POLES APART
A/N: Hi everyone! Thanks for all of the encouragement. I've finally had a bit of spare time in which to continue fleshing out this story and I hope that it will meet with your approval!
Enjoy!
Chapter 2:
The dull dusky light streaming in through the lace curtains belied the fact that it was only quarter to four in the afternoon. The weather had begun to change. Residents of Milton began to speculate that snow was imminent. Most walked the streets with their coats and scarves wrapped firmly around their bodies and faces to ward off the icy chill. But then even if it had been a warm summer's day, the light that dappled the threadbare rug on the floor of Mr Hales study would still have been grey and lacklustre; for such it always was in Milton. The smog and smoke of the factory town had permanently blocked out the bright dewy sunshine that shone in other counties. Here the dreary colours combined with the noxious fumes and the squalor of the downtrodden workers to make a cocktail of sadness and despair.
For such a one as Margaret Hale however these depressing circumstances had been but a small hurdle which her calm and sunny disposition was sure to overcome; and so she had. For her mother however, the dusty smoggy environs of Milton were an insurmountable obstacle. She had sadly succumbed to its clawing poisons.
Still Margaret had soldiered on; sad but not defeated.
But Fate had not been kind, for in Its selfish pursuits it had decided to carry Mr Hale away as well. Now, what had once been nothing but a bit of dreary weather, had suddenly become a dense dark weight pushing in on Margaret from all sides; slowing suffocating the last few ounces of joy and hope still left in her small frame.
It was in this melancholy stupor that Margaret now stood; her Black frock representative of her black mood and her indefinite future. Her small hands idly twisted the lacy scrap of fabric that was her handkerchief, around and around, until the tight rope cut into her skin, forming red welts as it slid through her fingers. She didn't seem to notice. She was looking around at all of her father's most prized possessions, trying not to think about how this would be the last time she would see them... smell them... touch them. Having not attended his funeral, this was to be her final farewell.
"All of these books need to be bound up and sent to Mr Thornton at Marlborough Mills Dixon. I know father would have liked him to have them and I'm sure he'll appreciate them."
"Yes Miss." Dixon watched as her mistress took one last loving glance around at the books that were spilling out on the table before her before gently dabbing at the corners of her red raw eyes for the umpteenth time that day. Dixon couldn't believe that her little mistress still had tears to cry after all the sobbing she had heard coming from Miss Hales bedchamber over the past several nights.
Dixon had always disliked Mr Hale. He was never good enough for her late Mistress and in her opinion was the direct cause of that dear Lady's death, (moving them all to the soot blackened streets of Milton indeed!) And now he had gone and left poor Margaret all on her own with not a soul in this world to care for her except this Mr Bell, which Dixon didn't like any more than she had ever liked Mr Hale – Men!
Margaret attempted to help Dixon assemble the books in neat piles but the process was a slow one as each new title that flashed before her watery eyes caused a memory to go shooting like an arrow through her chest. She was sure there could be nothing left of that vital organ any more. Dixon wished that Miss Hale would just leave her to do the packing; it would be much quicker and would spare her so much unnecessary suffering, but Margaret was adamant.
Margaret had spent the day trying to help Dixon pack as many things as possible. She knew she had probably been more of a hindrance than anything else but dear old Dixon had not groused at her or shooed her away. Dixon had promised to remain behind to finish the packing after Margret had left the following morning.
The majority of the furniture was to be sold at Auction. Though each piece had attached to it some beautiful memory of happier times, Margaret knew that she could not keep it. Mr Bell had insisted that Mr and Mrs Thornton wanted Margaret to be comfortable at Marlborough Mills and as such wanted her to bring as many of her belongings as she wished. But Margaret knew that was not possible. She was to be staying as a guest in their home for an indefinite period; she could not bombard them with all of her shabby furniture and what Mrs Thornton was sure to deem worthless trinkets. No; better they get sold so that someone else may have the use of them.
When Mr Bell had originally spoken to her of the Thornton's invitation Margaret had been quite taken aback. After everything that had been said between her and Mr Thornton as well as everything that had not been said, she was sure that he would never want to see her again, let alone offer her room and board in his house. She knew Mrs Thornton would not have made the offer if her son was opposed to it, so she had to believe that Mr Thornton must have forgiven her in some part. Forgiven her her refusal of his offer of marriage, forgiven her the heartless and unfeeling words that she had flung at him that day; but she didn't truly think he had forgiven her for her involvement in the scandal at Outwood station. How could he? He didn't truly understand what had actually occurred at Outwood station. He jumped to conclusions and wouldn't allow her to explain herself. No, he most assuredly hadn't forgiven her for that.
