Chapter 1: The Dialogue

Storm clouds settled over Milton. Heavy winds howled and whipped through thin puddled lanes. At the Hale family home on Crampton Crescent, the shutters clattered a well worn tune. Within, a sturdy fire crackled as Margaret served tea to her father and Mr. Thornton, who had come for his weekly lesson.

"Margaret, come join us, my dear. We were just finishing up." They usually met in his study, but tonight occupied the drawing room. Margaret took up her usual seat near the fireplace and reached for her sewing basket. "We have been continuing our discourse on theories of justice. John was just noting the similarities between Milton society and Plato's concept that justice in an ideal city is embodied by minding one's own business and not meddling in other men's concerns."

"It is true, for better or worse," Mr. Thornton said. "That is generally the way we conduct ourselves in the north. I dare say in the south it is a different kind of society."

Mr. Hale nodded. "Indeed, there are cultural distinctions that have required some effort on our part to adjust to since moving to Milton. Would you not say so, Margaret?"

"Yes, father," she agreed. "The people here seem to find meddling of any sort, even that kindly meant, to be offensive. But that is not very Christian, is it?"

Mr. Hale smiled encouragingly at his daughter. "Go on, Margaret. How so?"

"Well, we are called upon to love our neighbor as ourselves. Is it not our moral duty, then, to take an interest in the concerns of our fellow man?"

"Certainly that is central to what Christ teaches us – that we must endeavor to show compassion and charity to all, especially to the poor."

"And yet – and Mr. Thornton has said as much himself in the past– charity is an anathema to the society here. People here frown upon it, as if through some sort of misguided sense of pride."

Mr. Thornton turned to her. "Here in the north we value our independence, Miss Hale." Mr. Hale interjected that perhaps it is not so much a question of north and south, but rather city and country. "Even so, what dignity does a man have – especially a poor man, who has nothing else – if he does not have his pride?

"We must remember that pride goeth before the fall," Mr. Hale cautioned.

Mr. Thornton shrugged. "I agree that excessive pride is self-defeating, but not all pride is haughty. Growing up in such a place as Milton, it is a necessity. Life here is hard. It takes a deep rooted sense of pride for any man to face the relentless challenges of each day, to wrestle with it and to persevere to make something of himself. That same pride that disallows him to accept charity. The prideless man lacks the drive to improve his station and his family's condition. In a place like Milton, those men are usually enthralled to some vice or another and live carelessly. Surely that is not a righteous path?"

Mr. Hale regarded Mr. Thornton from beneath his spectacles, contemplating his words and what he knew of Mr. Thornton's own difficult background. He turned to his daughter. "Margaret?"

Margaret saw the merit in what Mr. Thornton had said, though she begrudged the harsh manner in which he spoke of those who were not as resilient or resourceful as he had been. "I can see you may be right, Mr. Thornton, with regard to Milton men and their pride. I had not considered it in that way. And yet perhaps there would not be such vast suffering as I have observed in this city if there were not such a willful indifference to the condition of those on the lowest rungs of society – the multitude of miserable workers who power this town's industry. It confounds me how masters and men can exist in such close proximity, depending on one another for their livelihoods, and yet take no note of one another. Such lacking humanity cannot be just, nor is it a firm foundation for Mr. Plato's grand design for an ideal society. The current strike blighting the city is evidence of this."

Mr. Thornton's brow darkened at her last comment. "Do you suggest, Miss Hale, that the strike is my doing then, resulting from a moral failure on my part?"

Mr. Hale grew anxious at the direction of the conversation, worried that it might end in another unpleasant clash as it had the week prior at the Thorntons' dinner party. He prepared to redirect the debate to safer ground but, before he could do so, their servant Dixon entered the drawing room. Mr. Hale was needed upstairs to tend to his wife, Maria, whose health had declined sharply since their arrival in Milton.

Mr. Hale excused himself and bid Margaret and Mr. Thornton good night. He encouraged Mr. Thornton to stay on a bit longer to finish his tea and wait out the storm, leaving Margaret to attend him.

Mr. Thornton observed the tenderness between father and daughter as they embraced before Mr. Hale took his leave. Margaret watched as her father ascended the stairs gingerly and with effort. His advanced years were incompatible with the inconvenient layout of their modest home. Once he disappeared from her sight, Margaret turned back to Mr. Thornton with a polite smile.

"Mr. Thornton, I hope you will excuse my father," she said courteously. "My mother has been unwell."

