POLES APART

Chapter 4:

"Why my dear Miss Hale, how pale you look! I hope you are not ill. Indeed, I would not be surprised if you were, for it's a small wonder we are not all ill having to endure this cold and smoky place! Why my dear Watson and I spent several weeks in the glorious sun-shine of southern France, and I do declare that I have never enjoyed anything more! Why you should go there Miss Hale, should you get the opportunity. It is sure to do you the world of good."

Margaret didn't know how to reply to Fanny Watson's speech, the whole of which was spoken in one breath and in Fanny's usual self-indulgent style, with little or no consideration to what she was saying or to whom she was saying it.

She had arrived at Marlborough mills one grim morning, with the purpose of having morning tea with her Mama and Margaret in order to cheer them up; or at least that was her excuse. Had she been forced to hazard a guess, Margaret would be more likely to venture that Fanny had invited herself for tea simply for the pleasure of crowing over her about her wonderful husband, their blissful marriage, her richly furnished home and their idyllic honeymoon abroad. But Margaret was impervious to Fanny's thinly veiled boasting. Fanny had always been shallow and materialistic but ultimately Margaret didn't see any harm in her. She had been spoilt and cosseted all her life. Her mother and brother had had to bear the entire burden and she had reaped all the reward; the result was a superficial young lady of weak mind and indifferent temperament. This, thought Margaret, was hardly her fault.

In fact, after having sat for nearly three quarters of an hour listening to her vacuous diatribe about all the failings of Milton and other inane commonplaces, Margaret quietly thought to herself, that had Fanny been her younger sister, she would probably have tried to protect her from the outside world as well. She was vain, self-centered and spoilt, but still just a child at heart. No, Margaret bore her no ill will – in fact she rather pitied Fanny her cloistered existence.

A fact that would have indeed shocked and astounded Mrs. Fanny Watson had she known of it; for in her opinion she was undoubtedly the envy of most young woman of her acquaintance; and as for pity – well, a more wretched, ill-fated creature than Margaret Hale never existed.

While Fanny spoke, both Margaret and Mrs. Thornton sat in silence sipping their tea. Occasionally Margret would attempt to contribute to the conversation, but as she soon learnt that Fanny was more than capable of carrying on the conversation on her own; and as Mrs. Thornton, evidently well used to Fanny's way of speaking, had chosen to sit quietly to one side sipping her tea and occasionally shaking her head (whether in disagreement to what Fanny had said or whether in disapproval, Margaret couldn't discern), she too eventually decided to remain silent.

She was in danger of drifting away from the conversation entirely; her sleepless nights beginning to take their toll, when the door had suddenly opened and in walked Mr. Thornton. Margaret was slightly surprised as it was not his custom to take morning tea with the ladies but she welcomed the addition to their monotonous party. Their precarious friendship was teetering even more these days since their conversation of a few nights previous. He was sure that she must loathe him more than ever and as such generally tried to avoid imposing his presence or his conversation on her. She on the other hand was eager to mend the breech.

She wanted more than anything to make him see his own self worth. But Margaret believed that his renewed coldness towards her was still due to the looming shadow that forever palled over them in the guise of lies and misunderstandings surrounding that night at Outwood station. She was also confused by her need to seek his forgiveness. Margaret had certainly never wanted Mr. Thornton to hate her but lately the prospect of losing his friendship seemed to obsess her every waking moment. At least, she was not entirely sure it was just his friendship she was scared to lose. Though he had once offered her his heart and hand, she had been more than willing to continue on without them; now however, she wandered if she was as willing to relinquish them as she had once been.

"Forgive me Fanny, Williams informed me that you had come to call, but one of the looms needed my attention, hence my tardiness," said Mr. Thornton on entering the little parlour. He had walked with a strong and purposeful gait over to Fanny and bent down to kiss her lightly on her cheek.

