Chapter 5

"I can't believe he carried you all the way to Marlborough mills", Bessy exclaimed, her eyes wide with excitement at the story Margaret was relaying to her. She put some bread on the table and started cutting it. "What was it like?", she asked curiously.

Margaret grimaced: "It was humiliating, Bessy. Being dependant on his help was the last thing I had wanted." Bessy put a slice of bread in front of her and filled a wooden cup with water. Then she sat down and grinned at Margaret. She was a good-natured girl and seemed to enjoy their conversation way too much.

"Yeah, but I mean 'e is quite good-looking, you must admit it, there's loads of girls after 'im." "Well, they are welcome to him. With my good wishes", Margaret shot back with a humourless laugh.

"So, he is not married then?", she asked after a short pause. Bessy shook her head: "Oh no, 'e's never shown any interest in marrying from what I can tell. 'e's married to Marlborough mills." Bessy laughed at her own joke, until her laugh turned into a painful coughing fit and she quickly reached for her cup of water.

Margaret looked at her worriedly. "Bessy – are you sure you are alright?", she asked carefully. Bessy shrugged. "It's the fluff in my lungs. I can't get rid of it, however much I cough." She did not meet Margaret's eyes as she added: "At least I won't grow too old and ugly."

Margaret was at a loss for words. She wanted to comfort the girl, but found that there was nothing she could say to make things better. The prospect of losing the only friend she had been able to find in this dreadful place made Margaret's insides clench painfully.

"How is your father?", she asked, trying to change the topic. If possible, Bessy's face fell even further. "Preparing for the strike", she whispered under her breath. "It can be any day now that the men will turn out, and I don't think I can bear it", she cried out in a weak voice. The whole situation obviously distressed her greatly.

Margaret felt sympathy for Nicholas and his men. Having witnessed the working conditions in a cotton mill first hand, she did not know how anyone could not. "But is it not for a good cause?" she asked. "Fighting for one's rights? I think there is a lot of honour in such an act."

"Ye are not from around 'ere", Bessy mused. "Ye don't know what a strike really means. Who will be able to support the strikers without their wages?" "But does the union not fund the strike?" Margaret asked. "It does, but it's not enough if the strike lasts longer than a few days", Bessy shrugged.

"There's this man who lives next door to us, 'is name's Boucher. 'e has a wife who is sick and six little children – none of 'em old enough for factory work. 'e won't be able to fill all these mouths. Boucher does not want to go on strike, I know, but 'e will have to. The pressure put on 'im by the union is too great."

"But what will become of his children?" Margaret felt a pang of sympathy for the man. "You see, that's just the thing, Miss Margaret, the union promises to help 'im, but it won't be enough. If the strike lasts, his family might starve. At least that's what 'e fears." "But there must be something that can be done, surely?" Margaret rose from her chair and started pacing, unable to sit still any longer. "If ye're thinking of bringin' baskets – 'e won't take 'em", Bessy said matter-of-factly.

"Men 'round 'ere have got their pride. It's not like in the south. They would rather starve than take charity." Margaret breathed a frustrated sigh. She would never understand these northerners. This was just stupid. "Do you think the strike will be successful?" "Oh, Miss Margaret", Bessy moaned. "There is no way. The masters won't give in. They'd rather hire 'ands from Ireland than raise our wages – Thornton certainly would."

Of course, there was that name again.

"What sort of a master is Mr. Thornton?", Margaret asked, curious. Bessy shrugged her shoulders once more. "'e's as hard a master as the others, but at least he's honest – one of the few honest ones, really. Keeps his word, 'e does. Father always calls him a bulldog", she chuckled, "because once he sinks his teeth into something, he won't let go. I daresay he's more 'andsome than a bulldog though." Margaret smirked at that.

"'e does pay slightly better wages than most other mills too. At Hampers the spinners only earn four shillings. Thornton pays us five and ten."

"Your father moved you to Marlborough mills because of the wheel, did he not?" "Yes", Bessy nodded. "It's much safer there than anywhere else." "But why would Thornton get a wheel, if it's not considered profitable?", Margaret mused. Surely, he would not spend so much money on the health of his workers, now would he?

