08|
"There you are," Jackie said, placing a slightly worn book in a faded blue linen binding in front of Meret. "John Thornton, Manufacturer and Politician—A Milton Life... My, this sounds dull."
"I'm afraid it won't be riveting reading for the most part. But I hope to find Emily mentioned in it somewhere," Meret said. She was looking around in the reading room of the library for a free table; but all were taken at present. "Right, I think I'll make do with the chair by the window—"
"So you won't require the Marlborough Mills papers today, will you? Can't spread them out on the armrest, after all... Incidentally, someone's subscribed for the papers, to look at them in two weeks' time. You'll better keep that in mind, if you're going to need them again."
"Oh!... Do you know who?"
"Name doesn't sound familiar... but even if it did, I wouldn't be allowed to tell you."
"Yes, of course. I understand," Meret said hastily.
"Anyway, it's odd, isn't it?" Jackie mused. "These papers haven't been asked for in years—that's why no-one bothered to catalogue them—and now it's been twice in less than a month—"
Once installed in her chair, Meret opened the book—and wrinkled her nose. The pages were yellowed and gave off a faint whiff of stale tobacco smoke. The whole thing was printed in small font on cheap paper. Flicking through the pages confirmed her suspicions—no index. This would be quite a slog.
Where to begin? The biography seemed to be in chronological order; first chapter started with his parents' marriage in 1819, and therefore the year before John Thornton's birth. But did she really want to read about Emily's grandparents when she wasn't even sure yet to find anything worthwhile about Emily herself in this book? Looking at the uninspiring opening paragraph, Meret decided to fast-forward to John Thornton's own wedding.
... After a steady run of four years since taking over Marlborough Mills as a tenant—the owner Adam Bell, a born Miltonian and a Fellow of Plymouth College at Oxford, never ran the mill himself—all the while expanding business and progressively raising output, John Thornton was suddenly confronted with an economic downturn affecting the trade of finished cotton goods early in 1851. The Darkshire cotton industry, in an attempt to safeguard economic hegemony, increased production in the following months to undercut prices, in particular those of cloth imported from the U.S. As a result, profits in the Milton cotton trade plummeted after the first quarter.
Thornton, through earlier substantial investments in machinery and from lacking requisite financial resources due to the relatively short standing of his tenancy, was particularly vulnerable under those circumstances; a fact exacerbated by a prolonged strike of mill workers during the months of July and August in the same year.
The situation came to a head on Thursday, August 21st, after Thornton, in an effort to break the ongoing strike, had imported labour from Ireland. By ten o'clock on that day, a crowd of approximately one hundred workers from varying mills stormed the Marlborough Mills grounds. In the ensuing riot one unnamed female associated with the Thornton family sustained injuries. The riot was, however, quickly quelled by militia forces. No major damages to property were reported. In the aftermath a police investigation regarding the instigators of the riot resulted in no charges. One presumed ringleader was believed to have died from natural causes in the days following the riot.
In the ensuing months a number of management decisions led to an accumulation of debt: Remaining committed to employing the unskilled Irish workers brought in at the height of the strike, Marlborough Mills suffered a setback in the quality of its finished goods which, in turn, led to failure to meet contracts. An attempt, in September of the same year, to find new investors at the Great Exhibition in London ultimately proved unfruitful; and, finally, Thornton's refusal to enter into an investment scheme set up by his brother-in-law Robert Watson not only resulted in a breakup of family relations, but, more decisively—as the investment scheme proved supremely successful—, in losing his final chance to save Marlborough Mills.
Marlborough Mills went out of business in August 1852, one year after the conclusion of the strike that set this fatal development in motion.
One month later, at the end of September 1852, John Thornton introduced his fiancée Miss Margaret Hale, of London, into Milton society.
How this connection had come about, remains largely unknown. Miss Hale, originating from Hampshire, was understood to have resided in Milton at some previous time, probably from late in 1850, and for the duration of about eighteen months. It can be presumed that the connection between Thornton and the Hale family originated from that time. The Hales came to live in Crampton after the father, the Reverend Richard Hale, of Helstone, broke with the Church of England and became a dissenter. Miss Hale's mother, Maria Hale née Beresford, died in 1851, and was buried in Milton's Hillhead Cemetery.
Intriguingly, Miss Hale, who was believed to have lived in reduced circumstances during her parents' lifetime, was the goddaughter of Adam Bell and, shortly after her father's death in April 1852, became Bell's sole financial successor. Bell himself emigrated to Argentina where he died in the following year.