"Oh! Do not speak to me of that dirty mill John, for I'm sure I couldn't give two straws! I'm only surprised that you can still continue there. Why, my dear Watson was just saying only yesterday evening, how he feels that he has outgrown the cotton industry and is in fact thinking about going in with Mr. Branson and having a go at speculating." This was said with the air of someone incredibly grand and important conferring a great honour on a subordinate, but sadly for Fanny, it was received with little enthusiasm and no credit.

"I hadn't believed Watson to be so foolish, but I suppose there's no fool like an old fool," replied Thornton nonchalantly as he stood before his sister, trying desperately not to look in the direction of Margaret.

"You can mock all you want to John, but I'll have the last laugh when my Watson makes a fortune speculating and you are still covered in the dirt and dust of the factory floor!" huffed Fanny, clearly upset over her brothers flippant retort.

"It is not just Watson John; I have heard that there are many prominent business men these days that have taken to speculating." Mrs. Thornton had not said more than two words since Fanny's arrival but now she spoke up, (an attempt to restore peace as it seemed to Margaret), as she poured out a cup of tea for her son.

"I have no doubt that there are many fools ripe for the plucking in this town mother, but I can assure you that I am not one of them." As he spoke he sat down on a wing back chair and with a cool and laid-back air crossed his one leg over the other and took a sip of his tea.

"It is not foolish John!" wailed Fanny, her face turning beetroot red with indignation. "Watson says that it's as good as a sure thing and you're almost guaranteed to double your investment," she doggedly continued, determined to win the debate and prove her husband to be in the right of it.

"Then I wish him luck with it Fanny, but I can assure you that no matter what your 'dear Watson' may say, speculating is nothing more than a gamble and I for one am not prepared to gamble my family's, or my workers families, livelihoods on a mere game of chance!"

Margaret was slightly shocked by this declaration. He had always pretended not to care about his workers – was he finally going to admit that he did care?

It seemed as if he too was a bit conscious of what he had just said as he looked fleetingly at Margaret after he had said it and her surprised countenance caused him to shift uncomfortably in his chair.

Margaret's change of opinion of Mr. Thornton and his then seemingly callous and dictatorial manners had been a slow gradual metamorphosis, it allowed her to fully appreciate the high-handed way in which she had misjudged and dismissed him. She was finally beginning to see and to appreciate the true worth of the great Master. A worth, which she realized with a small smile, he didn't even fully appreciate or recognize in himself. Perhaps one day she would have the opportunity of apologizing and of enlightening him; of making him realize that he is more than just a master to some.

He couldn't know what thoughts were currently swimming though her mind, and had he been able to open a window to her thoughts he would not have credited what he saw there. Margaret Hale thought him crude, uncultured and ungentlemanly and was unlikely to ever change her opinion of him. He was nothing like the gentleman at Outwood station.

Thornton's arrival had seemed to signal Fanny's departure. The two would never see eye to eye. Fanny was bound to lose any argument, and in Thornton's mind, be dismissed as the little sister with no knowledge of what she spoke.

Margaret couldn't help but wonder at how different the bond between this brother and sister was when compared to the bond between Frederick and her. Indeed, a wider comparison would be difficult to find. The sight of this brother and sister's distant and abrasive relationship was a painful reminder to Margaret of the letter now lying in ashes in the grate in her chamber upstairs.

It had arrived just yesterday morning after being redirected from Crampton, and as she had taken it off the tray held aloft by the outstretched hand of a servant, she immediately saw that it was postmarked Spain. She had ripped the seal off as soon as she had retired to safety of her room, but if she was hoping to find some words of comfort there she was mistaken.

Frederick, at the time ignorant of their Fathers passing, had written simply to inform her that his interview with Henry Lennox had not gone as well as they had both hoped. Though Henry was willing to do all that lay in his power to clear Frederick's name he had not been very hopeful of a favourable outcome. After spending several weeks hidden in London so as to avoid detection but also to provide Henry with as much information as possible, he had finally set off for Cadiz, and now that he was safely back at home he wrote simply to tell her of his return and that he would forever be her affectionate and loving brother.

