"Thank goodness Fanny's gone away," Fanny's mother said, with satisfied gloom. "I don't know what she'd have to say about these goings-on, but no doubt it would be something to annoy every one of us!"
"Well you can't say Margaret's bin any trouble, Mother. She's kept to her room."
Mrs Thornton bent on him a black look. "Trust a man to come up with that piece o'nonsense. That's not bein' no trouble, John! I haven't rested a moment - feelin' I have to keep checkin' on her, making sure she's eating, tryin' to get her down here back in the land of the livin', poor Mrs Hale lookin' over me shoulder the whole time askin' if I'm doing right by her child. Not to mention the aunt sending messages by express every day! I'm that tired of seeing the post roll up at the door I nearly sent him away this morning before he could deliver. And although I have some sympathy with Miss Hale," said dryly – "I didn't take to the miserable, fussy woman meself - surely the girl would be better off at home with her mother's own sister - back in her own class!"
"What are you suggestin' Mother – that we pack her into a coach and send her off against her own will? Let her grieve here in peace until she naturally gets a little past it. Her father dying has been the worst possible blow for her. Not only has it left her completely alone, at least she was prepared for Mrs Hale's death – his came about in a shocking manner."
"You are quite the study of little Miss Hale, aren't you, John?" Mrs Thornton said wryly, "Very sure in your assessments of her character and motivations. And you such a man of reason!... but in this instance... I think it's your feelings dictatin' your judgement. I know well you don't want her to go!"
He was very cool as he replied: "I am guided by Miss Hale's own feelings, Mother, and you need not worry they are feelings in my direction, there has been no hint, not the smallest, of that; just that she's not ready to leave all memories of her father behind, nor to take a place in the bright happy family where daughters and sons still have parents and she among them in her mourning dress."
Seeing his mouth set in a grim, determined line, she knew he was unshakeable on this, nothing was going to make him waver. If she had seen his thoughts they would have made her no happier, because in his mind was the strange, unswerving sense that only he could look after Margaret at this time, that she was better here with him than anywhere, that he could not bear to let her go and be distressed where he could not see her every day and silently try to keep her safe.
Mrs Thornton sighed, giving up on it. "Well, your mind's set, I can see that. Take my advice and find something to keep her busy. More than half her trouble's having nothing to do! In Milton, we don't have these strange "low spirits" Hales seem so prone to and it's gettin' on my nerves."
"I think you may be on to something there, Mother," he said, considering it.
"You'd better take heed, my boy, for if you don't, I've got plans of me own," she threatened, exasperated. "No more mopin' in her room in low spirits, or I'll give Jane an' Cook the day off an' tell our fine young lady I need help in the kitchen, now that'll sort her out, toilin' down among the pots 'n pans - I'm that tired of lookin' at her milk-white face and great, tragic eyes!'
"She'd probably be of great use to you, Mother," he said wryly, "I'm told she's learned to press and fold as well as any maid."
-OO-
Margaret received on her breakfast tray, brought to her by a maid whose sullenness at this extra duty was not covert, two notes. One, in a scented envelope with familiar writing, was the daily missive from her Aunt in London, the tone offended ; saying it was unreasonable to expect her to travel all the way to Milton after her last wasted trip; that baby Sholto was unwell so Edith was confined to the house also; and that they nevertheless expected her return at any moment and that she could travel with Dixon, as the house in Crampton must surely be in good order by now.
The other was a single sheet of snowy paper, folded once; inscribed Miss Margaret Hale in black, cursive script. Mr Thornton requested that she might meet with him in his office 'if she would like'; he would be there until ten o'clock. That it was nothing urgent at all, and she must not come if she did not feel well.
He looked up when she knocked; he could not prevent a smile springing up at the sight of her. He didn't know it, but it softened all his face and reached his eyes and lifted their grey, steely chill to something bluer, and gentle. She responded to it without knowing she did, mirroring warmth in her answering smile.
He had stood up to greet her, and got immediately to the point. "Miss Hale – I had the thought you might like to come to the Mill with me this morning?" When she didn't immediately reply, he went on, "I thought it might interest you, to learn its workin' and so on. But if – "
"Oh no, no!" she hastened to assure him, "I would like to. I would very much like to."
"Your father visited once - did he say? He asked a good deal of questions about the machinery and seemed to find it all most interesting, but he was a man to find things interestin' in general."
Her father had never said anything about a visit to the Mill. Margaret knew why that must have been – once he had learned of his best pupil's one-time fondness for his daughter, he had, with natural sensitivity, never mentioned the man's name again. She could not say this to Mr Thornton, so she merely watched him pick up his black coat from the chair, slide it over his loose snow-white sleeves, automatically smoothing it into perfect place, checking his cravat was straight and tight, obviously a daily routine so practised it required no attention. And then, seeing everything with bright and interested eyes, Margaret Hale walked at the Master's side to his mill, a busy place of great industry.