Upon their marriage in October 29th 1852, John Thornton came into possession not only of Marlborough Mills and other considerable assets within Milton, but also received funds in excess of £15,000 as part of his bride's dowry.
In the year following their marriage, Margaret Thornton took an active interest in various charitable endeavours and, in summer 1853, founded the Princeton School for Girls which exists until today—albeit in a different location from its original schoolrooms in Francis Street.
The couple continued to live at the Marlborough Mills premises, in contrast with the fashion of the day for industrialists to build stately homes at the outskirts of Milton. Several examples of such residential buildings, namely in and around York Street, still exist until today.
John Thornton's first child, his daughter Emily Maria, was born in October 4th, 1853.
In December of the same year Margaret Thornton, reportedly suffering from poor health due to some unspecified complaint, was by medical advice taken to the French Riviera where she passed away in the following year. Records state her place and date of death as Èze, County of Nice, Savoy and April 23rd, 1854 respectively.
Marlborough Mills, after resuming business by the end of November 1852...
—
"And this is it?" Meret muttered, disbelieving. Margaret Thornton over and done with in less than two pages!
As Meret was leaving the library with Jackie, Jareth was already waiting at the base of the steps in front of the main entrance. He casually leant against a waist-high flowerbed. Meret—with her thoughts tuned into the idea of food already—thought that he absolutely looked good enough to eat in his tan chinos, dark t-shirt, and black leather jacket.
"How's it been going?" Jareth asked after introducing himself to Jackie. "Have you found Emily yet?"
"Sort of... but it's so frustrating! Women seem to exist only as a footnote of history, both in the 19th century and in the 1950s," Meret complained.
Jackie only shrugged. "You ought to consider writing a book about Emily—if you ever manage to unearth enough about her, that is—if only to even the odds a little." She looked at her watch, then gave them a quick wave. "Anyway, must rush now! See you tomorrow."
"Are you hungry?" Jareth asked once Jackie had left them.
"I could eat," she murmured. Her voice held a sultry tone that instantly made her blush. She quickly looked around for his dog, hoping he hadn't noticed. "Where's Pinks?—is he really snubbing me again?"
"He had a good walk and is now taking a nap, either on the sofa or on my bed... Needless to say he's not actually allowed on either of them." He laughed his genuinely irresistible, butterflies-in-your-stomach inducing laughter. Biting her lips Meret thought how she wouldn't mind curling up on his sofa, or—better yet—on his bed either.
"Where's your bike?" he asked.
"I left it at home, as we were to meet for dinner tonight... I hope you'll give me a lift back to my place afterwards."
"You've been very certain that I'd be here by car..."
"I can always return by cab, of course," she said hastily, fearing that he might consider her too transparent.
"... well, it's not a car, unfortunately," he continued, grinning. "It's a motorbike—and I've got a spare helmet... It will be my pleasure to take you back home."
His words, though ordinary enough in themselves, hinted at possibilities. Meret wondered briefly about the state of her room and about Louisa's plans for the night. Her flatmate wouldn't choose today to be the one night in all the week to stay in, would she?
Don't get ahead of yourself, Frederiksen! "Erm... food?... Let's go get some?" she managed to say croakily.
"You wouldn't want to miss it—This way." He pointed down a side street. "So, what did you find out about Emily Thornton?"
"I got confirmation that she was actually born..."
"Congrats. Who would have thought it—"
"... and that she went to France with her father in summer 1869. The trip was in part related to his work, part for fun, it appears."
"And that's it?" he asked.
"That's it for now. Time was up," Meret replied.
"Where's Papa?" Emily asked her father's secretary who stood next to her at the railing of the steam boat taking them to Calais. John Thornton had disappeared shortly after embarking and had not yet returned. It was a lovely, sunny day with very little wind; so most of the passengers enjoyed the Channel crossing above deck.
"He met someone he knows from the Commons—Sir Thomas Hopkins—and they've seized the opportunity to 'talk shop'... He asked me to keep you company, and that he'll rejoin us prior to disembarking."
"Have you ever been in France, Tom Boucher?"
The young man gave her a lopsided smile. "We go back a long way, Miss Emily," he said. "I've known you since you were born—I was eleven then. Couldn't we possibly return to your calling me just 'Tom' again?"
"Well," Emily conceded, "I'm tempted to... but it might not appear proper now that we're both grown up. Or maybe if you'd also just call me Emily. Drop the 'Miss' and we'd be on equal terms again."