She had written to him the day before she had left Crampton to tell him about their father, she had realised with a pang that he would most likely have received her missive by now and like her was all alone in his grief.

After reading the letter through twice Margaret decided with a heavy heart, that it must go the same way as all of Frederick's previous correspondence – on the fire. The risk of anyone finding it and providing the details of her brother's whereabouts to the authorities was too great; and though desperate for some sort of familial familiarity to comfort her she knew she had no other choice but to toss the pages into the flames and watch as they, like her hopes of comfort, curled into black ribbons of ash.

If these longing thoughts of Frederick hadn't caused Margaret's chest to ache anew she may have found the whole spectacle between Mr. Thornton and his sister somewhat laughable, for after several more rounds of bickering to and fro between the siblings, Fanny; with a loud swishing of her stiff and ample skirts, had bid her adieu's and childishly stormed from the room.

Mrs. Thornton had given her first born an admonishing glance before following Fanny down the stairs.

"Forgive my sister, Miss Hale; she is young and foolish," he commented scornfully as soon as his mother was out of the room.

"I imagine that you feel that youth and foolhardiness are one in the same?" asked Margaret teasingly, trying to coax a smile out of herself as much as from Mr. Thornton.

"Now I must ask you to forgive me Miss Hale, I did not wish to imply that you are foolish simply because you are young."

"Thank you Mr. Thornton, but I cannot accept your apology. Though my youthfulness would like to think that it was infallible, looking back at my life I realise now that you are more correct than I would like to admit, as I couldn't be more ashamed of some of my more youthful naivety and arrogance."

Thornton didn't reply, but merely looked at her quizzically. After some few minutes of mild confusion on both sides, Mrs. Thornton reentered the room. Mr. Thornton hastily tried to fill the uncomfortable silence which their previous exchange had left in its wake so as to avoid arousing the suspicions and jealousies of his mother.

"I believe, from Williams, that your maid arrived today," stated Thornton, as his mother carefully resumed her seat. (His attempt at redirection, which he thought had been so successful, had failed its purpose miserably; Mrs. Thornton was more convinced than ever that her observations and private assertions of a few nights past were entirely correct.)

"Yes. Dixon was determined to oversee the auction yesterday and pack up the last few remaining items that were to be donated before she was able to join me here."

"I hope she is settling in. If there is anything she may desire she need only ask."

"Thank you Mr. Thornton. You and your mother have been incredibly kind to us and we are most grateful." Both parties blushed at these sincere and heartfelt thanks and stared back down at their cups in an attempt to hide their embarrassment, but they were not quick enough to escape Mrs. Thornton's eagle eye. That formidable lady however chose to remain silent and simply observe.

XXX

Later that evening after supper, Margaret retired early to bed. No fire had been lit in the study as Mr. Thornton had given instructions to the housekeeper that he would be working late at the mill and that they need only leave a candle burning for him by the door once all the servants retired for bed; so Margaret's refuge would have to be abandoned this night.

The frigid northern winter had arrived with a vengeance. The snow had started to fall shortly after Fanny's departure that morning and had continued to fall in thick drifts throughout the afternoon. Margaret had been taking a walk each day hoping that by returning to her old habits her life would begin to feel normal again. Most days she didn't venture further than the mill gates though, somehow the idea of facing the real world just yet was too much to bear. However, the secluded world with in the gates seemed safe and familiar. This day, however; her walk would have to be put off. The icy wind seemed to whip around the yard, wailing and crying as it stirred the snow into white crested demons that beat at the factory door and hammered on the windows of the house.

Even Mr. Thornton had remained cloistered in his office. A servant, on instruction from Mrs. Thornton, had taken a tray of food to the mill. It was at the precise moment that Margaret was ascending the stairs that the woebegone servant re-entered the house, shrouded in a chilling cloak of white ice. Margaret couldn't help but pity the wretched man as he stood there shivering, clutching the very same tray he had been sent to deliver just moments before.

