THE BEST THAT EVER WAS

Chapter Two

Kneeling down beside him, Margaret rested her hand on John's, comforted as always by its size and strength. She well understood how he could be fearsome to some, formidable, even, but not to her. As she placed her hand on his, his thumb wriggled out from beneath the mound of fingers and came to rest on top, gently sweeping back and forth to brush her knuckles. Smiling, it reminded Margaret of a moment they had shared on a station platform four years before, the world around them fading into insignificance as they alone existed in that strange waiting room between what had been and what was to come, each of them holding their breaths, praying that the other felt the same and that their days of unbearable separation, solitude and sadness were finally at an end.

She had been overwhelmed by her love for him then, and unable to contain it any longer, restraint had abandoned her when she lifted his masculine hand to her untrained lips and left a kiss there, just one, but the anointing of her lips had told him everything he needed to know, that she had loved him too, and that the heartache they had shared was now finally over. So, you see, if Margaret had loved him then, there were no words to describe how much she loved him now that she knew him fully and cared for him faithfully.

With a nostalgic snuffle, Margaret found herself raising his hand to her lips once again, and there she rested them against his skin, quietly admiring the marks the moist florets grazed, scratches and scuffs that told of a man who had never shied away from hard work. Much to her relief, he smiled warmly, a most welcome sight indeed after him having sat there with a scowl for more than an hour, even if he were terribly dashing when he scowled.

It was not until Margaret felt his hand cup her cheek, his large palm splayed as it captured the whole right side of her face, and she leaned into his tender touch, that she knew he was ready to talk to her.

'I feel…unqualified,' he admitted at last, his confession almost inaudible, as if subdued by a humiliated hush.

Margaret blinked and crinkled her nose in a way that was so unbelievably sweet that he wanted nothing more than to kiss it, so he did, there being no earthly reason why he should not. He was her husband, she his wife, they were each other's, body and soul.

Letting out a tiny sneeze, Margaret stroked her head along the breadth of his arm, her glossy curls melding with his thick, dark hairs, as his shirtsleeves were rolled up. After considering how to respond, Margaret thought it best that she let him explain, so all she said was, 'How so?' inviting him to tell her more in his own words. It could be difficult to coax the master out of his shell of reserved reticence, but she had found it was better to let him come out when he was ready, rather than compelled, and so she would wait without wearying.

John sat back in his chair and exhaled loudly through his nose, but not before helping his wife to her feet and nestling her on his knee. The dusty floor was no place for such a lovely dress or a lovely lass. She was glad to accept her husband's request, and with a contented chuckle in her throat, Margaret burrowed onto his lap, laced her arms around his neck, and gently kicked her legs up and down as they dangled over the side.

Neither of them spoke for several minutes while he thought, his fingers returning to her hair and tracing the outline of her finely pinned curls, winding round and round the never-ending spirals of brown pathways. Margaret did not mind the lull. She knew they were in a hurry, but there were occasions when time would simply just have to stand still and wait for them, because haste would not help anything, and patience was the only answer, the only antidote to the problem.

Then, at last, he sighed heavily, and with a voice that rang with his latent self-doubt, John confessed, 'I am not good at speaking with people, you know that about me. I am good at speaking at people, at telling them what to do, but I am not good at conversing. And what if I do not know what I am talking about?'

Margaret's body shook in his tight embrace as she laughed. 'But how could that be? John, you know more about the cotton industry than any man alive,' she reminded him. Silly boy! Honestly, as if he should need reminding of such an obvious fact.

'Or woman,' he added, whispering friskily in her ear and tickling her with his hot breath, his tongue peeking out a fraction of an inch to lick the curve of her lobe.

'We will see about that,' Margaret contended, slapping him light-heartedly on the arm.

Ever since they had become engaged, right from the very next day after John brought her back home, in fact, Margaret had been learning as much as she could about the mill and the cotton trade. The other master's wives thought her quite mad, maintaining that she would be much better employed and enjoy herself all the more if she were to spend her time thinking about fashion and partaking in both creating and passing on gossip. In contrast, Margaret staunchly disagreed. For a start, she was the mill's owner, so it was only right and proper that she should be fully informed about the business that provided her family's income and security. However, when she told people this, they merely returned her remark with a puzzled look. Most people knew that the former Miss Hale had been the landlord of Marlborough Mills after Mr Bell had signed the deeds over to her (ridiculous as it was, a southern piece of skirt owning something like a northern factory), but after her marriage to the one and only Mr Thornton, the man who had once been the toast of the town, then reduced to marrying himself off to an opinionated and obstinate young woman to save his own skin, then naturally, all of her estate would become his through marriage.

Nevertheless, John was always quick to correct them on more than one account. Firstly, and most importantly, he reminded them in no uncertain terms, and usually with a degree of uncouth incivility as he snarled at them from between his gritted teeth, that his wife's fortune had never been a factor in his proposing. On the contrary, he would much rather have never seen a penny of it if it led her to believe that he had only wedded her because of the financial benefits their union would bring. Secondly, he made it clear to them, and to Margaret, that while the mill was his by law, he would always consider it his wife's, he no more than her eternally grateful tenant, always eager to prove to her that she had done the right thing placing her faith in him and investing in him as both a merchant and a man.

That is why, under the old wooden sign that sat on the outside of the factory walls, facing the street and catching the attention of anyone who should care to find them, the one that was rotting with age, he had added, on a shiny new plaque that would last for a century and more: "Marlborough Mills: Hale and Thornton's."

