Chapter 4: The Philosopher King

The mercury contracted as temperatures fell and autumn prepared to give way to winter in Milton. It was a tough season for Marlborough Mills, which struggled to recover from volatility in the global textile markets and in the wake of a strike that had crippled production over the summer. With the ever-shortening days, several hours at the end of each shift had to be conducted by gaslight, with workers in the weaving shed straining their eyes over every warp and weft as the looms churned relentlessly on.

The master, too, toiled long hours in his dim office, poring over accounts and paperwork until late as his business strove to keep up. Even so, John did his best to spend the spare time he had with his wife. Some evenings they strolled the two miles to Crampton to visit Margaret's father until the weather dipped low enough to compel them to take a carriage. Other evenings they sat and read together in his study.

One night over dinner, Fanny announced that she had accepted a marriage proposal from Mr. Watson, a rather grey but wealthy manufacturer who owned a comfortable home out near Hayleigh. Watson had approached John weeks ago to ask for Fanny's hand and, after consulting both his sister and mother to ascertain their opinion on the matter, he gave Watson his blessing. Fanny was well pleased and spent the rest of dinner offering an unsolicited yet animated lecture on the latest wedding fashions.

"Honestly, I do empathize with dear Fanny," Margaret said after she and John had retreated to his study. "Your mother was so disinterested in indulging any of her bridal talk."

John scoffed. "Weren't we all? I'm certain I worked hard not to catch any of it."

Margaret suppressed a giggle. "Do be serious. It is obvious how much Hannah clearly favours you, just as my mother did Fred. Perhaps Fanny is ostentatious simply to garner attention from her family. It can sometimes feel that daughters are not of much use to their parents when compared to a son."

John sat with his hands folded in his lap, and tilted his head at her dubiously. "And yet you are very much your father's daughter," he countered.

Margaret blushed. "Well, yes, I suppose that is true," she said with a small smile before continuing. "But it is difficult to imagine two siblings who are such polar opposites as you and Fanny. How can that be?"

"Aye, Fanny and I are very different," he chuckled softly, then glanced down at his hands. "She was but a wee lass when our father died. I suppose it impacted us differently. She'd not remember much of him and of that time, but I do."

"Of course." Margaret contemplated that, imagining what John's boyhood must have been like for him. "I understand."

"Fanny has her flaws, as have I. As do we all." He paused before adding softly, "She and I do not need to be the same for me to love her."

His words hung heavily between them and there was a stretched out moment of quiet before Margaret recovered with a smile.

"And what are my flaws, then, Mr. Thornton?" she teased.

His steady gaze darkened at her formal address. The corner of his lip curled upward. "Come here."

Her breath hitched, as it always did when he looked at her that way. She moved to stand in front of him. His hands found the hem of her dress before disappearing under its layers until he touched her bare thighs.

"You, Miss Hale," he said in a low, deep voice, pulling her closer to straddle his lap, "are the very devil on my shoulder. I can hardly think for wanting you."

She shivered, her hands moving to the button of his trousers before pausing. "What if someone should hear us?"

"We'll take care."

She leaned in to kiss him, sighing softly as their skin made contact. Her arms curled around his neck and he held her hips in his hands, gently guiding her as she moved over him.

—-

The weeks wore on, the days grew shorter, and the nights colder still. John's grueling schedule of working even longer hours at the mill than usual took its toll. Many days passed when he and Margaret barely saw each other at all. They missed one another. One evening, a frustrated John resolved to leave work before the bell signaling the end of the shift. Margaret's heart leapt to see him enter the drawing room earlier than usual. A look of intense longing passed between them. They went above stairs and exerted themselves in passion, Margaret moaning face down into the pillow, his hand covering hers, chest pressed to her back as he moved inside her.

Later, they lay in bed together, Margaret's soft breath on his neck. John absently stroked her hair, his mind fixed on something.

"Margaret?"

"Hmm?"

"I've a mind to make some slight alterations to this room. Perhaps add a vanity, a second night table, maybe a chest of drawers." He hesitated. "Would you like that?"

She lifted her head from where it rested on his shoulder and looked down into his face. It was a delicate moment, both blinking back an exposed vulnerability. In truth, her bedroom was so seldomly used that even the maids had tacitly ceased lighting a fire in the room each evening. Their relationship had shifted – deepened — in an unspoken way. They both felt it.

Margaret swallowed the lump in her throat. "I think it is a fine idea."

He nodded and traced the back of his fingers over her cheek. She leaned in and their lips met in a heavy kiss.