Mr. Thornton nodded. "Of course, please do not trouble yourself, Miss Hale. I am sorry to hear of your mother's health. And if your family should need any assistance, please know that you may call upon my mother or me. We would be glad to be of service."

"Thank you, that is very kind." She hesitated. "And I do hope you will forgive me, Mr. Thornton, I did not mean to imply that you bore a personal responsibility for the present state of affairs. I only wish that both sides could take a fairer, more compassionate view of the other."

"What do you suggest, Miss Hale? I can assure that I am not some ruthless master bean counting and lining my pockets, all the while heedless to the suffering of my workers. At the same time, I must operate by economic realities. Otherwise, I will have ruined the mill not just for myself but for the hundreds and men and women who depend on the mill for employment. Now in the current climate, I simply cannot meet the workers' increased wage demands. And what is more, as a matter of principle I take umbrage to having my business held hostage by the destructive tactics of a union of men who are subordinate to me." He took a deep breath to keep his temper under control. "I am truly curious, Miss Hale, as to how you would handle this situation. What can be done?"

Margaret weighed her words for a moment. "A civil society, as a start."

"You speak again of charity, then?" he asked warily.

"Mr. Thornton, I am aware that people here might find it impossible to personally accept direct charity from another individual, whether it be a friend or stranger. I can see how it would embarrass them. But perhaps if there were schemes set up that everyone could freely take advantage of – for instance, a soup kitchen where any person could have a hot meal each day and schools for small children so that they might have a warm place to gather rather than shivering, unsupervised, in front of a cold hearth at home while their parents work all day. These are modest schemes, yet I believe they could bring significant relief, especially if, as you say, it is not possible for their wages to be increased at this time. No one would need to feel ashamed for availing themselves of a general service that is provided to all the community. But such schemes are unlikely to ever come to fruition in this city unless people in positions of power and influence take an active interest."

Mr. Thornton folded his hands, considering what she had said. He regarded her for a long moment. It was the first time he had seen her since their thorny exchange in front of his guests at the annual dinner party his mother had hosted at Marlborough Mills. The workers had turned out and Milton was in the midst of a crippling strike that left tensions high on all sides. Margaret had been spotted taking baskets to the Princeton district. It was clear she knew many of the workers personally. Although Mr. Thornton admired the Christian kindness that was natural to her, he had reproved her for this misguided charity, suggesting it only prolonged the suffering resultant from the strike. She fired back, challenging the notion that it could ever be wrong to feed starving children.

Of course, Thornton knew well the poverty blighting the workers. For years following his father's financial ruin and suicide, his family had become intimately acquainted with hardship. At 13, he was removed from school and watched as their family possessions were auctioned off followed by a hasty removal from their comfortable townhome to a one-room hovel, not unlike the ones that made up much of Princeton. Watered oats and stale butterless crusts of bread were their portion most days. He labored 14-hour days in the draper's shop and his mother earned a pittance doing needlework on the side whilst minding little Fanny. Added to all of this, the shame of his father's widely known disgrace compounded the family's suffering and humiliation. It was perhaps only the flinty reassurance and resilient dignity of his mother, Hannah Thornton, stoically pressing on each day, that drove John in his dogged pursuit up the lonely ladder of success.

He bore the burden to raise his family from deep impoverishment to respectable standing and did so as companionless as a performer in a high wire act. It was not until his hands clasped with Margaret's at the dinner last week that a long dormant side of him experienced its first spark, like flint and steel striking together. But in their bitterly opposing views on the struggle between masters and men, it kindled not. Almost every conversation they had ever had these past months tended to end in a renewal of hostility. To Mr. Thornton's mind, Margaret saved all her empathizing for others and none for him. He could guess how the dinner party likely appeared distasteful to her in light of the strike, but what she did not see was the necessity for him to keep up appearances now so more than ever as the strike had exacerbated his already straitened financial circumstances and threatened the future of the mill. Still he could not resent the genuine kindheartedness that fueled her regrettable crusade against him and the other mill owners.

Mr. Thornton sighed. "You are new to this place, Miss Hale, but you have not been idle. It is clear you have been earnest in befriending the folk in Princeton. You have made their concerns your own."

"Is that so wrong?"

"No, not as such. But even you must admit that it is not common for ladies to occupy their time in such a way. Not many ladies would have spoken as passionately as you have just now. Or," he added in a gentle tease, "as you did last week."

Margaret smiled, acknowledging the dig. "Do you find me incorrigible, then?"

