Chapter 14
Margaret woke the next morning not very well rested, after a night of fitful sleep, and went through the motions of preparing herself for the day.
She had planned on carrying out her usual lessons with Emma, but just as she was about to wake the girl, Jane caught her in the hallway.
"Oh, Miss Hale, I've got a message from Master for ye. He asks if it would be much trouble to forego young Miss Thornton's lessons today. Says 'e'd like her and ye to go over to 'is office after breakfast."
Margaret stared at the maid dumbfoundedly: "To Mr Thornton's office? Whatever for?"
Jane shrugged her shoulders. "He said 'e'd like to show the girl the mill, since she must've asked for it recently."
With that, the young woman curtsied and turned to go and tend to her duties, leaving Margaret to gape after her, open-mouthed.
For a brief moment she wondered if she was still asleep and dreaming, for such a proposal was something so unexpected from Mr Thornton that it seemed entirely unreal.
..ooOoo..
"To the mill?" Emma exclaimed excitedly, while Margaret helped her into her dress.
"Indeed, it seems so."
"Will we get to see the machines, Miss Hale? I saw the big boxes last year when they came. Papa ordered a hundred new looms, you know? But when they arrived, they were all in pieces and packed away. Aunt Fanny and I watched out of the window when they took them into the factory."
"Maybe we will see them, Emma, I don't know," Margaret replied in a soothing voice, trying to calm her down a little – however, she was unsuccessful, because the girl kept hopping up and down as was her habit whenever she was agitated.
Therefore it took them a little longer than usual to finish their morning routine and rush downstairs to have breakfast, and it was already half past nine o'clock when they were finally ready to head out across the courtyard.
Margaret followed Emma up the wooden steps to the office. She had never been there, nor any other part of the factory.
Upon their knocking, the door was opened by the overseer, whose name Margaret recalled to be Williams. He looked at them for a moment, before recognition dawned on his face.
"Ah! Ye're here for Master. 'e mentioned ye'd come by today. He's in the weavin' shed, but if ye wait 'ere for a moment, I'll go an' get 'im momentarily."
He motioned for them to enter, and then stepped out of the office. After the door had fallen closed behind him, Margaret let her eyes wander about the room.
It did not look too different from Mr Thornton's study, with dark, wooden panelling, a large desk with an oil lamp and bookshelves – although these here were not covered by books, but large folders, likely containing financial records.
The clanking of the mill, which could always be heard during working hours, even over at the mill house, was much louder here, and Margaret wondered how anyone could sit in this office and get any work done with the constant noise.
She wondered whether Mr Thornton was even still aware of it, or if he had simply grown used to it after many years of constant exposure.
Emma had stepped closer to the desk and shyly traced her fingers along its edge. They waited in silence for some minutes until, eventually, the door opened, and Margaret turned to find herself face to face with Mr Thornton.
He was wearing his usual black frock coat and tie and looked much more formal than he did in the evenings when he was sitting by the fire only in his waistcoat.
"Miss Hale," he greeted her with a friendly nod.
"Papa!" Emma exclaimed, her face beaming with excitement, as she flung herself at him. Margaret knew that as her governess, she should have made sure that the girl did not behave in such a way.
But when Emma wrapped her arms around his hips, for she did not reach any further, he did place a gentle hand on her shoulders and let her stand close to him for a moment.
After she had finally stepped back, he bent down a little to look into her face. "I remembered you asking me about seeing the mill, and since I have some time this morning, I thought I could take this opportunity to show it to you, and to Miss Hale, if you like."
His eyes briefly darted over to Margaret who met his gaze with a friendly smile.
He bid them to follow him, and a few minutes later Margaret stood up on an iron landing, looking down at hundreds of automatic weaving looms.
The noise was so unbearable that she had to fight the urge to cover her ears with her hands, and it was so warm and humid that she wondered how the poor workers below them could bear the stifling heat for twelve hours.