—-

The following week Margaret went to Princeton to pay a visit to the Higginses. She had not had a chance to speak with them in the busy weeks since her wedding, Frederick's visit and her mother's death, but had noticed Mary and Nicholas sitting out of the way at her mother's funeral. It meant a great deal to her and she wanted to thank them for paying their respects.

Margaret entered the lane where the Higginses lived and knocked on the door. A frazzled looking Mary greeted her in shy surprise and welcomed her in. Like many of the residences in working class districts on this side of the river, the Higgins home was a one-story, one-room dwelling with an earthen floor and tiny windows that caught very little light. It was a small, damp place, yet miraculously clean, especially given the six small children crawling and climbing here and there. These were the orphans of John Boucher and his wife, whom Nicholas took in after their parents committed suicide in the wake of the strike. The children were hopelessly grimy – as all children are, but more so – with runny noses and ill-fitting homespun hanging haplessly from their scrawny frames. Yet, despite all this, the Boucher children displayed the resilient and good natured cheer that only children can possess in defiance of such grim circumstances.

Margaret set down her basket on a worn but sturdy, rough-hewn wooden table near the door. Together, she and Mary emptied it of its contents as the children scrambled to see what treats the mistress had brought them. They were not disappointed as she produced little spiced cakes, apples and pears. Mary set aside the bread loaf and cheese to apportion later. Meanwhile, Margaret arranged the children's treats on a plain tray and took out a book she had brought with her to read to them. It was a copy of The Children of the New Forest, which followed the compelling adventures of four siblings, orphaned in the English Civil War, who triumph and overcome in spite of their misfortunes.

At length, Nicholas walked in, having just returned from a mournful pint at the Golden Dragon pub around the corner. He stalled when he saw Margaret.

"Dinna' think we'd be seein' yo' in these parts agin'." His expression was not welcoming.

Margaret met him with a smile. "How are you Nicholas?"

"I git by, I reckon. And how 'bout yo', Mrs. Thornton?"

She flinched at the disdain in his voice. "I am well. It has been an eventful few months."

"Aye, I reckon it 'as." His manner softened. "My Mary an' I were right sorry ta' 'ear 'bout your mother's passin', warn't we, Mary? An' 'ow are yo' bearin' up – yo' an' your father?"

"Thank you, we are managing as well as we can. My mother was ill for a long time, so it did not come as a surprise. Mr. Thornton and I visit father often now to keep his spirits up."

"You're a good daughter ta' 'im." He paused before adding, "An' 'ow be it that yo' come 'round ta' marryin' a master, an' Thornton a' that?"

"Well, if you remember the day of the riot—"

"Aye, s'pose I recall aught 'bout it." There was an uncomfortable pause. "Eh, I see 'ow t'was. Since t'were you that rushed out ta' save 'im from us savage folk—"

"It was not like that."

"Warn't it?" He grunted. "Well it's all said an' done now. I do wish yo' well, Miss Margaret, and I 'ope you're being treated kindly. Yo' always were a gem ta' my Bess."

"I do so miss her, Nicholas."

"Aye, she were a good lass. And 'er sister Mary's come inta' 'er own since she died. Workin' up at Slickson's now, she is."

"And what about you Nicholas – have you been able to find work?"

His brow darkened. "Yo' think any of the masters would take me on now, a union man? They think me a rebel rouser. Aye, I've been up at Hampers an' to Slicksons. They'll not 'ave me on—none of them will. Unlike the workers, all the masters move the same." His shoulders sagged. "No, I've a mind ta' look south for work now."

"No, certainly not. The south would not suit you." Margaret thought for a moment. "Nicholas, what if Mr. Thornton was to offer you employment? Would you agree to come work for him up at Marlborough Mills?

Higgins nearly spat on the floor in indignation, but thought better of it. "Thornton?! He's the one who broke the strike by bringin' in them Irish! He'd be the last person ta' offer me work." He grunted. "Aye you're a bonny lass, but you'll not prevail 'pon such a man as Thornton. He's a right bulldog."

"My husband is a good man, Nicholas," Margaret defended, unwilling to hear him set down. "So what if he did offer?"

Higgins shrugged skeptically. "Reckon I'd not 'ave much choice then. The little 'uns need feedin'."

Margaret looked around her and nodded. "Leave it with me. I will speak to Mr. Thornton."

Nicholas did not reply but his posture softened as he regarded her, much like a curiosity. "Mary said yo'd come. She was right."

—-

The next evening, John was out of temper. He had just returned from a bleak meeting with his banker. Time was running out for Marlborough Mills. The mill had to either catch up, and soon, or go under.