"I couldn't do that!" Tom exclaimed, scandalised. "You're the boss's daughter, after all... But to return to your question: Yes, I've been to Le Havre on several occasions, though never any further. This will be my first time up-country."
"What a shame that you won't come to Paris, then."
"I wouldn't mind visiting Paris one day... But Paris would be holidays, whereas Normandy is business—and my job is to help your father with business." He smiled. "So, while you'll be seeing the sights in the French capital, I shall be in Milton with my family—and that's also quite something to look forward to."
After a short pause, Emily turned to face the young man. "Do you actually remember my mother?" she asked.
"As I said, I was eleven when—" He checked himself. "She was a regular visitor in Princeton for a while and she was great friends with Nicholas... with Higgins. So, of course, I remember her, if only from a child's perspective."
"How was she?"
"Kind... But also a little intimidating. Very much the lady, with her fashionable manners and posh vowels. But mostly she was kind. Very concerned about the poor... A little intense, perhaps. It generally took her a while to realise when someone—Nicholas, usually—was pulling her leg." He smiled at the memory. "I saw less of her after she was married to Mr Thornton—it wouldn't have been proper for her to visit her husband's workers so often—and besides, I was at school then—"
Were they happy? was at the tip of Emily's tongue to ask, but she realised just in time how awkward this question would have been for him.
"—she started a charitable endeavour, the Women's Committee, that has since made a great difference to Princeton," Tom Boucher continued. "You've heard about the girls school there, haven't you? Your mother initiated that one, too."
"I had no idea," Emily admitted. "It is not that we don't talk about Mamma at home—we do!—but I suppose fifteen years is a long time... enough to take things for granted—to feel that they've been just so forever."
Or, at least, this is how I feel about it, she added in the privacy of her head. For others, her father most notably, there would be a time 'before' and a time 'after' tragedy had befallen them.
For a while they remained silent, each of them lost in their own thoughts.
While they were looking out across the waves, Emily suddenly remembered something she had read in one of Aunt Frances's sentimental novels. Something the heroine had said about men...
'I believe you capable of everything great and good in your married lives. I believe you equal to every important exertion, to every domestic forbearance, so long as you have an object—while the woman you love lives, and lives for you. All the privilege I claim for my own sex, is that of loving longest, when existence or hope is gone.'
Was that the explanation?—because Emily couldn't put her finger on anything in particular in proof of her father's enduring attachment, regardless of Cousin Edith's professions that theirs—Margaret and John Thornton's—had been a great love.
Ever since returning to her father's house in Pimlico after staying in Harley Street, Emily had found herself surreptitiously watching him, looking for telltale signs of that great lost love. But he seemed so ordinary, so little struck down by heartbreak.
Admittedly, he was a down-to-earth person—a certain soberness seemed to be an intrinsic part of his character—but he had a dry sense of humour that flashed up in unexpected moments. He spent a lot of time in society, and he didn't seem averse to company in general. He didn't suffer fools gladly. Therefore he drew the most pleasure from the company of intelligent, articulate people—of both sexes.
He was not a recluse; and he seemed to find enjoyment in his present life and career.
So, what did this make him? A man who had got over his great love rather too completely? Except... There was the fact that he had never remarried—
At that moment Emily recognised her father in the small group that came towards them. He was accompanied by an elderly gentleman and, between them, clinging to said elder gentleman's arm but with her attention firmly fixed on her other companion, a young lady walked. Even at a first glance she was the embodiment of the word 'vivacious'—and John Thornton, far from being put off by the regard of a young woman half his age, looked down at her, smiling.
"May I introduce you to my daughter Emily," John Thornton said when they joined her and Boucher at the railing. "Sir Thomas and Miss Hopkins will accompany us to Amiens and Rouen, Emily. Sir Thomas has expressed a wish to see the textile mills I'm going to visit there; and you may keep Miss Hopkins company in seeing the local sights." He turned towards the young woman again. "I believe both towns have famous cathedrals—"
So, I'm to keep her company—not the other way round! Emily felt irritated at this sudden turn of events. She jealously guarded those occasions when she had her father's undivided attention, simply because there were so few of them in their day-to-day lives. She had been looking forward to their holiday and she had even been willing to go visit the mills with him, just to please him. But now he had assigned her as companion to a woman entirely unknown to herself—and without prior consultation, or warning!
What were they to her father, anyway? She knew from Tom Boucher who Sir Thomas was, of course. But what particular claim had Miss Hopkins on his benevolence?