That night Margaret sat in her chamber packing the few items that she would be taking to the mill. She lovingly caressed her father's old Bible; the leather worn soft from the many times that her father had held it firmly grasped in his hands. This was the only book out of the many which Margaret had chosen to keep for herself; she could almost smell her father on its pages. She wrapped it gently in the folds of her mother's old shawl and carefully placed the soft woollen bundle on top of the dresses in her trunk.
She also kept her mother's embroidery ring. It reminded her so vividly of her mother, sitting by the fire working her needle into the fabric; that she couldn't bear to part with it. Even now it still held the last piece of cloth that her mother had been embroidering before she fell ill; the soft delicate fabric adorned with thick patches of fine silken thread woven into the most tantalising and beautiful of scenes. Margaret's needle work was poor to say the least, and as such she feared it would undoubtedly remain incomplete forever. This miserable thought caused a fresh crescendo of tears to cascade down her wan cheeks as this article was also tenderly tucked away in her truck.
After her packing was complete, (a task, which considering the limited articles Margaret could take with her, should have been completed in under an hour but which in reality was only concluded long after midnight); Margaret sat on the edge of the bed and surveyed her room for the last time. In truth she didn't see much, her mind had unwittingly wandered back to the interview she had had with Mr Bell only the previous morning.
"It is a most gracious offer Mr Bell, but is there nowhere else I could go?" asked Margaret gently.
"Come come my dear, it is not as bad as that! I grant you Mrs Thornton can seem a bit brusque at times but they are good people Margaret and it is very kind of them to offer to take care of you until such time as your Aunt returns from the continent."
"Yes, I know, it is very kind of them Mr Bell, only...well...you see, Mrs Thornton doesn't really like me very much and Mr Thornton...well, I said something to Mr Thornton which has upset him greatly, and he hasn't spoken to me for weeks. I can't imagine having to live under the same roof as them; I truly couldn't imagine them ever really wanting me to come. I am sure they only offered out of Christian duty," mumbled Margaret, not daring to look into Mr Bells face as she said it lest he observe something there which she had rather he not see.
But Mr Bell was wise enough not to allow all of his thoughts and feelings to be expressed and instead used his cunning to convince Margaret that Mrs Thornton would want nothing more than to care for her in such desperate circumstances and Mr Thornton scarcely less so as he had been such a close friend of Mr Hale's; and as Margaret had pointed out – they were both Christian people who, if they were indeed offended by something Margaret may have said, were sure to have forgiven her by now.
She had by no means been placated by his assurances but she knew that her options were limited; and so it was with a half broken heart and a heavy conscience that Margaret, accepting her fate, arrived at the mill the morning following her near sleepless night of packing. Her welcome was charitable enough. Mrs Thornton greeted her in mild if not warm tones and showed her to her room, leaving her to unpack her belongings and settle in.
When Margaret was finished, (in truth, when she had girded her nerves enough to face the prospect), she came down to the drawing room for morning tea. She was surprised, (and somewhat relieved) to find that Mr Thornton would be joining them; she wasn't particularly looking forward to the awkward conversation that would have been inevitable had she been left alone with Mrs Thornton. Though she knew that she had no right to expect any better treatment from Mr Thornton, her heart was lightened by his warm address and kind inquiries.
"I trust that you have settled in comfortably Miss Hale?" asked Thornton, nervously fingering the handle of his tea cup. Looking at the delicate cup, he couldn't help but remember the first time his hand had brushed against the warm softness of Margaret's fingers when she had handed him just such a cup of tea after having dinner one evening with Mr Hale and his family. He was roused from his memory by Margaret's gentle reply to his previously all but forgotten question.
"Indeed yes, I must thank you sir, for inviting me to stay here. I hope I shall not be an inconvenient or tiresome house guess. I would imagine you must have several more pressing demands on your time than to be worrying about my welfare."
"On the contrary Miss Hale, your father was a good and kind friend to me and I shall do everything in my power to ensure that his daughter is cared for. You have not had an easy time since your arrival in Milton Ms Hale, but I shall do all that I can to ensure your safety and wellbeing while you are here."
"Thank you Mr Thornton," replied Margaret shyly. Though she was slightly saddened that his generosity was all in aid of honouring the memory of her late father she still averted her eyes and tried to hide the blush that had unwittingly flared across her cheeks as a result of the warm way in which he had referred to her welfare. She should have known that Mr Thornton was a plain speaker and in his own house he would not hesitate to speak freely and openly. She was at least gladdened by his warmth, but extra heat was added to her blushes by the unbidden memory of her first interpretation of his character. When she had first arrived in Milton, she had mistook Mr Thornton's open and artless manner for crudeness and a failure to observe the niceties of decorum; she now knew that he was simply an open person who took pleasure in speaking his mind and even at times his heart. She only wished she had been able to know then what she knew now.