"Oh, he claims that it's sound business sense", Bessy replied, refilling her cup of water. "Says that if the workers are healthier, they and their children will work for him longer so he won't have to train new workers all the time."

Margaret nodded to herself. That sounded more like it. "Anyway, do his reasons really matter? The outcome's the same", Bessy pondered. "I suppose", Margaret agreed, still deep in thought.

When Margaret arrived back home, after her visit to Princeton, she found her parents in the sitting room with a tall and slender gentleman with greying hair. He was dressed very elegantly, and when he saw her, a wide smile spread across his face.

"Ah, and this is Margaret, of course. You know, the last time I saw you, you were around eight years old, running around Helstone with your brother."

At his words, realisation dawned on her. "Mr. Bell! Of course", she smiled, stepping forward to greet her godfather.

"Well, Hale, I thought then that she would grow into a handsome young woman, but this goddess I never imagined." Margaret was taken aback by his words and quickly her father joined in: "Come, come, Bell. Margaret will not understand your humour." "Oh! No offense my dear", Bell cried out.

Margaret caught herself quickly: "Of course not, I'm pleased you've come to visit at last." She sat down and Bell did the same. "I came to Milton to talk with my banker. I find all that talk of strike to be a tad unsettling." Mr. Bell leaned back in his chair with an amused gleam in his eyes. "It seems that masters and workers will never see eye to eye, but we must not let things like these spoil our fun, is that not right Margaret?"

She was unsure what to say to that, but he did not seem to expect a reply.

"I intend to take this opportunity, to go and see Mendelssohn's violin concerto at the Milton concert hall tomorrow evening. I haven't been to a concert in quite a while. I would be more than happy if you and Margaret would accompany me, Richard. Your daughter has not seen much of Milton society yet, from what I've heard. I think it is time we introduce her."

Mr. Hale found this to be a wonderful idea, and it was indeed. While Margaret was not sure whether she was very keen on Milton society, she was aware that she needed to take this opportunity, for if she did not, Bessy Higgins was likely to remain her only acquaintance in this city. She had not been to a concert in months, and as soon as Mr. Bell had mentioned it, she found she was in fact starting to look forward to it.

The concert hall in Milton turned out to be very much like the halls Margaret had known in London, safe for the fact that most people there were merchants, mainly mill owners, and their wives.

The performance itself was enjoyable, the orchestra played well, and Mr. Bell managed to introduce Margaret and her father to a handful of people. Amongst them was a Mr. Latimer with his wife and daughter, who took their seats in the same box as Mr. Bell and the Hales.

Mr. Latimer turned out to be a banker. He was a rather elegant man and his wife was a slightly chubby woman in her early fifties, who seemed to giggle a lot and appeared to be a friendly sort of person.

Their daughter, Ann, had to be about Margaret's age, maybe one or two years her junior. She had just returned from her studies in Switzerland and was a delightful girl, who reminded Margaret a bit of her cousin Edith: Spoiled by wealth and a bit naive, but cheerful and friendly enough for Margaret to take a liking to her almost instantly. Ann was pleasant to talk to and seemed very interested in the fact that Margaret had been brought up in the south. "I heard that it must be beautiful there", the girl sighed with a smile. "I've never been further south than London myself, but I wish to go see Devonshire, for I have read much about it."

After the performance, they slowly made their way through the entrance hall and out onto the street, where the coaches were waiting already. "Miss Hale, would you mind if I called on you next week?", Ann asked, as they said their goodbyes. "I have enjoyed our conversation and would really like to continue it soon." Margaret shot her a genuine smile. "I would quite enjoy that", she answered honestly.

On the following Tuesday, Mr. Hale had his first official lesson with Mr. Thornton.

Margaret and her mother stayed up in the sitting room, as the men retreated to the study. Margaret was glad to be spared Thornton's company, but after the lesson was over, her father invited his new pupil to take tea with them.