Margaret had appreciated the gesture more than she could say but had pointed out that there was no need for "Hale," since she was to be a Thornton after all, and would be so for both the majority and remainder of her life. But John had shaken his head adamantly and said that this was the proper way to have it. She had been a Hale when he had fallen in love with her, and she had been a Hale when she had offered him the money to save the mill. The factory and all the families who depended on it for their livelihood would not be here without Miss Hale, and her blood would run through the veins of the generations who owned it, and, God willing, would make their proud mark on this city for many years to come.

In any case, that was only one reason why Margaret had been learning about the mill. The other was that there was always the fact that she found it profoundly fascinating. She recalled her first visit to Marlborough Mills only days after she and her family had arrived in Milton, and she blushed to remember the way she had asked who this unknown Mr Thornton was and why he had taken it upon himself to comment on a suitable residence for her family. She had no notion then of how prominent he was in these parts, his name widely revered, and that, in the end, after many years of misunderstandings and self-inflicted misery on both sides, he would turn out to be her husband.

At any rate, John had been teaching Margaret everything he knew about their shared business, but as it happened, there was a great deal to learn, and even with him being an excellent teacher, one who was full of eagerness for his subject and patience with his pupil, Margaret wondered how she could ever hope to be as knowledgeable as him, so while she may have been the owner of Marlborough Mills, John would, to her mind, forever be its master.

'But I take it there is more?' she pressed, sensing the hesitation lingering in his throat as his Adam's apple faltered, her finger scraping it lightly as she encouraged him to speak.

On feeling her feathery touch, John bucked up his chin and dropped his head back so that she could have easier access to his neck, his nerves fluttering at the tenderness of her touch.

'And I am their master,' he went on. 'There is no getting away from it. We are not the same, them and I, they will always think me different, separated by my earnings, my advantage and my authority,' he near enough cussed, as if these factors somehow made him dirty and dishonest. 'They are coming to gawk at me and see a master make a fool of himself by trying to relate to them and showing how removed I am. They want to sneer at how hard I appear, how unyielding I can be, and to judge me as an unfair and unfit employer.'

As he said this, John's head wilted and fell against her shoulder, and there he hid it, too ashamed of himself to look at her, but why he felt so humbled, he could not rightly say. Perhaps it was because Margaret deserved a man drastically better than he. One who was admired for his goodness, not his grit.

However, Margaret was having none of it. Taking John's head in her hands, and marvelling at all the cogs that must surely be contained within such a clever mind, she stared deep into his eyes, her soul pouring out to his soul, two twins speaking as one.

'Now you listen to me, husband,' she began seriously, but John did not miss the fondness that was to be found in her address. 'You are a master unlike any other. You are firm, but you are also fair. You are demanding, but you are also dedicated. You are temperamental, but you are also thoughtful. You are stubborn, but you are also sympathetic. You are not perfect, far from it, but know this, you are the best master in Milton, and make no mistake.'

John sniggered. 'Aye, so after four years of marriage, you are still finding fault with me? Is that what you're saying, wife?' he jested, a playful smile entertaining his face and taking the years with it, making him look more like a carefree boy than a man who had known suffering. Margaret liked to think that while she could never banish the ghosts of his past, her love, and the love of their children, perhaps served in some small way to reclaim the losses John Thornton once felt so bitterly, his heart now home to happiness, rather than hopelessness.

'Aye,' she replied, and John near enough moaned to hear her speak with his dialect, this fine woman who did not belong here with him becoming a true Miltonian.

Bowing to kiss him, Margaret let her forehead fall against his own and stay there, and with their eyes closed, they both listened to the steady beating of their hearts, a thrum that was matched by the hum that came from the drone of the machines below.

'While I may have fought it at first,' she acknowledged sadly, 'even I knew from the start that you were different from all the other masters in Milton,' she told him truthfully, her admission meant for none other than him. 'And not only that, but I knew you were different from all the other men I had ever, or would ever know. You are cut from an entirely distinct cloth to your fellow men; a thicker, stronger, bolder, and more durable cloth, a more fitting robe for the role you have had been ordained to perform,' she continued, speaking to him in his own language, one that was not made up of letters, but materials.

John could have laughed. It sounded as if she were calling him a king, and while he knew he would never be anything great or grand, he felt richer than any man could be to know that he had the love of this extraordinary woman.

'And I am not the only one who respects the Master of Marlborough Mills. See them, out there,' she said, steering his face to look at the window and observe the busy yard outside. 'Your workers know you to be a good man. You risked your own prosperity so that you could safeguard their livelihoods. You asked them all to return when you reopened the mill. You give them higher wages and better working conditions than any other employer in this town. You provide hot meals every day to nourish their bodies and minds. You have given them a school and a hospital to offer them the education and care that they would otherwise not be able to afford,' Margaret detailed, her voice bold with pride. 'John, darling, these people are not coming today to judge you, they are coming to support you.'

John glanced up nervously, his nose skimming her neck.

'You really think so?' he asked with the shyness of an unsure child, his mouth mapping the curve of her shoulder.

'I know so,' she bolstered. Margaret then stood, and offering him her hand, she nodded her head towards the door. 'Come now, let us go, as we always do: together.'

She knew she could talk to John about this for hours, but there were two problems with that. Firstly, her husband, in spite of being a most worthy man, had a deeply entrenched lack of self-worth, and no matter how hard she tried to dig him out of that furrow with her shovel of love and respect, and while she trusted that she had helped him gain confidence since their marriage, she knew that he alone had to haul himself out of this pit of insecurity. And secondly, Milton folk, as she had long known, were doers, not sayers, so it was only right that she should let him see for himself how desperately wrong he was.

'Aye,' he replied at last. 'Let's get this over with.'