The process of cotton making was a fascinating one. Mr Thornton led them through the entire factory, showing them the carding and spinning rooms, the weaving shed, and eventually, the checking and packaging of the finished product.
He explained different weaving patterns and what to look for when it came to good-quality cloth, all the while bowing closely toward them and speaking very loudly for them to hear him over the sound of the machinery.
He was immensely proficient; while Margaret had suspected that he would be a man to know his trade well, she was still surprised at the extent of his knowledge as he pointed out the smallest details and answered every question without hesitation.
He was able to explain the most complicated things in ways that even Emma could understand.
The girl seemed particularly pleased when he showed them how to properly prepare a weaving shuttle.
He placed the yarn bobbin inside the shuttle, then brought it to his mouth, placed his lips over a small hole at the tip and breathed in, sucking the yarn through the hole in the process.
Emma, who found all of this quite funny, clapped her hands and cheered in delight.
As they made their way back through the weaving shed toward the exit, Margaret stopped for a moment to look at a few young children crawling underneath the looms to pick up scraps of cotton.
As interesting and enlightening as their tour had been, and as much as she was fascinated with this new, industrial manufacturing process, it had also opened her eyes to the blunt truth of what these people had to endure.
It was not Mr Thornton's fault, she knew. She was not so naïve as to believe that there was any other possible way to run such a mill. She had seen the wheels and safety measures in place. Marlborough Mills was indeed as safe as any factory could be, she was sure.
Bessy Higgins had told her repeatedly that the working conditions here were much better here than they were in any other mill in town, and still – they were dreadful.
Slowly, Margaret tore her eyes away from the children, not much older than eleven or twelve years, and found herself being observed by Mr Thornton who had stopped walking a few yards ahead of them to look back at her.
Their eyes met for a brief moment, and she knew that he had seen her thoughts reflected in them.
She was tempted to break his gaze, to not let him see how she felt – not after he had taken the time out of his surely busy day to show them all of this, but something in his face made it impossible to look away.
It was only after some seconds, which felt like minutes, that he turned from her and carefully guided Emma to the door, and Margaret quickly made to follow them.
The yard outside felt uncommonly quiet. There was the usual bustling of horse-drawn carts, workers yelling this and that, and bales of cotton being unloaded. But it was nothing compared to the noise inside the sheds.
Mr Thornton accompanied them to the door of the mill house where he bid them goodbye and walked back to his office. As they made their way back up the stairs, Emma could not stop talking.
Going back to their usual lessons was out of the question, and so Margaret took her to the sitting room and let her talk and ask about everything they had seen.
"These children that we saw, Miss Margaret, they do have to work very hard, don't they?" she inquired eventually, with a thoughtful expression.
"Yes, they do, Emma."
"And for so many hours every day. Do you think it hurts them to crawl on the floor so much? Does it not hurt their hands and knees?"
"I think it likely," Margaret admitted honestly.
Emma looked disheartened. "But surely Papa would not want them to be hurt?" she asked a bit unsurely.
"I do not think that your father would ever intentionally hurt anyone, Emma. These children come from very poor families, and their parents need them to help earn their keep. They need the money to buy food."
Emma seemed deep in thought. After a short while she inquired: "Why is it that some children live in a grand house and have enough to eat and so many nice things, like I do, and others do not?"
She seemed genuinely disturbed.
"I don't know, Emma," Margaret slowly shook her head. "It is a question I cannot answer. Some people are born into better circumstances than others. It is often a matter of luck."
"Or of hard work," Emma replied. "Papa has worked very hard for this house. I know, because Aunt Fanny told me."
"These people at the factory that we saw today, Emma," Margaret began carefully. "Would you say that they work hard?"
"Oh yes! They work very hard," the child confirmed without hesitation.
"So you see, working hard is important, but it is not everything. Some people work all their lives, but they are not lucky enough to raise themselves out of poverty. It is not a weakness of body or character. Sometimes our circumstances are beyond our own control."