"Was Mr. Thornton not in his office?" enquired Margaret innocently, eyeing the tray of untouched food.

"No Miss, he was there, only he had no wish to be disturbed," replied the frozen servant bashfully.

"Did you not tell him that his mother had sent the tray?"

"I did miss, but he still told me to go."

Margaret nodded at the poor man and let him make his way back down to the kitchens where he would hopefully be able to defrost in front of the fire. She in turn continued up the stairs toward her room.

As was her usual habit these days, she had once again been ruminating about Mr. Thornton when her train of thought was momentarily disrupted as she opened the door to her room and discovered Dixon waiting for her.

"Dixon?" she gasped self-consciously. "You startled me! What is it?"

"I thought you may need my help in undressing miss."

"Dixon, I have been managing on my own for many years, I do not need your assistance."

"Miss Margaret, you are a gentleman's daughter! You cannot continue to behave as you were want to back in Crampton!" whispered Dixon in somewhat scandalized accents.

"And just how did I behave in Crampton that was so disgraceful?" enquired Margaret, a light of fury flashing in her eyes.

"With all due respect Miss Margaret, you were want to carry on like a servant – ironing curtains, dusting furniture and the like; but here you must behave like the lady you are. Your dear mother would never forgive me if I let you ruin your reputation by allowing you to behave like a hoyden. As such, I think it only fitting that I assist you to dress and undress, like a proper ladies maid would."

"I don't believe that my mother would feel that by dressing myself I was doing anything improper; and certainly not hoydenish. Thank you Dixon, but I will manage." Margaret had not wished to argue with Dixon, but the dear woman's affection for Mrs. Hale often caused her to over-step the line of what was acceptable behavior from a servant. Margaret's mother had known Dixon for so long that she treated her more like a friend, perhaps even like a motherly figure on some occasions, and the faithful old retainer had been honoured by the condescension and more than willing to take on whatever role Mrs. Hale required of her.

"Well I'm sure I only ever wished to help Miss Margaret, I intended no offence," replied Dixon rather huffily as she stood straight up squaring her shoulders, but making no attempt to leave the room.

"I know you didn't Dixon, and nor did I," replied Margaret in slightly more temperate tones. "I assure you that should I change my mind or should I require assistance in any way, I shall ring for you directly." Margaret realized that she had ruffled Mrs. Dixon's feathers and hoped that this little speech would spare her Dixon's sulky and sullen visage for the next week.

Dixon seemed to soften as she nodded and smiled at her little mistress, though there was an odd martial glint in that redoubtable lady's eye. Margaret knew that look oh too well. Dixon may have declared a cessation of hostilities for the present but she would no doubt continue the attack another day in the hopes of future success.

"Well in that case I shall leave you Miss. I have taken the liberty of rearranging your closet and of unpacking the last few items from your trunk."

Margaret had to grit her teeth to avoid saying something waspish but she was incredibly irritated that Dixon had taken it upon herself to rearrange her clothing; as if she could do it better than Margaret could. However; not wanting to cause a fresh argument, and with the aim of hastening Dixon's departure from the room, she simply thanked her for her trouble.

"And I have stored your mothers shawl and embroidery ring in the chest of drawers there near the window," she stated with a slight catch in her throat, pointing at the large mahogany chest on the other side of the room.

"Thank you Dixon. Where did you put father's Bible?"

"On the nightstand next to your pillow Miss; and I placed his gloves in the drawer of the night stand."

"Gloves?" asked Margaret somewhat confused.

"You don't need to feel embarrassed in front of me Miss Margaret. We all bare our grief differently, and if your fathers old leather gloves give you comfort then you should keep them near. Good night Miss Margaret." As she said this she walked out of the little room and closed the heavy door behind her.