The next several days passed in much the same manner. After a rather silent breakfast Hannah would sit down with the housekeeper and go over the household roster or weekly menu's; Mr Thornton, who did not eat breakfast, was long since hard at work in the mill; and Margaret, left to her own devices, would steal away into her bedroom to while away the lonely hours until lunch. On the third morning after her arrival her father's books were delivered for Mr Thornton. He was touched that Margaret would think of giving them to him but promised that they would remain her property for as long as she may live and that should she ever want them back she need only ask.
Since that day she had taken to spending her idle hours holed up in Mr Thornton's study surrounded by her father's old tomes. It was on one such evening, when returning home late from the mill; Mr Thornton had decided he would take a book up to bed with him. Upon entering the gloomy study which was lit by only one small candle, he stumbled across Margaret sitting in the arm chair near his desk, with her small little feet curled underneath her as she unseeingly flipped through the pages of the book in her hands.
"I beg your pardon Miss Hale!" stammered Thornton. "I had not thought you would still be up. I had no wish to interrupt your solitary reverie." With these hasty words he attempted to back out of the room, but was stopped as Margaret stammered wearily in reply.
"No Mr Thornton, it is I who should beg your pardon. I have taken to monopolising your study of late. I'm afraid I do not get much sleep lately but when I have these old books to thumb through somehow the hours seem to pass much more quickly than in the silence and darkness of my room."
"You must rest Margaret. You are tired; I can see it in your eyes. Sad too, I know, but you must continue living if you are ever to overcome it. I know..." he said gently, his eyes worriedly glancing over her limp slight frame hunched forsakenly in the chair.
Looking slightly ashamed of herself and conscious of her self-centredness she gently wiped a stray tear as it raced down her flushed cheek. "Thank you Mr Thornton, it is difficult, as you are aware, but you are right, I cannot let it overpower me. I shall try harder to conquer it."
"You shall tell me if there is anything I may do for your comfort Miss Hale?" he asked, though his tone was more that of a command than an inquiry.
"You have already done so much, Mr Thornton. Indeed, I do not know how I shall ever repay you and your mother for your kindness."
"I assure you that neither one of us did it for repayment," replied Thornton with a now slightly bitter tone to his voice.
Margaret realised too late that Mr Thornton was overly sensitive to any insinuation about his proclivity for business overruling his human compassion, but she had not meant it in that light and hastily struggled to put matters to right. "No sir, you did it out Christian charity, because you are a kind-hearted Gentleman and I hope...a friend."
Thornton seemed to falter at her obvious use of the word gentleman but he could not bring himself to utter the words that were so readily on his lips, and which before had led him to suffer such heart break; instead he bowed his head and wished Margaret a good night before retreating to his bedroom – completely forgetting about the book which he had meant to bring with him.
Margaret awoke in the dark dim hours of the early Milton morning to find that she was still curled up in the arm chair in Mr. Thornton's study. The book she had been reading had since slipped to the floor and lay in a slightly crumpled heap on top of the many other books piled beside the chair. As she bent down in the semi-darkness of the fast approaching dawn to retrieve it, she noticed that she had been covered up with a soft cotton quilt. The fabric was dark in colour but felt soft and warm. She didn't recognize the coverlet as anything she had seen before in the house, and knew that it was by far too fine an article; and indeed to well used, as evidenced by its softness, to be something that had been stored away in a cupboard. Though no one who saw her at that moment would have been able to tell, due to the shadowy predawn dimness within the study, but the heat that flooded her cheeks as she realized that there could only be one person who could have covered her, caused her cheeks to flame in embarrassment and ignited a small flame of hope and joy in her lately so desolate heart.
She gently extricated herself from the quilt and standing, she lifted the fabric up to gently brush against the bloom on her cheek. Her senses were flooded by a musky sweet scent that pervaded the blanket and now that she came to think of it, it was the same sweet scent that always assailed her nostrils upon entering Mr. Thornton's study. After inhaling the folds of the cloth one last time, she tenderly folded the quilt and laid it gingerly over the arm of the chair she had just vacated. She then tidied the mess of books that were scattered on the floor and taking one last swift glance at the empty chair she hastily escaped up the stairs to the sanctuary of her bedchamber before any of the servants began their daily chores.