Their route took them first through the gloomy chambers where dusty cotton was unpacked from bales recently delivered – "Cover your mouth, Miss Hale, or the fluff will cause you to cough," - then through the carding room where she saw the raw stuff brushed with mechanical combs, into the spinners' hall where the thread was drawn out on rackety machines – stopping here and there to ask a young lad, or a girl, or a careworn woman, or a sweating man, to 'explain what they were doing to Miss Hale, the purpose and procedure of it, if they would,'. She noticed he spoke with authority, distant and reserved as befitted the Master, but also with courtesy, calm in temper. This was his domain, he was absolutely at home, he ruled it. She was feeling some strange turbulent emotion in herself; puzzled by it, she finally identified it as pride. Seeing him as assured commander of all this, people and processes and huge machines, so used to his own authority and power here he never gave it a thought himself, she was moved, and proud of him.
And then they were throwing wide the door that led into the noisy, organised chaos of the weaving shed where it always snowed.
It was difficult to talk in here due to the continuous rattle and clack of the machines, a truly thunderous noise, so she simply followed, and looked, and took it in. Mr Thornton seemed to find it easy to ignore the looks and glances coming their way and strode quickly between the rows, stopping here and there to point something out, but she could not miss the ripple of interest among the workers, whose heads were assiduously bowed over their tasks with the all-seeing eye of the Master passing behind, and could easily guess at the speculation: 't'Master with that Miss Hale!
At all times he took unobtrusive care to keep her out of harm's way; moving between her and where he knew there was possible danger, guiding her, without ever touching her, to the places it was safe to walk. Finally he took her up to a platform, where they could look down upon the whirling clouds of white and feel a little distanced from the noise.
"This is where I first saw you," she remembered.
He frowned a little at that, tilting his head. "It's a pity you did. Though Stevens deserved what he got, I'll not change me mind on that."
He had often wondered if things might have turned out differently, had she not always had in her head her first sight of him, lost in temper, shouting, hitting and viciously kicking 'a man who was not his equal'. He smiled quickly, remembering her indignant outrage, her huge grey eyes flashing sparks - she, small, feminine and angry, standing up to him, giving him, the Master! as good as she got. So unafraid of him, who expected to be feared. It was not the best memory he had of her, but he had so few and must treasure them all.
How strange it was that things had so turned upside down; whether she knew it or whether she did not, it was she who had the absolute rule of him now.
"I see children here, scrabbling for scraps under moving machinery," she observed, "That cannot be safe."
"They learn to be fast," was his short answer.
"They are so young..." Two small girls scuttled backwards furiously on hands and knees away from the moving loom.
"No child has ever been injured working here, if that's what you're wonderin'."
"Do you not think it regrettable that children have to work at all?"
"I live in the real world, Miss Hale, where children do work."
"It is a cruel world then. And I once thought you gloried in your high place over others in it less fortunate."
There was some tension pricking up between them now; he felt himself rising to it, like he always did, defensive against what he sensed was her disapproval. It was like the days and times of old... which was a good thing, he told himself. He knew he must prefer this Margaret to the sad, withdrawn girl of these past days. He must, and he did. It was just that... soon she would not need him any more, she would leave him again and this time it would be forever. She would barely remember him once she was back in her own world where she belonged.
"I knew a man once – a cotton manufacturer in Milton – oh no, there was no question of it; he was not quite a gentleman and in any case I did not like him – "
A stricken place opened up inside him; he could feel it raw as an open wound.
She was turning to him. "I do not think that of you any more, Mr Thornton," with a little, friendly smile that stopped his heart again.
He had got lost there in his own sad musings, and had to pick his way back through them to find the prompt for her reply. I once thought... but I do not think that of you any more... He lost his breath, looking frowningly into her upturned face, so sweet and open. And below them, all the upturned faces of his workers, which snapped back down to their work when they saw the Master glowering from above.
"We should go," he said abruptly, and handed her down the walkway and the stairs until they were out in the open air again.
"You must be tired, Miss Hale. The Mill's a harsh environment for those unused to it."
"Not at all... I feel much better for it." She did indeed, look much better: bright, lively eyes, a little pink in her cheeks. "I have found it so interesting, just as my father would have done, I'm sure. Tell me – I see packages of cotton product being laden onto carts here. Where will they be taken?"
He had himself in hand again now and began to speak of docks, and barges, canals, rivers and the open seas.
"I would love to watch your cotton beginning its journey."
"Dockyards are not pleasant places. But, if you've a mind for it, we could walk tomorrow to the hill and watch those very barges pass along the canal. An' you can wave that cotton you saw weaved today on its way, whether it be bound for London, or Luanda."
"I would like that, Mr Thornton." Margaret smiled at him, then her eyes slid away and upwards. There at the window was the woman she had described to Bessy as 'a great black crow'. Jealously protective; fiercely on guard.
-OO-