Chapter 19
For two more nights, Margaret managed to avoid Mr Thornton's company.
One time she feigned tiredness and the next, Mr Thornton himself was not home. He had gone out to have dinner at the Gentleman's Club, as he did occasionally, which provided another night of relief for her.
But she knew that she was running out of excuses and that she would have to face him sooner or later. She had seldomly dreaded anything so much in her life.
In truth, she did not know exactly what she was afraid of, but the mere thought of having to face him, with the realisation of her own unwanted sentiments so fresh and raw inside her, filled her with trepidation.
On Friday afternoon, while Emma was in her room for her hour of leisure time, Margaret decided to go down into the yard and meet Bessy for her afternoon break.
"Margaret, ye look terrible," her friend greeted her with a concerned expression and quickly pulled her around the corner of the factory building, where they were out of earshot of the other workers.
"I have rarely seen you this pale. Pray, what is the news?"
Margaret shook her head. "There is none, Bessy. I have not seen Mr Thornton in the past few days. But I cannot avoid him for much longer."
"Oh dear," Bessy sighed. "It's hard bein' a woman, isn't it? If ye were a man, ye could just ask 'bout the other's sentiments. But for the likes of us it's never so proper."
Her face clouded over. "Ye haven't thought any more of leaving, have you, Margaret? The children would cry so. They're awfully fond of ye. And times are tough with everythin' goin' on with th' union."
Margaret looked up at that. "What is going on with the union?"
Suddenly Bessy's eyes were entirely focused on her own shoes, unwilling to meet her friend's gaze.
"Father said I shouldn't speak of it, what with ye workin' over at th' house and bein' - ye know - close to master."
Margaret frowned, forgetting her own troubles for a moment at seeing her friend so torn. "Bessy what is it? You know I would not…you can trust me."
The young spinner heaved a sigh.
"Th' union had another meetin' last night, discussin' what to do with the current situation. The men are angry about the thing with that Latimer fellow. They've been contemplatin' a strike, but not much would come of it."
"A strike? Because of the speculation?"
"Aye. And to fight for fair wages, of course. It would do nothin' really, and they are all aware of that, but it's the only means they 'ave. I fear…"
Bessy suddenly looked as though she was about to burst into tears.
"Oh Margaret, I fear they will do something very stupid. Father has always condemned violence, but some of the men are so angry. 'e does not know whether they will stick to th' rules and listen to 'im."
"Violence?" Margaret breathed. "What kind of violence?"
"Any sort. A riot maybe, breakin' into the factories, smashin' up everything, like they did up in Lancashire, comin' for th' masters if they're desperate enough."
"Coming for…Bessy do you think they would…hurt people?"
"There's no tellin' what they're capable of. They're good men, most of 'em, but they're desperate. And despair makes people do bad things sometimes."
"But the speculation…are you sure that all of it is true?" Margaret inquired nervously.
"I don't know, Margaret," Bessy sighed. "I only know that Thornton shook 'ands with Latimer, and it looked rather obvious what 'ad happened. And he's still Thornton's father-in-law, ye know?"
Margaret's mind was reeling. Was Mr Thornton in immediate danger of these angry men? Would they come for the mill? Maybe even for him? The thought made her almost feel sick to her stomach.
She needed to speak to him. Ask him about the speculation. She still could not believe him capable of participating in anything of the sort, but what did she really know of his affairs?
She knew it was not her place to address any such issues with her employer, but she could not remain silent and leave him oblivious of this potential danger.
"Bessy, you say Nicholas is not part of this? The plans for a riot, I mean?"
"Father's be'ind the union. He does not want any violence. Says if they want to be treated as men, they need to act like men, not rabid animals."
Margaret nodded. "Don't you think that if there was an immediate danger to someone's life…that he ought to be warned, Bessy?"
Her friend looked at her thoughtfully for a long moment, appearing unsure. "Father said I shouldn't talk to ye about it," she then reiterated with a grimace.
"If Thornton ever finds out that the hands are plannin' somethin', we will all lose our work, I'm sure."
"Oh, I would not…Bessy you must know I would never mention names. But I feel I should ask him about the speculation. See what he has to say for himself."
"Ye will have to do as you must. I only pray-" Bessy did not finish that thought, instead she stood and straightened her dress, looking somewhat dejected. "I need to go; my break is over."
She stepped away from Margaret, but turned around to her once more. "I just don't want anyone to get in trouble…on either side."