He did not come home for dinner, but instead headed back to his office. A couple of hours later, Margaret knocked with a dinner basket. He looked on gratefully as she set the items on a side table. He had little enough to eat all day. A brief respite would do him good. He was just about to tuck into the offering she prepared when she confessed that it was not the only reason for her visit.

He looked up from his plate at her. "Well then?"

Margaret was nervous and decided it was best to be straightforward. Was that not the northern way, after all? "John, I would like for you to hire Nicholas Higgins."

"What?" John blinked at her, setting down his fork.

"I would like for you to hire –"

"Higgins, aye, I heard you," he said coolly. "And why would I do that?"

"Well, he needs employment, for one thing. He has not had work since the strike –"

"You mean the strike that he engineered?"

"–and since then," she pressed on, "his former employer will not take him back and none of the other mills will hire him, either."

"But you think I should?"

"Please, allow me to explain –"

"Why haven't the others taken him on?"

"They view him as a troublemaker for organizing the strike, and despise him for it."

"Hmm," his eyes narrowed and he leaned back into his chair. "And you imagine I think differently?"

"Not precisely, I suppose, but –"

"Margaret, please, be reasonable. It has been such a long day. I have no wish to stop you from visiting the Higginses. They are your personal friends, but they are not mine. I did say when we married that it was important to keep business and personal matters separate, and you agreed. Yet now I find that you are contriving with Higgins to undermine my business operations."

Margaret's temper flared. "That is not true or fair."

"If I take Higgins on, I might as well set fire to the cotton waste and have done with it."

She crossed her arms and jutted out her chin. "No, that is a feint. Nicholas is a perfectly capable worker. You deny him out of personal resentment."

He bristled at her indignant posture and it irritated him that she called that firebrand by his Christian name. "Yes, that too, what of it?" he challenged. "The man has nearly destroyed my business, Margaret, and we are not out of danger yet. This strike was his doing. Of course I resent him!"

"The workers have a right to organize, John. You cannot blame Nicho—" he shot her a warning look. "You cannot blame Mr. Higgins for the mill's state of affairs."

"Aye, and they can keep their bloody union! I do not stop the men from spending their wages and their free hours as they choose. I've said as much before and I'll hold to it now. But I simply will not hire that man. He's an instigator and a troublemaker, not someone I can trust. I have a right to keep such men out of my employ." He took a deep breath. "Please, hear me now, dear Margaret – let it be."

But she would not hear it. "Let it be? John, Mr. Higgins has taken in six orphans – John Boucher's children."

"What? And how's that my business?"

Margaret sighed, guarding her own temper. "The union crushed a vulnerable man like Boucher. The strike drove him to madness. Higgins resented Boucher for his weakness, but he has also owned up to his own mistakes and is now attempting to make amends. Perhaps you should do the same. He needs work or the children will starve."

John stared at her, incredulous. "You cannot put that to my conscience, Margaret. The mill is in such a precarious position as it is."

"I am sorry but I must. Who else should I ask, if the master of Marlborough Mills is unwilling to do what is right in this situation?"

His brow darkened and his jaw clenched. "And what if I refuse to take him on?"

Their eyes locked. Margaret could see in his exasperation and anger, but also fear and vulnerability. She held his weary face in her hands. "You are a good man, John Thornton. I know you are. I knew it the night I confided in you about Frederick." He stared at her. "For their sake, and for mine, please try to come to an accord with Higgins."

—-

Richard Hale retired to his room after a long evening catching up with old colleagues from Christ Church at Oxford. He had been invited to a reunion by his old chum, Adam Bell, who also happened to be Mr. Thornton's landlord. At first he was reticent to make any plans so soon after his wife's death, but Margaret had encouraged him to go, saying that a change of scenery would do him good. And indeed it had. The many cares that weighed on him in recent years felt somehow lighter here. It had been a difficult year, leaving the church at his advanced age and moving north with his family to an unknown place where they struggled to make ends meet. He knew he had disappointed Maria and was haunted by the guilt of it. She had entrusted herself to his care and, after many happy years, he took her to a place she could not bear to go. It ate at him.

Yet he found solace in seeing Margaret settled with a man whose character he believed in absolutely. Margaret was his pride and joy and possessed a strong mind. It was an immense relief to know that John was not the sort of man who would resent her for it, but instead would cherish it. His time in Oxford had helped him to gain a new perspective and to see the hand of Providence in these events. He felt rejuvenated as if on the precipice of renewed spiritual life. In this newfound sense of hope and with a peace he had not known in years, he laid down and took his rest.

