but Miss Hale is far wiser than most give her credit for," John replied fondly. Turning to Higgins, he turned his mind to business. "Now, I hear you are looking for work."
"It's for to keep th' widow and childer of a man who was drove mad by them knobsticks o' yourn; put out of his place by a Paddy that did na know weft fro' warp. Hamper will speak to my being a good hand."
"I've a notion you'd better not send me to Hamper to ask for a character, my man. I might hear more than you'd like."
"I'd take th' risk. Worst they could say of me is, that I did what I thought best, even to my own wrong."
"Yes. About that. I'm willing to hear you out, but I'd need some assurance that you won't be stirring up trouble at my mill."
"I'd promise yo', measter, I'd not speak a word as could do harm, if so be yo' did right by us; and I'd promise more: I'd promise that when I seed yo' going wrong, and acting unfair, I'd speak to yo' in private first; and that would be a fair warning. If yo' and I did na agree in our opinion o' your conduct, yo' might turn me off at an hour's notice."
"And you think you're qualified to tell me how to run my mill?" John asked incredulously, fighting down the urge to deny him outright. But he knew if he did that he'd have to face Margaret's disappointment. He'd agreed to give Higgins a fair hearing.
"Do yo' think yo'r qualified to deal wi' the problems 'twixt th' knobsticks an' t'other hands?" John raised his eyebrows in surprise, he was unaware that issues at the mill were such common knowledge. "Th' men talk. Paddy's been makin' mischief in your mill wi'out training an' yo'r ol' Milton hands don' trust them nor yo' for hirin' them. But they do trust me."
"And so it follows that I should trust you?" John spat, "Upon my word, you don't think small beer of yourself! Hamper has had a loss of you. How came he to let you and your wisdom go?"
"Well, we parted wi' mutual dissatisfaction," Higgins replied with a smirk. "We don' have to trust each other. "I would na ha' troubled yo', but that I were bid to by one as seemed to think yo'd getten some soft place in yo'r heart. Unless Hoo were mistook, and I were misled I reckon we ought ta get on well enough."
John mulled this concept over. Margaret trusted this man, he trusted Margaret. Furthermore, as Higgins himself suggested, John had the power to turn the man off at the first sight of trouble. If he was diligent, he had very little to loose and much to gain. John nodded and extended his hand. "Will you take work with me?"
Higgins' face screwed up in distaste, "work's work to such as me. So, measter, I'll come; and what's more, I thank yo'; and that's a deal fro' me," he said as he shook John's hand.
"And this is a deal from me," said Mr. Thornton, giving Higgins's hand a good grip. "Now mind you come sharp to your time," continued he, resuming the master. "I'll have no laggards at my mill. What fines we have, we keep pretty sharply. And the first time I catch you making mischief, off you go. So now you know where you are."
Higgins bit his lip and shook his head as if in an effort to curb his tongue. After a moment he said, "Well, I reckon we best rescue Miss Margaret from th' childer."
When they exited the house, Margaret was outside resting a baby on her hip watching the older children play tag. The sight of Margaret with a babe in her arms threatened to overpower him with longing. She looked up as they approached and gave him an expectant smile. He nodded and her smile turned radiant. She passed the children off to Higgins, slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, and they made their retreat. When they were once again walking on the larger well-kept thoroughfares of Milton, Margaret said in a tender voice, "Thank you John." His heart melted at her use of his name and he found himself unequal to a response further than a heartfelt smile and clasping his free hand over hers.