"Neither do I. I promise," Margaret assured her in a low voice.
The spinner girl gave her a little nod, turned, and was gone.
..ooOOoo..
Emma sat at the heavy wooden desk, working on an exercise Margaret had given her. As she was writing, she mumbled the words to herself in a low voice, like she always did when she was concentrating.
Margaret watched her for a few minutes, before rising from her seat and quietly stepping over to the large window to look outside.
It was a particularly grey day in late autumn. Most of the leaves had fallen from the trees already, leaving them bare, like strange skeletons protruding from the grey mists that were rising from the river.
There was nothing left of the little flowers that had blossomed there to bring her a bit of joy in an otherwise gloomy place.
Margaret's eyes lingered on the windswept willow trees in the distance where Mr Thornton had once taught Emma to skip stones, in a brief moment of happiness. It seemed so long ago.
Now, the place looked cold and deserted, and Margaret doubted that any of the fairies Emma so often daydreamed about would ever make their way down to that river.
The view was a perfect reflection of Margaret's feelings.
How had things taken a turn for the worse so quickly?
With a possible riot looming, and that…thing…standing between herself and Mr Thornton, there were questions that she simply did not know the answers to.
How did one deal with such issues, as a woman, no less? It was a man's world, and whatever happened, she had little say in it.
She felt like a piece in a game of chess, standing on the playboard, waiting anxiously for someone else to make the next move, and she hated feeling so powerless.
The only option she could choose freely was to run. And Margaret Hale was not one to take flight.
..ooOOoo..
Margaret looked up from her plate of cold, half-eaten roast beef and potatoes.
The clock on the mantelpiece showed that it was after eight o'clock, time for her to go and face the man she had been avoiding for days. She knew that she could not postpone it any longer.
She stood, released a trembling breath and then, without giving herself any more time to reconsider, turned and strode from her chamber, down the hall, and toward the drawing room.
It was still empty when she entered, so she picked up a book she had been reading a few nights before, which was still lying on the side table, and sat in her usual chair near the window.
Only a few minutes later, the door opened, and Emma stepped in, closely followed by Mr Thornton.
Margaret greeted them politely, not truly daring to look Thornton fully in the eye. She quickly pretended to be much more engrossed in her novel than she truly was, hoping that she would not be drawn into a conversation.
Father and daughter sat near the fireplace, and Emma picked up the book he had been reading to her these last few days.
As Mr Thornton began speaking in a somewhat subdued voice, not wanting to disturb Margaret, the latter found her eyes stuck to one and the same sentence in her book for minutes, unable to grasp what she was reading, while her focus was drawn to him.
It was not the words he was reading, those escaped her easily enough, it was the timbre of his voice. There was a softness with which he addressed his daughter that sent a peculiar tingle down Margaret's spine.
Had anyone seen and heard the mill master in those wee private hours of the evening, sitting with his child, they would not have believed him to be the same man who looked down at his subordinates from his office window, bellowing harsh commands at them.
If those men knew who he was behind that stern façade, would they still plot to come after him, maybe even hurt him…or worse?
As the hour drew toward Emma's bedtime, Margaret felt herself grow increasingly restless. There was still the option of feigning fatigue once more and fleeing to her room; alas, she knew she could not. There were things that needed to be said.
Eventually, at Mr Thornton's cue, she rose from her seat to accompany the child to her quarters.
"Are you very tired, Miss Hale?" Thornton addressed her before they stepped out of the room. "Or may I persuade you to join me for a cup of tea later?"
She had known he would ask and had done her best to mentally prepare herself.
"I shall come back once Emma is settled."
Something like a small smile crossed his features, and she quickly tore her eyes away.
..ooOOoo..
When Margaret re-entered the room, Mr Thornton immediately put aside the newspaper he had been reading and motioned for her to take a seat in the chair across from him, which was usually occupied by Emma these days.
Dutifully she stepped closer and sat, nervously clasping her hands in her lap.
"I rang for tea, Jane should be up any moment," he informed her.
Margaret tried to shake off the thought that the young maid, who seemed to have such a clear opinion on her own relationship with Mr Thornton, would step in soon, to find them sitting together once again, confirming all her assumptions.
Mr Thornton began inquiring about her health, and Margaret gave brief and polite answers until the tray with tea and biscuits had been placed on the table beside her.