—-

By the time Mr. Bell had delivered his ill tidings and left Marlborough house, Hannah Thornton had already sent a servant to fetch the doctor and another to find her son and urgently recall him home.

Margaret had been utterly blindsided by Mr. Bell's news of her father's sudden passing. The world seemed to pinch cruelly around her, leaving her devastated and uncomprehending. Her father, dead, passed away in his sleep — how could that be? In her hand she held a letter, which had just arrived in today's post, written in her father's own hand to her. His words were affectionate and alive. There was no hint of the looming calamity.

She felt herself sinking when a dish of tea materialized out of nowhere. Disembodied hands brought a damp towel, a fan, a jar of smelling salts – all meant to revive her from her stupor. But she did not want to revive or to be brave. She wanted to crawl up the hill to her mother's gravestone that overlooked this smoky city and lay her face in the mud.

Hannah Thornton felt an enormous surge of sympathy and protectiveness towards her daughter-in-law and worried over her lethargy. After Dr. Donaldson's visit, she helped her upstairs and, waving off the maid, she assisted an exhausted Margaret out of her day clothes herself and helped settle her into bed.

—

Thornton rushed through the front door, his footfall quick and heavy on the stairs. He had been in meetings away from the mill all day, until a servant from his household caught up with him and relayed the note from his mother. His eyes widened in alarm, brow furrowed, as he scanned the brief message:

Return home directly. Mr. Bell has visited this afternoon to convey news to Margaret of her father's sudden passing. It has been a great shock. You are urgently needed here.

He made his apologies and cut short his meeting to race home. He was on the other side of town and it took some time for the hansom cab to make its way through the busy streets. Every moment's delay was excruciating; he was anxious to reach his wife, who was now doubly aggrieved for the loss of both her parents in mercilessly quick succession.

"Where is she?" he asked, breathless as he entered the dining room.

"She is upstairs sleeping," his mother replied calmly. "Dr. Donaldson was here earlier and administered a draught of laudanum. Oh John, she has had such a terrible shock."

All the tense energy powering his frantic dash home drained from him, as the heavy, somber reality of Mr. Hale's loss settled in its place. He put his hand on his mother's arm and gave it a squeeze. "Thank you for calling the doctor, mother. I will go to her." He kissed her cheek. She watched as his shoulders sagged with grief and he retreated upstairs.

Their bedroom glowed warm and quiet, the fire crackling gently in the corner. Margaret lay in the middle of the bed, asleep. She looked peaceful in her slumber, belying the enormous trauma she was going through.

John undressed in silence, careful not to wake her. He slipped into bed next to her and, as she slept, he reflected on his own sense of loss. Richard had been a father figure to him. His passing reminded John of his own father's death, not in context but in the unexpectedness of it. They were simply not prepared for this. He recalled their last conversation.

"What is the most important quality one ought to possess in order to lead – whether it be in society, business, government, or leading in a family and marriage?" Mr. Hale asked. "Is it wisdom, such as the philosopher king that Plato describes – one who is insusceptible to greed, envy, lust or revenge?"

John was skeptical. "That is a tall order, and I don't know that we can quite conquer all of human nature. But I do think to be a good leader one must strive to deal fairly and pursue just action."

"And what is just action? Polemarchus tells Socrates that justice is doing good to friends and harming enemies. What do you make of that?"

"What he describes is certainly the natural order of things, but it is lacking in forbearance, and that is necessary too, lest we give way to tyranny." John explained that it was why he had not pressed charges against Boucher in the wake of the riot, so as not to act maliciously.

"Yes, forbearance and justice must go hand and hand. Think of Plato's apology of Socrates, his mentor, who stood trial for espousing ideas considered dangerous to those who had power over him. Socrates teaches us: 'A man has only one thing to consider in performing any action; that is whether he is acting justly or unjustly, like a good man or a bad one.'"

The old scholar weighed his next words to his pupil, son-in-law and friend. "You see, John, the good man does good to everybody. He helps the people who are his friends but he also does his utmost to help those who oppose him."

Mr. Hale had been a true friend and mentor to him. He was a wise man, full of benevolence – a veritable philosopher king. And this was his final lesson.

John felt a prickling pressure build behind his eyes and squeezed them shut. He took a shaky breath and pressed closer to Margaret's sleeping form. He would speak to Higgins. He breathed deeply into her hair and swallowed hard, the ache in his chest tightening. She was so very much her father's daughter.