Thornton wore his usual black frock coat and tie. He placed the book he had been holding upon the small side table and took a seat near the fireplace, as Dixon entered the room, carrying a tray with tea and biscuits. Margaret caught her father's look and got up to serve the tea. She noticed Thornton's gaze upon her out of the corner of her eye and swallowed, trying to concentrate on the task at hand.

"How do you take your tea, Mr. Thornton?", she asked a bit self-consciously. "No milk, no sugar", he said in his low baritone voice.

She carried the cup over to him and as she handed it to him, his fingers brushed hers for the fraction of a second. The touch startled her and she was glad that the cup was already held securely in his grip for fear of dropping it, as she quickly drew her hand back. She turned instantly, facing the opposite wall, and in a few quick strides was back in her chair, where she quickly grabbed her needlework and began stabbing at it intently, carefully avoiding his gaze, as the men ventured into yet another conversation on cotton.

Thornton was going into detail about Richard Arkwright's water-powered spinning frame and carding engine, which had revolutionized the industry. As he spoke of it, he seemed almost in awe. There was a certain passion and wonder in his voice, and his lips curled into a tiny smirk, which seemed to be a rare occurrence in him. 'He likes machines better than people' Margaret mused scornfully. 'Fitting, for a man who probably has a heart of steel.'

"…all motion and energy but truly, I think of beauty. Classics will have to be re-written to include it", Thornton was saying and Mr. Hale chuckled lightly at his statement.

Mrs. Hale chose this moment to join the conversation. "Clearly you are very proud of Milton, Mr Thornton. My husband admires its energy and its…" She hesitated. Margaret could tell that she was trying to find something nice to say about Milton, and was unsuccessful. "-its people are very busy making their businesses successful", her mother finished eventually, masterfully phrasing her true thoughts into something polite.

Thornton took a sip from his tea. "I won't deny it", he replied. "I would rather be toiling here, success or failure, than leading a dull, prosperous life in the south, with their slow, careless days of ease."

Margaret felt a pang of anger, as he insulted her home. How dare he speak of the south like that? She was sure, he had no idea what he was talking about, he had probably never left this dirty, grimy place in all of his life, yet he was arrogant enough to look down upon others.

"You are mistaken!", she shot at him with a raised voice. He put down his cup to look at her questioningly. "You don't know anything about the south", she told him. "It may be a little less energetic in its pursuit of competitive trade, but then there is less suffering than I have seen in your mills. And all for what?"

Margaret heard her mother gasp and felt her father's eyes on her, and she feared that she had gone too far. Thornton looked at her shocked, as if he could not believe that anyone would speak to him in such a manner. When he opened his mouth to answer, there was a calmness in his voice, which appeared to be quite forced.

"We make cotton", he simply stated. "Which no one wants to wear!" she blurted out. Suddenly the room was filled with a strange tension. Margaret knew her father did not approve of her words, but seemed afraid to enter the conversation. "I think that I might say that you do not know the north", Mr. Thornton said in a quiet voice, which aggravated her further. "We masters are not all the same, whatever your prejudice against Milton men and their ways."

She could not believe the audacity of this statement, coming from him of all people. He really seemed quite determined to purposefully mislead everyone about his own true character. Margaret heard words tumble out of her own mouth before she could stop them: "I have seen the way you treat your men. You treat them as you wish, because you consider them beneath you!"

"Margaret!" Even though he had no idea what had caused his daughter's outburst, Mr. Hale had obviously had enough, but Margaret was in full flow now. For weeks she had been putting up a brave front, not wanting to unsettle her parents, as this man had wormed his way into their confidence, while she had seen who he really was, and she could not bear it any longer.

"I was there! I saw you beat a defenceless man, who was not your equal. A gentleman would never have raised his fists to such a pathetic creature. You have been blessed with good luck and fortune, but others have not!" Margaret heard her father mutter something inaudible under his breath, his face an image of mortification.

Thornton had gone visibly pale, as he stared at her in silence for a moment. Eventually, she heard him draw in a shaky breath.

"I do know something of hardship, Miss Hale." His voice was soft, but there was a dangerous tremor in it, which betrayed his anger. "I know you despise me, allow me to say, it is because you don't understand me. Pray, do you have any idea what can happen, when one lights a pipe in a cotton mill?"