Habitually, she poured the hot beverage and handed him a cup, very careful to not let her fingers touch his as she did so. Then she sat back, cradling her own cup and looking down at it timidly.
"You look a bit pale, Miss Hale, are you certain you are feeling better?"
"I assure you, I am well. There is no need to worry."
There was a brief pause.
"Have you finished reading 'The Cricket on the Hearth'?" he then asked.
"I have. I found it quite enjoyable, thank you for recommending it."
She waited for him to go on speaking, as he usually would have, but he did not.
After a moment of uncomfortable silence, she could not keep her eyes down any longer and looked up at him questioningly, to find him regarding her with no little amount of concern.
"Miss Hale," he began, holding her gaze. "Forgive me, but I sense that you are distraught by something. You need not tell me, if it is a private matter. But if there is anything I can do…"
"I…" She would not cry!
Swallowing hard, she bravely lifted her head high and straightened her shoulders.
"Mr Thornton, there is something I need to ask you. It is not my place, and I do not wish to appear presumptuous, but I have…heard rumours."
He leaned back in his chair without breaking her gaze, looking at her questioningly.
"I have overheard some talk, in passing, amongst the workers, of a speculation the mill masters are participating in."
She saw his brow furrow in a mixture of surprise and confusion.
"What have they been saying?"
"I know very little," she confessed. "Only that Mr Latimer came up from London to persuade the factory owners to participate in a scheme, and that he made some kind of deal with you."
Thornton reached for the flask of brandy on the side table and silently poured himself a glass.
"And who has told you such a thing?" he then asked, in what appeared to be a calm manner.
"I cannot point out one particular person. I have heard talk, that is all," Margaret was quick to answer.
Thornton rose from his seat and walked over to the fireplace, still holding his glass.
"Is it true?" Margaret asked, bravely, thinking that she had not much to lose now that she had started the conversation. The worst that could happen was for them to quarrel once more, as they had done so often in the beginning of their acquaintance.
He took a sip of his drink. "It's true," he then said, looking down into the flames.
Margaret felt her breath hitch at this declaration. She had tried so hard to tell herself that he would not…but he carried on, breaking her train of thought:
"There is an investment Latimer is promoting, and many masters in Milton have agreed to participate."
He turned to look at her.
"Latimer came to me the other day, asking me to join in. It is likely that some of the workers saw him, and they are not as stupid as some of the masters think they are."
"The workers are very angry, Mr Thornton," Margaret burst out. "There is talk of the men taking steps, maybe even a riot."
"You've spoken to Higgins." It was a statement rather than a question, and Margaret could almost feel the colour draining from her own face.
Oh God, it had been wrong to speak to Mr Thornton. Of course, he would have made the connection. He knew she was closely acquainted with the Higgins family, where else could she have gathered this information?
This was why Nicholas had not wanted Bessy to tell anyone, and now Margaret had gone and done just what he had feared.
If Nicholas, Bessy, and even Mary were to lose their jobs, the family would likely starve. Who was to take care of the six Boucher children?
Thornton must have seen the horror on her face and took a step toward her, looking down at her earnestly. "Tell your Higgins that he need not fear for his livelihood."
Her head snapped up to stare at him. There was no anger, either in his voice or face. There was no friendliness either, only a somewhat grim sobriety.
"I sent Latimer away. Others may be willing to be part of his idiot money scheme, but…"
Another step closer; he was less than six feet away from her now. "Miss Hale…do you really think I would risk everything I worked for on something like this?"
His voice was softer now, and she felt her bottom lip tremble as she looked up into his face.
He had not joined in the speculation.
How she had hoped that she had not been mistaken in him, that her instinct had been right.
He was doing the responsible thing. The honourable thing. He was everything she had secretly prayed he would be.
For a brief moment, she felt joy, paired with an intense amount of relief, only to realise a second later that this destroyed her last hope of ever convincing herself that what she felt for him was wrong and misguided.
It was as if a part of her had almost wanted him to be who she had taken him for when they had first met. It would have made it easier to live with the knowledge of what she could never have.
"Miss Hale!"
The sudden alarm in his voice roused Margaret out of her momentary daze. He put his glass down, and a second later, she found herself face to face with him, crouched down before her and anxiously searching her eyes with his.
"Miss Hale, you don't look well at all. Pray, what is the matter?"