Margaret was rather perplexed as she was sure she hadn't kept her father's gloves. All of his clothes were to be donated to the poor. How had a pair of his gloves come to land in her trunk?

With a swift stride she hastily walked over to the night stand and pulled on the little ivory tasseled handle to open the drawer. After seeing what was inside, Margaret coloured up to the roots of her hair and consciously looked over her shoulder to be sure that Dixon had not reentered the room. Determining herself to be alone she gently reached into the little drawer and carefully lifted out the soft worn gloves.

She had realized immediately upon laying eyes on them that these gloves did not belong to her father; no – these gloves were the property of Mr. Thornton of Marlborough Mills. These were the selfsame gloves that in his impassioned anger and bitter disappointment he had forgotten behind in her father's study the day she had rejected his proposal.

She had always wanted to return them but after that fateful day, he avoided their house for some time, and most especially avoided her company. Soon after that her mother's illness had progressed and all thoughts of the gloves, which had been safely stored away in her closet, had been forgotten. Even had she remembered their existence, after the events of Outwood and all of their repercussions, it would have been nigh on impossible to return them then.

But now? Now, after everything that had passed between the two of them? Mr. Thornton had offered her shelter in his own home. He had chosen to look past her scandalous behavior and her bitter rejection and to aid her in her hour of need. Surely she could summon the courage to return them now? Perhaps now, with Frederick safely back in Spain, she could finally explain the misunderstanding that had occurred at the station.

She sat for some time in the gathering gloom, perched on the edge of her bed, slowly turning the gloves over and over in her hands; the flickering light from the fire throwing spectral shadows against the walls and furniture.

Outside the light had completely faded, and the thickly falling snow seemed to muffle all sound; and still she sat lost in her own thoughts. Slowly, as she sat staring at her lap upon which rested the hardy articles, she lifted one up and tugging at the open end gently eased her small fingers into the opening.

The glove seemed to consume her whole hand. Her delicate fingers where lost in the broad fingers of the black glove and yet she could feel the silken softness of the worn material as it brushed against her palm. She gradually curled her fist within the gauntlet feeling the leather as it tightened around her skin. The pressure felt warm and pleasant, and her cheeks began to heat with the image of Mr. Thornton's hand straining inside this very glove. She imagined how his fingers must have flexed and curled within it, the numerous hands which he must have shaken while wearing it. She even wondered what he done when he realized he had misplaced them. Had he realized that he had left them in Crampton, on the desk in her father's study, or had he simply thought that he had lost them and bought a new pair to replace the old?

Of late she had also begun to wonder if he had done the same with his heart. Had he too left this behind in the shabby little room that Mr. Hale had adopted as his study? Or had he forgotten where he may have misplaced it and set about carving a new one of solid stone? Though he looked at her but rarely these days she almost felt at times when he did, that she saw a savage blaze burning behind those cool blue eyes. It unnerved her so on these occasions that she couldn't help the sudden flush that flamed on her cheeks and hastily tried to turn her head away from his smoldering gaze. But was this blaze fanned by his unswerving love for her or by the pain, embarrassment and hatred that her refusal had caused?

In truth she could no longer remember why she had behaved so coldly towards him. He may not be a philanthropist, but he was not an ogre. He was intelligent, successful, attractive and despite his protestations – kind. What Characteristics was she looking for in her prospective husband that could not be amply met by Mr. Thornton? Should he be a duke? Or perhaps only a prince would do? Could she really have been so cruel towards him simply to punish him for his impudence during that first disastrous meeting? Or was she so afraid of change and what that change would bring that she was determined to never let her heart go for fear of what her life could become? If nothing else, she at least owed him the truth and he could then decide whether or not he could ever forgive her.

With these acrid thoughts she hastily stood up. She sought through the drawers in the near darkness until she came across her mother's knitted shawl, which she haphazardly threw around her shoulders; and snatching the gloves off the bed where they had fallen, she hastened out the door and down the stairs.