"Incorrigible, yes, perhaps," he laughed in a low hum before turning more serious. "In the years when my own family struggled my mother would never have allowed herself to accept charity. But then again, there was no one to offer it." He held her gaze. "You have given us all much to think about. You do your parents credit, Miss Hale."

Margaret blushed. She was startled by his rare praise and good humor, and could admit that she found it pleasing. It warmed her. Mr. Thornton was an enigma to her and there were times when she felt drawn to his company and conversation. She did not know what to make of that, except to acknowledge that however much they disagreed, he was never dismissive. He listened in earnest and took her seriously. This led her to conflicting feelings about whether to think well or ill of him.

She was drawn back to her present conundrum by his mention of her parents. Dr. Donaldson had informed them that her mother's health was failing. And only this morning, she had posted the letter to her brother, Frederick. He was her mother's favourite child, as Margaret well knew, and it was her dying wish to see her son one last time. It was in this spirit that Margaret had written to her brother urging him onward to England so that he might bid their mother a final farewell. Yet her mind had been ill at ease ever since.

As she moved to replenish his teacup, Mr. Thornton observed a nervous energy about Margaret. Her hand trembled ever so slightly as she fiddled with the tea service. Anxious that perhaps he had made her uncomfortable with his compliment, he considered making his excuses and heading back to the mill in the storm. At that moment, Margaret approached with the saucer of fresh tea. He thanked her and she cast about indecisively before finally settling into her father's vacated chair where they could better view one another and converse.

He struggled to suppress a smirk, which Margaret noticed. "What humors you, Mr. Thornton?"

"Nothing. I am just accustomed to seeing Mr. Hale sitting there as you are now. I feel like quite the schoolboy." Margaret imagined Mr. Thornton as a young boy in his school uniform. She did not quite raise a smile as she fidgeted with her teacup, brows knitted.

Mr. Thornton grew concerned. "Forgive me, Miss Hale, but are you well?"

"No" she interjected. "Well, yes. I–" She puffed out a breath, frustrated with her own skittishness. It had been nearly ten months since they moved to Milton and keeping her brother's existence a secret was a heavy burden. In truth, she longed to confide in someone. But her only friend in Milton, Bessy Higgins, had died two months ago. With the loss of her mother now imminent, Margaret felt isolated. Her family's position as outsiders from the south, her father's defection from the church, and their reduced circumstances meant that they were above the company of the working class and beneath the notice of polite society.

Indeed, the Thorntons were the only family to befriend the Hales, and she was certain that was all Mr. Thornton's doing rather than any inclination on the part of Fanny or Mrs. Thornton, both of whom seemed put out on the rare occasions they bothered to call. Mr. Thornton had formed a close bond with her father. It energized her father and gave him renewed spirit and she was glad of it.

For her part, Margaret was accustomed to spending a great deal of time alone with her thoughts. After Fred's mutiny, she was sent to London to live with her Aunt Shaw in order to develop herself as a proper lady and, in due course, to come out in society. Yet, she stood out from the crowd. She possessed a strong mind cultivated from years of biblical and classical study under her father's tutelage; she exhibited a mild indifference to the latest fads and fashions; and worst of all, she expressed an insufferable disdain for the kind of voracious gossip that powered all feminine society and drawing room conversation. Only her cousin Edith was a companion to her.

Now here in Milton she found herself similarly ostracized by both situation and temperament. Normally, she would not have minded so much but this day had been different. She longed to unburden herself, just a little, and Mr. Thornton, who was her family's only true friend in Milton, regarded her with a look of such sympathy that she wondered if she might share her concerns with him. Margaret had to admit once more that she felt a strange pull towards him, albeit a pull that usually led them into conflict and resentment. They had quarreled once again at the Masters' dinner and, worse, had done so in company. Still she knew that Mr. Thornton was not unkind and felt he would give her a fair hearing, as he always had in the past, including just this evening. More than any other man of her acquaintance, he did seem to respect her.

However, Margaret was also aware that Mr. Thornton was a local magistrate, as befit his high position in Milton society. This weighed heavily in the balance when she considered how he might receive her tale of a clandestine brother living on the run abroad, wanted by the law for mutiny. Would he report this intelligence to the authorities? Would he seek to disassociate himself from her father and their family?