It was only then that Margaret realised the wetness on her own cheeks and quickly lifted her hand to wipe away the tears, but it was too late. Once more he offered her his handkerchief, just as he had done that night after Fred had left Milton.
She took it with a trembling hand, more out of obligation than anything else, for she did not feel like touching anything that was his would serve to calm her down at this moment.
"This is not about the speculation, is it?" he murmured, having grown to know her well enough to see through her.
There was no use in denying it, and when Margaret opened her mouth, the first thing that came out was:
"I need to leave Milton, Mr Thornton."
It was only after she had spoken the words out loud that she realised the conclusion her mind had subconsciously drawn in the past few days.
He looked as though someone had hit him, eyes wide in shock and utter confusion, mouth slightly open.
"I'm sorry, what did you just say?"
"I need to leave." This time, her voice was firmer, which she was glad of. She quickly dabbed her cheeks and took a deep breath to force herself to speak more calmly.
"I shall write to Mr Bell and ask him to come and escort me to London. I have family there. I – I am sorry, but it is what I must do."
Mr Thornton looked positively horrified. "Miss Hale, pray what happened to cause this sudden rash decision?"
There was a small quiver in his voice which was unusual for him, always so stern and determined, never faltering in his ways.
"Is it Emma? Did she bother you in any way? I'm sure she can be spoken to. She is merely a child, but…"
Margaret firmly shook her head. "No. No, nothing of the sort, I assure you. Emma is the loveliest girl I have ever encountered. It is – it is a personal matter, Mr Thornton. And it is complicated."
"Has anything happened to cause you to leave? Has anyone troubled you?"
"No," she said once more. "Not…in the way you would presume, no."
"Have I done something?"
There was something in his voice that made Margaret's eyes shoot up to meet his, and she was struck by the deep emotion she saw there. It looked like a strange kind of pain, almost fear.
"I know we have not always seen eye to eye," he quickly moved on, "but if anything I did persuaded you to make such a decision, I sincerely apologise."
"No, Mr Thornton, it is nothing you have done." She rose from her seat and carefully manoeuvred her way around him, who was still crouched down on the floor, desperate to bring some distance between them.
He rose and turned to look at her, as she came to stand over by the darkened window.
"What is it then?" His voice was a tad louder now, frustrated. "You don't strike me as a person who would run away without good reason."
His hands were clenching nervously at his sides, as was his habit whenever he was agitated.
"Emma is awfully fond of you. More so than she is of me I reckon."
"That is not true - " Margaret burst out, but he did not let her finish.
"She would be beyond distraught to see you go. And I had the impression that Milton had grown on you a little bit in the past months. But maybe I was wrong."
"You are not," she confessed in a weak voice. "I have been happy here, it's only…" She could not look away from him, standing there, so shocked and desolate.
"Mr Thornton," she murmured, with her voice thick from more tears that threatened to spill from her eyes again at any moment. And then she heard words tumble out of her mouth of their own accord:
"Is it true that you have formed some sort of attachment to me?"
Shocked silence.
He stared at her, as though he had been struck by lightning.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I have heard some talk," she told him, frantic, "The servants seem to believe that you and I…that we…that you are…fond of me."
She longed for the ground to open up and swallow her whole, never to be seen again.
Why had she said it? She could never take it back now. What an utterly stupid thing to do.
Whether it was true or not, they could never go back from this conversation. But it was just as well…he would understand now why she had to go.
For a long time, he did not speak. He turned back toward the fire, his hand coming up to absentmindedly comb through his hair, something she had never seen him do before.
"The servants…" he murmured eventually. "And on what grounds do they make such a claim?"
She could not answer.
John Thornton's heart was racing.
He felt dazed, almost as if in shock.
He had not expected anything like this. Of course the servants would talk, witless young girls who had nothing better to do than to tattle about the household and spread rumours.
He thought he had been so careful to hide away all that he felt. Not one moment had he truly been alone with her, always making sure she was safe with him.
Even now, the door was ajar, although he wished it were not so. He did not need the maids to have any chance of witnessing this conversation.
Had he said or done anything to give himself away? Or had they just, by chance, struck the truth with their silly banter?
Whatever it was, it had greatly distressed Miss Hale, and it pained him deeply to witness it. He knew she did not like him much, she had made that rather clear right from the very beginning.
But he had flattered himself that she had grown to at least tolerate his presence, maybe even enjoy some of their conversations.