Emma looked out of the window, observing the men down there as they handled some bales of raw cotton.
"Do you think Papa a bad man, Miss Margaret? Because he has these children working for him?"
Margaret did not know where this question came from. Had Emma also caught her look, just before they had left the mill?
"No. I do not think your father is a bad man."
It was the truth, and as she spoke it, Margaret realised how much her views had changed in those months since she had first come to Milton.
"Your father is an honourable man who does what he needs to do, to the best of his ability, Emma. These families depend on him to survive. He gives them the opportunity to earn their keep in a factory that is much safer than any other. Some things cannot be changed. They may change some day in the future. I hope that they will. But for now, the way your father leads Marlborough Mills is the only way to go about it."
Emma seemed satisfied with this answer, and it was not long before she ventured into a recount of all the machines she had seen and how interesting all of it had been.
..ooOoo..
After he had seen the other two to the Mill House, John Thornton quietly made his way back to his office. He closed the door behind himself, shrugged off his coat, and sat behind his desk, unmoving.
The minutes ticked by as he just sat, staring off into the distance, pondering some far-away thought. Eventually, he rose from his seat and stepped over to the glass window leading down into the weaving shed.
His eyes moved over the rows and rows of looms and the men and women toiling down there. Then they caught on to a little boy who was swiftly repairing broken cotton strings with experienced hands.
How many of these had he done today, John wondered. How many this week? This month? This year? Day in, day out, down there in the stifling air, still filled with deadly cotton dust, despite the wheels.
He turned from the window, unable to look down any more.
It was her again.
The way she had looked at these children, then at him – not with hostility or accusation, but with a deep sadness and something else.
She had looked resigned, he realised.
Like she had come to the conclusion that there was nothing she could do to keep these children out of the factory.
Strangely enough, it was her resignation that hit him much harder than her anger and allegations. They had only fuelled his defiance. Seeing her so defeated, witnessing her giving up; it suddenly threatened to break something inside him.
He forced himself to open his accounting book and go over the numbers, but for the whole rest of the day, his mind had a hard time focussing on the tasks at hand.
..ooOoo..
John left his office late that night, almost an hour after the bell had rung, signalling the end of the day for his workers.
As he strode across the yard, a movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. He stopped and turned to see a small group of men, walking out of one of the sheds and swiftly making their way toward the gates onto the street.
Workers. Leaving late.
It was something highly uncommon. Usually, the mill hands were pining all day for the second the bell would ring, allowing them a few hours of rest before, all too soon, the new day would start again.
Curiously, John watched the men disappear out onto Marlborough Street. A sound made him turn his head once more.
There was one last man, following the others at a distance. John recognised him: it was the union leader, Nicholas Higgins.
"Hold up!"
Higgins stopped dead in his tracks and looked over at the master, his face overcome with a mixture of dread and defiance.
John held his head up high, as he walked over to the man.
"What are you still doing here? Shift finished an hour ago."
Higgins raised his chin proudly, holding the other's wary gaze.
"Work wasn't finished. We stayed 'til it was."
"Can't pay over your time," John spat, annoyed at the man taking such liberties.
"See ye workin' over your time," Higgins retorted. He was a good bit shorter than John, but did not shrink from him and stood his ground.
"If you go under, no one else'll take me on and I've got six littluns t' feed."
"You've been busy then."
"Nah! They're not mine, they're me neighbour's who died. I took 'em in some months ago."
John's brow furrowed at that statement. "Now why would you do such a thing?"
At this, Higgins' eyes strangely gleamed at him. "Ye've got a daughter yerself, master, have ye not? That sweet little 'un Miss Margaret speaks so fondly of."
"Miss Hale?" John's head shot up at that.
"Aye. She comes to visit me daughter Bessy sometimes, on Sundays, and sits with th' children. Brings 'em apples an' sweet things too. But either way – ye've a daughter, an' I think it likely ye care for her too in some way."