He waited for an answer, but she could not give him one, so he continued: "The air in the mill is filled with small particles of cotton dust, which would ignite instantly. A tiny spark is enough to destroy a whole mill in less than twenty minutes. It has happened before."

There was something about the way he said those last words, that made her head snap up to look at his face, and when his eyes met hers, there was a strange pain in them, she had not seen in him before.

She was suddenly hit by the gravity of what he was telling her. He was speaking from first-hand experience, she was sure of it. She could tell from the look on his face and the slight quiver in his voice, as he spoke of it. Margaret was stunned into shocked silence. She tried to tear her eyes away from his, but found that she could not.

"I pray you never have to witness anything like that, Miss Hale. It is a sight I would not wish upon my worst enemy." He seemed to try to regain some control over his emotions, as he closed his eyes briefly and shook his head to himself, before facing her again.

His voice was calmer now. "The man I dismissed that day had attempted to light a pipe inside the mill before and had thoroughly been enlightened by my overseer on the risk he was taking. He chose to ignore the warning and put hundreds of lives at risk, including yours and mine."

He looked down, releasing a small breath. "I'll admit that my conduct in this matter was not the most reasonable, and I deeply regret your having had to witness it, but I can assure you it was not an apt representation of how I usually treat my workers. If anything, I was trying to protect them that day."

His words were followed by complete silence, the only sound to be heard was the light ticking of the clock on the mantlepiece and the occasional crackling of the fire. Mr. and Mrs. Hale both sat upright in their chairs, looking positively horrified, while Margaret was so shocked, that all she felt was numbness, as silent tears were pricking her eyes.

Thornton rose from his chair. "I have outstayed my welcome", he concluded in a defeated voice. This brought Mr. Hale back to life. "Oh no, John!", he insisted, quickly standing up as well. As her mother rose from her chair, Margaret caught herself enough to do the same. Before he left the room, Thornton turned to her. His expression had changed to one which seemed almost pacifying. "Come, Miss Hale, let us part friends, despite our differences. If we become more familiar with each other's traditions we may learn to be more tolerant I think."

With that, he held out his hand to her. Margaret made no move to take it – she was too shaken, her mind was reeling. She had completely forgotten what her father had told her about the handshake being custom in the north in all forms of society. When Thornton realized that she was not going to accommodate him, he dropped his hand, nodded politely at both her parents, and left the room.

Mr. Hale quickly went after him, practically begging him to visit them again soon, afraid that the man would never set foot inside their house again. "I'll see myself out", Margaret heard Thornton say before they could hear the closing of the front door behind him.

A moment later Mr. Hale stepped back into the room. He was looking at Margaret in utter bewilderment. "Margaret!", he breathed. "What on earth has come over you? Speaking to Mr. Thornton in such a way and then refusing to take his hand – I think you gave him real offense." It was all it took for her tears to come. "I – I'm sorry father", she breathed. "I don't know what came over me. I did not mean to offend, I just – " She could not explain. "Please forgive me, father", she cried.

Neither of her parents spoke, both still shaken by everything that had taken place. Margaret excused herself and stormed out of the room and up the stairs. She shut her bedroom door behind her and dropped onto her bed, clutching her pillow to her chest as her tears came freely, her body shaking with violent sobs.

She did not know how long she cried for, it seemed like hours. During the past few months in Milton, she had held in so much, and now it felt like everything erupted all at once.

Finally, her tears had run dry, and the candle on her nightstand had burned down. Margaret lay in the darkness, her face swollen. She felt completely numb, as if in a state of shock. In her head, his words played over and over again. "I know you despise me, allow me to say, it is because you don't understand me." As much as she hated to admit it, she knew he was speaking the truth.

She barely knew anything of him, she realized. Had she been too quick to jump to conclusions about him? Margaret rolled onto her back, staring up at the ceiling, as she tried to collect her thoughts.