She had not seemed entirely displeased with him in recent months. Had he merely deceived himself in this matter? The thought felt like a strange burning sensation deep within his chest, making it hard to breathe.
He had known he could never have her. Although she had fallen on hard times which had forced her into this employment, he knew enough of her to realise that she was above him in all ways that truly mattered.
She was a well-educated young woman whose family had belonged to the lower gentry of the south, while he was an unrefined ruffian who had left school and worked his way up from nothing.
No, she would never regard him in any favourable way; he had always known that.
And yet…the fact that the mere thought of it would make her retreat from him in such a way that she would flee back to London and never look back felt like a stab right through his heart.
"Have I ever given you any reason to feel unsafe with me?"
He needed to know.
"No!" she exclaimed immediately, horrified that he would think such a thing.
"You have never, Mr Thornton!" she rushed to add. "You would never, I'm sure. You are too honourable for that."
He was not convinced. "If that were true, Miss Hale, then why do you feel this sudden need to leave?" He did not mean it as an accusation, but in his hurt, the words came out sounding very much like one.
"I'm sorry," she breathed brokenly. "I know I am not expressing myself well. I am confused…I have never been in any such situation before."
Forgetting his own pain upon seeing her so scared, John had to fight the sudden urge to close the distance between them, wrap her in his arms and console her.
He fought the impulse to reach out to her. It would not do.
Margaret had caught her breath enough to make a last attempt at explaining herself. "I do not think you would ever approach me in any dubious way, Mr Thornton. It is more that I cannot help but wonder whether…"
A tense moment's pause.
"Whether you truly are fond of me in such a way."
The ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece broke the silence so loudly, it almost felt like the sound was piercing Margaret's ears.
They stood, facing each other for what was most definitely the longest minute in either of their lives.
Then he turned his back to her, to look into the crackling fire once more.
"The only thing that should concern you is the fact that I would never do anything to compromise you. I promised Mr Bell that you would always be safe and comfortable in this house, and I shall keep that promise."
"You are avoiding my question." Again, she was overstepping, but at this moment she could not bring herself to care.
She knew him to be almost painfully honest, a man who spoke his mind fearlessly and stood by what he said. If he was being this vague, it was because he did not want her to know.
His shoulders stiffened visibly.
"The answer is of no consequence to you. My private thoughts and sentiments concern only myself. In any case, they will not affect you."
There was something about the way he said it that strangely struck Margaret.
She took in his form, still facing away from her, so tense, almost nervous, and despite her own emotional turmoil, she could not help but feel compassion for him.
She had been so wrong about this man. He was no less emotional than any other, maybe even more so. He was merely not in the habit of showing it. What struggles he faced, he faced alone, and always had.
Was it the death of his father, his mother, his wife? All the things he had been burdened with from a young age that had made him withdraw into himself and shut himself away from the prying eyes of other people?
"But will they not affect you? Your sentiments?"
The words were out before she was aware that she had spoken them aloud.
"That is of no importance."
Once more he turned to look at her, his expression one of defiance. There was so much in his eyes that he did not say.
"Will you reconsider?"
It was nearly a plea, and Margaret felt her defences melt at the sound of it.
"Emma would cry bitterly if you left, Miss Hale. Please think of the child. She has flourished so much in your care. You may think I would not have noticed, but I have. You have brought a lot of joy into this house."
She had never heard him speak like this. In another life, she would have been overjoyed at the depth of his emotion. In this one, it was merely a glimpse at something she could never have.
She heard him release a heavy breath. "I am not asking you to make a decision now," he then said in a somewhat tired voice.
"All I'm asking is that you sleep upon this matter before making any imprudent move based on a presumed danger that I assure you is unfounded."
Margaret knew what he was doing. He knew it too. He had not admitted to anything regarding his own sentiments, and she felt sure he never would.
But he had not openly denied them and, knowing his ways, that told her enough.
He would not act on them.
And neither would she.
If she decided to stay, they would forever remain silent on this issue, an unspoken truth they would both pretend to be unaware of, for Emma's sake and for their own.
"I shall take some more time to think," she told him, knowing that it was the least she could do for what he was offering her.
Slowly she walked over to the door. "I bid you goodnight, Mr Thornton."
She could no longer look at him.
"Good night, Miss Hale."
And then the door closed behind her, leaving them each to the solitude of their own thoughts, from which neither would find any reprieve until the morning, for they both lacked the peace of mind required to fall asleep.