John made no reply, only stared at the man with a gloomy expression, his hands crossed in front of his chest, but Higgins was not intimidated.
"Ye look into their small faces an' just know that ye need to protect 'em. Couldn't stand by and watch 'em starve…or worse."
"And that is why you're working late hours?" John asked, trying not to let his surprise show on his countenance.
"Aye, sir."
They stood for a few seconds more, silently regarding each other.
"Very well," the master said, eventually. "You may go, Higgins."
The union man nodded at him, put his cap on, and turned to stride out through the mill gates.
John remained in the empty yard, looking after him, deep in thought, even when the other man had long disappeared from his view.
..ooOoo..
"Nicholas Higgins."
Margaret looked up in surprise to see Mr Thornton standing near the fireplace with a questioning look.
He must have stepped into the room quietly, without her noticing, while being engrossed in the book she had been reading.
"Excuse me?"
Emma had gone to sleep a few minutes ago and Margaret had come back into the drawing room, as was now her new habit.
Many times Mr Thornton would join her there, when he was not working late.
Sometimes they would sit in companionable silence, other times they would speak. Of Emma's lessons, of some books they had read, of Fanny and her husband.
Whenever they were alone together, the door was kept open, so as to not give anyone the impression that there was anything happening which was not fit for everyone to witness.
"Nicholas Higgins," he repeated. "Is it true that you go and visit his family on Sundays?"
Margaret nervously chewed the inside of her cheek.
What was the purpose of his question? Was he once again going to scold her for associating with Bessy?
She had hoped that they had put this topic behind them. After all, Sunday was for her to be spent at her leisure, in whichever way she chose, as he himself had once stated.
"I do. I go and visit my friend Bessy on the weekends," she told him plainly.
She braced herself for a quarrel, but instead, he asked further: "Is it true that he is raising six children who are not his own?"
She nodded at that. "Yes, his neighbour Boucher died from consumption, and his wife followed not soon after."
He looked away, apparently pondering something.
"How old are these children?"
"The oldest is eight years, I believe, the youngest is merely a babe."
"And he and his daughter provide for all of them?"
"Yes. Mary, Nicholas' other daughter is not fit for mill work. She stays with the children, but it is hard with only two incomes."
He traced his hand along the mantelpiece, absentmindedly looking into the flames for a while.
"Is there no other work she could do? Something easier than millwork?"
Margaret shrugged slightly. "Mr Thornton, you know that there are not too many options in Milton. She could help in a kitchen, I suppose, or run some errands, but so far she has not found anyone willing to take her on."
She wondered at him. Why he was asking such questions, she did not know. He appeared a bit restless, took the iron poker, and started moving the wood in the fireplace with it. Eventually, he looked up at her again.
"You must find Milton a dreadful place, do you not, Miss Hale?"
Margaret was caught off guard by his question.
"I - " she hesitated, unsure of her answer, but he did not really seem to require one.
"I saw it in your eyes today when you were looking at these children." It was blunt, but it was the truth.
She felt caught. So, he had noticed. Of course, he had. The look on his face had told her, even if she had tried to ignore it.
"Mr Thornton, I am aware that these things are beyond anyone's control. I wish they were different, but I know that this is out of our hands."
She saw a muscle move in his jaw.
"I had hoped that showing you the mill would take your mind off your brother's departure," he then confessed. "I should have known better. I did not wish to upset you, I apologise."
Margarets stared at him wide-eyed.
"I had thought you wanted to show the mill to Emma," she could not help but utter, completely stunned.
His mouth twitched into a sad little smile for a moment.
"I did. I had promised her. But it was not the only reason. I had thought that –" he cleared his throat, straightening his shoulders. "Either way, I am sorry you found it so distressing."
"Mr Thornton!"