No – she did not approve of Mr. Thornton. She could not, after having seen the conditions, his workers lived in, while he sat in his big house at Marlborough mills, strolling about in his expensive, perfectly tailored frock coats. He had made his fortune by exploiting others and did not seem even remotely interested in improving their working conditions, if the things Nicholas Higgins had said were any indication.

But – Margaret realized with a pang - there was still a considerable difference between a hardened mill master and the violent monster she had painted him as in her head.

And then there was the incident with Stevens and in this case, Margaret had to admit, there were things she simply had not considered before. The danger of flames in a cotton mill suddenly seemed plainly obvious to her and she felt stupid for not having given the matter more thought. What an act of utter ignorance, for a man to disregard the overseer's orders and risk his own life and the lives of hundreds of his fellow workers.

Thornton's dismissal of Stevens had indeed made perfect sense. She could even understand his anger, although she still could not bring herself to approve of his violent actions, even if he had apologized for them, she mused. Mr. Thornton struck her as a proud man and Margaret had not expected him to bear the humiliation of admitting his wrongdoings, and in front of her parents too.

An unbidden image of the strange, pained expression he had worn, as he had told her about the mill fires, crept into her mind. His eyes had spoken volumes in that moment, leaving her in no doubt that he had spoken from his own, personal experience. It had all been there in his face and the way he had held himself. And if this was true, was it any wonder that he had seen red, when Stevens had ignored all warnings and lit a pipe inside the mill?'

Was it possible that he had not beaten the man to satisfy a sick sense of superiority and power over his workers, as she had been convinced, up until this moment, but instead had acted out of shock and fear for his own life and the lives of everyone at the mill? Had not even Nicholas Higgins, a union man, claimed that Stevens had deserved the beating? Bessy had talked to Margaret repeatedly about her work, but never once had she mentioned any habit of Thornton to routinely beat up his workers.

This, Margaret recognized, had been an image she herself had created of him in her own mind, without any solid evidence and not even much likelihood for it.

She suddenly felt stupid and naïve. What must he think of her? She was sure he either despised her or found her to be simple-minded and ignorant. She had insulted him to his face in front of her parents and she would not be surprised if he never set foot inside their house again. She had managed to drive away a man her father was apparently growing rather fond of and thus bereft him of one of the very few friends he had found in Milton.

"Oh!", Margaret cried into her pillow, as the guilt washed over her in waves. She had to find a way to make up for her mistakes and set things right with Mr. Thornton.

John walked home in a daze. In the past thirty minutes, he had been hit with so many different emotions, that he now felt completely drained.

Annoyance, disbelief, hurt, disappointment, anger, exasperation and eventually – when he had caught the look of complete dismay on her face and the unshed tears in her eyes, after his speech – he had felt guilt at having caused her such pain with his words.

She had attacked and humiliated him in front of her family. She was obviously prejudiced against him, thinking him some vicious brute. Her prejudices infuriated him, and yet, he could not bring himself to dislike her.

She was very young and understandably naive. Having been brought up as a clergyman's daughter in the south of the country, he was sure that their worlds were as far apart as was virtually possible. There was an innocence about her which intrigued him, coupled with a strong sense of righteousness, and when she had spoken to him in defence of his workers, there had been a passion in her that had taken his breath away.

She was wrong of course, having only been exposed to a very one-sided version of the story, but considering her young age and lack of experience, he could easily forgive her for that.

What had really struck him was how bravely she had stood up to him, how she had forgotten all rules of propriety in her fit of passion to defend the less fortunate and expose what she considered to be his true character.

And it was at that moment, that he realized he was lost.

John Thornton was completely and irretrievably in love with Margaret Hale.

Notes:

Richard Arkwright (1732 - 1792) was a British inventor who revolutionized the cotton industry with his invention of the so called "water frame" - a spinning frame, which was powered by water. He enabled the first mass production of cotton yarn, and is therefore credited as the "father of the modern industrial factory system".

Marlborough mills did not use the water frame, for the machine was already outdated in the mid-nineteenth century. The mills of Milton would have used a steam engine to power their machines.

Queen Street mill in Burnley/Lancashire was the mill, which was used for filming the N&S TV adaptation. It is the last running steam-powered cotton mill in the world.