Almost immediately, that notion played absurdly in her mind and she might have nearly laughed at herself were the stakes not so very high. She had been acquainted with Mr. Thornton long enough to instinctively feel that he would not react in such a way. 'After all, had not his own family weathered scandal and alienation in their turn?' she argued. And she knew him to be a man who was protective of his own family. Even if she questioned his lack of compassion towards his workers, she implicitly trusted in his compassion towards her own family, as he had always shown them the utmost kindness. She was in dire need of counsel about the wisdom of her letter and what to do if Frederick did turn up. Perhaps Mr. Thornton might be sympathetic and have some advice to offer. He knew this town better than anyone. She had made her decision. 'Yes,' she concluded, 'I will trust him with this matter.' He was an honorable man, even if he was not a gentleman.

Flustered, Margaret stood and walked over to the window, glancing out at the storm before turning back to him. She seemed vulnerable, even as she offered him a small smile. "The storm has not yet let up."

The remark caught him off balance. "Yes, well, perhaps I should go all the same. It is not so very far to the mill from here." He felt he might be encroaching on her privacy and had outstayed his welcome. As he rose to leave, she spoke again in a timid voice.

"Excuse me, Mr. Thornton, but do you have a moment longer?" She moved to reclaim her seat in her father's chair and gestured for Mr. Thornton to retake his, which he did. "That is, I wondered if I might seek your advice on a – well, on a very grave and sensitive matter."

"I see." Mr. Thornton looked at her expectantly.

"Mr. Thornton, perhaps you may have already suspected, but my mother is not simply unwell. She is… that is, the doctor has informed us that she will not recover. We do not expect her to remain with us for much longer."

A heavy moment of silence passed between them. Mr. Thornton spoke softly. "I confess I did guess that Mrs. Hale was seriously ill, but I had hoped that the prognosis would not be so grim as this. Truly, I am sorry, Miss Hale. It is never easy to face losing a parent."

"Thank you, Mr. Thornton," Margaret sighed. "Unfortunately that is not all." She stared into her lap, fidgeting as she spoke. "I am not my parents' only child. I have a brother, Frederick." She swallowed and took a deep breath. "He is a wanted man, so we never speak of him."

Mr. Thornton shifted in his seat, his expression unreadable, but she felt his eyes intensely focused on her as she told him about the mutiny aboard Frederick's naval vessel, the Orion. She conveyed Frederick's leading role in the affair and his justification for mutinying against Captain Reid's abuse of young children aboard the ship. She recounted the shock her family endured reading news of the mutiny in the paper and seeing Frederick's name listed amongst the accused. It was a very great scandal and meant that Frederick could never return to England except to be court-martialed and executed as a traitor. So Frederick had settled abroad, and their family was destined to permanent separation. When the Hales moved to Milton to build a new life, they agreed it was best never to mention Frederick in order to avoid living under a cloud of suspicion and endangering him. She explained that lately, in her lucid moments, her mother would often lament over how desperately she longed to see Fred again. Finally, Margaret revealed that she had posted the letter to Frederick that morning suggesting that he come to England if he could.

Mr. Thornton listened without interrupting. When she was finished they sat together, reflective and quiet, both taking in all that Margaret had shared. It shocked Mr. Thornton, to say the least. He was deeply struck by how much the Hale family, so humble and good, had endured and had yet to endure. He also felt a peculiar sympathy towards Margaret as he considered the burden she clearly carried on behalf of her family, even young as she was. That she bore it with such grace and resilience moved him and it reminded him of his own mother.

After a time, he spoke.

"I do not think you have done wrong, Miss Hale," he said carefully. "Of course there is a significant risk, but it is only natural that you would act conscientiously and in accordance with your mother's final wishes." He paused before adding, "I am sorry that your father did not feel he could not rely on me with such grievous concerns."

"It is not that, Mr. Thornton. My father greatly values his friendship with you, but he also respects that you are a magistrate and he would not wish to place you in an uncomfortable position. Indeed it troubles my own mind to have done so just now."

Mr. Thornton nodded in understanding. "Even so, I must act according to my own conscience, which could never tolerate seeing your decent family cast down by these unfortunate circumstances." He looked at her very directly then. "Your family could never be in any danger from me, Miss Hale. I will do what I can to help you."

The color rose high on Margaret's cheeks as relief flooded her at his faithful declaration. Before she could look away, he discerned the glint of unshed tears in her eyes. He reached into his pocket and discreetly passed her his handkerchief. She dipped her head in gratitude and, for a time, they said no more.

After a while the storm abated. As Margaret escorted Mr. Thornton to the door, she was surprised by her reluctance to part company. As for him, he departed only when it was no longer reasonable or appropriate to stay. Neither acknowledged it, but they felt it all the same.