Suddenly she was on her feet, feeling somewhat agitated. "I pray you would not blame yourself. I am grateful to you for showing us the mill; I did enjoy it greatly and thought it all very interesting."
He avoided her gaze, almost a bit uncertainly, and she quickly went on, desperate to make him see her gratitude over such a thoughtful attempt at pleasing her, for whatever reason.
"I had never seen such machines before. They truly are astonishing. It felt like I was glimpsing into the future, and I was thoroughly impressed by it. And as for the people working there – it is the situation as a whole that saddens me. The fact that their livelihoods depend on hard labour, the fact that there are rarely any means that could improve their working conditions without compromising the financial stability of the mills – the only places that offer them work at all."
She took an unconscious step toward him, struggling for words. "I think it very kind – that you would – take the time out of your day. That you would – care."
The way he looked at her then; it made her forget what she had been about to say.
She had never seen that look in his eyes, as they dwelt on her face, and it unsettled her. There was a softness, something so uncommon in him, it struck her as almost unreal.
But there was also – could it be a strange longing?
He blinked, and looked away, clearing his throat and shifting on his feet a bit uncomfortably.
"It is late, Miss Hale, and I still have some work to do. I shall see you tomorrow."
Without another look, he turned and strode over to the door.
"Good night, Mr Thornton," she called after him softly.
He stopped for a moment. "Good night, Miss Hale."
Then he was gone and the door fell closed behind him with a soft click.
Slowly, Margaret walked back to her seat and sank down onto it. But she did not pick up her book again. Instead, she sat and stared into the distance, absentmindedly.
However much she tried, she could not get Mr Thornton out of her head.
What was it that unnerved her so much about him? She really could not put her finger on it.
Long gone were the times when she had considered him a cruel man who did not shy away from violence to get his way.
It was an image she had convinced herself of in the early days of their acquaintance, but as she had grown to know him better, it had crumbled and gradually fallen away, and Margaret had realised that there was much more to this man than she had imagined.
There certainly was a part of him that was rather crude and harsh, sometimes almost hostile. But there was another part that was well-versed, intelligent, and thoughtful.
Whenever he had been willing to interact with Emma, there had been a certain tenderness one would not automatically have associated with someone of his looks and usual ways.
He was a man capable of deep feeling.
Looking back now, Margaret could not make out when exactly this fact had begun to dawn on her; it had been such a gradual process.
All she knew was that she was entirely sure of it now, although she sometimes doubted that he was wholly aware of it himself.
Maybe he just did not permit himself to feel things very often. He was so focussed on his duties, burying himself in his work and keeping his distance from everybody.
In a world that had forced him to grow up at a young age, where he had lost his father, his mother, and his wife, to be left with a young child he obviously did not really know how to deal with – closing himself off almost struck Margaret as a way of protecting himself.
But there had been moments – glimpses really – where it seemed like he had reached out.
A look, a small gesture, those times he had asked her to sit with him and speak of literature, how he had taken care of her after Fred's departure, or held Emma after she had fallen asleep in the drawing room.
And as Margaret sat and thought about all these things, something inside her shifted. It was a feeling still very unfamiliar to her, and she could not fully puzzle it out.
All she could determine was that the thought of him did not fill her with dread anymore as it had in the beginning of their acquaintance.
Quite the contrary, it filled her with a strange warmth and a longing to reach out to him and have him look at her again, the way he had looked at her tonight.
..ooOOoo..
NOTES:
Sucking the yarn into the yarn bobbin, as John shows Emma and Margaret in this chapter, was a common part of the weaving process and was done by countless weavers many times a day, for almost two centuries. However, it was not a very healthy thing to do, because it would make you breathe in fine cotton fluff, which, over time, could lead to respiratory diseases - in the worst case, brown lung.
I would love to give a shoutout to lovely Mr Richard, a wonderful guide at Queen Street Mill in Burnley who explained the whole of the cotton spinning and weaving process to us last summer during our guided tour there.