Roses and Lace
Chapter 3
One week earlier...
John Thornton watched as the last of his enormous frames slowly wound to a stop. The groaning and hissing and moaning was like a great steamship coming to moor.
It must be done.
His workers filed out silently. Not the stiff, determined, angry walking out of a strike but a hushed, sorrowful shuffling through the doors.
He had been able to pay them to work up to this day, and no further.
It must be done.
Someone would come along to reopen the mill. It would be perhaps a few weeks of hunger for those who found no work elsewhere.
And as for John Thornton... He did not want to think of what it would mean for him.
Months of worry and toil and scrounging after contracts and balancing and rebalancing the books... And he had failed.
The mill had fallen silent.
Not for want of trying, another Thornton man had made a failure of his life's work.
John sat amidst the gently falling cotton fluff and did not think and did not move.
"Master..."
Nicholas Higgins was speaking to him.
"Some of the hands got up a petition with a list of names. If you're ever in a position to run a mill again, there's many'd be happy to work for ye."
John accepted the paper quietly. He felt a spark of warmth somewhere in his gut. He didn't meet Higgins' eyes. He wasn't ready to think about the future yet.
The man moved to go but hesitated, watching Thornton with a thoughtful air. "And master... Have you heard aught of Miss Margaret?"
"Miss... Margaret?" John's sluggishly tried to recall some of the young women who had worked for him. He had rarely learned their names.
"Miss Hale, that is, th'old parson's daughter."
"Ah yes, Miss Hale." John felt a flash of something, something he did not want to name, immediately buried in resignation and regret. "Yes, she is in London still, last I heard. Her agent, a Mr. Lennox, sees to her affairs in Milton, and last he was here he said that she was... well."
"Not yet married, eh? And still in London, then." Higgins was still watching Thornton stare into the distance with a furrowed brow. "I'd have thought she might have gone on to Spain."
"To Spain?" And in a flash John could imagine her, smiling in the sun. He almost imagined himself there, miles away from work and obligation and strife and pride. Miles away from Milton on some sunny seaside, with Margaret. But what business could she have there..? And then his mind supplied the answer. The young man at the station - that young man swarthy and lithe and handsome. In the time that followed John had almost driven the man's existence out of his mind, but no - he was alive, hidden away for some secret, gallant purpose. He was alive and well and waiting for Margaret in Spain.
"Aye, to be with her brother, now that their parents have died."
"Her brother?"
John looked full at Higgins for the first time. The man had a kindly, almost pitying look to his eyes.
"Aye, her brother," he answered gently. "Him that were here when her mother were dying."
"The Hales never mentioned a son."
"No. Twas a close secret. My Mary used to fetch for them when the mother was alive. She's a quiet girl, my Mary, but she hears things. Something to do with the son getting on the wrong side of the navy, wouldn't dare to step foot into the country, except that it were his mother's dying wish to see him again."
He was her brother.
John couldn't quite hide his smile of relief on this, the worst day of his adult life.
Higgins gave Thornton a half-smile of his own after this parting gift, and strode out of the mill satisfied that at least something had been set to rights.
The worst John had to face was in his own home. Out of his whole life he had only the vaguest memories of ever seeing his mother weep, and that was in the darkest times, after his father had killed himself in shame.
"Not for myself, John, but for thee, I cannot bear it. It will break my heart." She was still stick straight and proud, facing him openly with wetness on her cheeks, a fierce sorrow in her gaze. "Here is my boy — good son, just man, tender heart — and he fails in all he sets his mind upon: he finds a woman to love, and she rebuffs his affection; he labors, and his labor comes to nought. Others who have not earned it grow rich and hold their paltry names high and dry above shame."
"Shame never touched me, mother," he said in a low voice.
"Oh, my John." She touched his face tenderly, then hugged her arms to herself and turned away from him, finally stifling a sob.
He remembered the cold, dark hovel they used to live in. Long hours working with meager food, Mother burning their one candle all night to mend and sew for pennies, frail little Fanny often sick and bewildered. The bitter determination of those days.
To come through that and then start over again...
John knew he would most likely have to put his pride aside and look for work in another mill, going hat in hand to other masters, other masters who had never had the same integrity and hardfought ambition that John had had. It was a cruel, bitter thought. He would almost sooner leave Milton entirely.
To leave Milton entirely... John had a sudden vision of sunlight, warmth, and green.
To leave the cold, the stones, the bustle of industry, the clamor of the machines.
To breathe fresh air.
"Mother, we have been through worse than this," he spoke slowly. "I cannot reassure you as to what my intentions are. Indeed, I do not know what I shall do. But I am not... without hope." He ended quietly. It was foolish to hope, he knew.
His mother quieted her weeping but did not turn.
John recalled Mr. Bell in his office, on one of his lowest days, Mr. Bell trying to tell him something about Miss Hale... Something about her regard for him.
He dared not hope.
Even Nicholas Higgins...
People who cared for Margaret seemed to take an interest in him.
He dared not hope.
It was not hope, precisely, but John felt something of a lightening in his soul.
"I must away," he said, deciding it even as he spoke the words. "I cannot tell you where I shall go or what I shall do. But I must-" She was not looking at him, lost in her own fears or memories.
John held his mother by her strong shoulders and kissed the back of her head.
"I will write to you in a few days, to tell you of my plans."
Within minutes he had packed his bag and was out the door, walking toward the station.
He would not think of going to London, yet. He would not think of meeting potential investors. He would not even think of calling upon Miss Hale.
It was too soon to hope.
The mill was closed. At the moment John Thornton had no work, no business, no prospects.
All he could think about was taking the train southward, getting out of this town of noise and soot and endless striving.
All he could think about was green leaves, warm air, and sunshine.
He wanted to go somewhere beautiful.
As before, some of the dialog is lifted word for word from Mrs. Gaskell's novel. Other scenes come straight from the mini-series scripted by Sandy Welch.