Roses and Lace

Chapter 2

It was a warm summer morning, and Margaret was out walking aimlessly among the streets near her family's home. She felt restless and frustrated with herself. Over the past several months she had made only halfhearted attempts to visit her brother in Spain, and as a result had not been able to secure a traveling companion, had not made any definite plans, and had not made the trip.

At the same time, she felt that she should acquaint herself with some of the other segments of society around London, since this was in fact her home. She had therefore visited one of the nearer poor neighborhoods this morning, carrying fresh fruit and money to give to the beggars she encountered. Truly, there was no lack of poverty and desperation in this city. If she gave herself fully toward any such cause, there would be no end to her occupation. And she would have allies here. She was not the only person of means in London who sought to alleviate the suffering of the poor.

But Margaret could not commit to such schemes, either. She spoke kindly to everyone she met, but something held her back from truly getting to know anyone new. From drawing rooms graced by witty, well-dressed friends of the Lennoxes to the meek inhabitants of tenement slums, Margaret felt herself to be disconnected from those around her. She was not as withdrawn as she had been during her deepest mourning for her parents, when she had first arrived in town, but something inside her simply refused to reach out.

Perhaps that was also why she resisted making the actual journey to Cadiz. Even though, thanks to Fred's letters, she knew she could expect a warm welcome from her brother, his new family, and even the weather, Margaret was not ready to uproot herself, even for a visit. And yet she was also not growing any new roots here in London soil.

She must do something. She felt that it was time to something. But it was as if she were still waiting, waiting for something she couldn't even describe.

Her thoughts kept drifting back to Milton.

Henry Lennox had proven himself to be a valuable business partner. Even though his deliberate cleverness and his habitual sarcasm meant that Margaret would never hold him in her highest regard, there was an intellectual sympathy between them. It wasn't just that she could parse all of his soft-spoken quips during Edith and the Captain's dinner parties, now that Henry had taken an interest in her business affairs as her legal advisor, he himself had developed not just an appreciation but a fascination with the industrial north. As an ambitious man in his own field, he expressed admiration for the northern people's inventiveness and determination. Although Margaret was still not comfortable with some of the financial details of the wealth that Mr. Bell had bestowed on her, she was always eager to hear Henry expound upon the latest activities surrounding her properties in Milton.

While Henry waxed enthusiastic over all the tumultuous vicissitudes of commerce, Margaret listened for news of her friends. Henry's latest reports had contained some troubling intimations regarding the financial stability of Marlborough Mills. However, Henry had been quick to assure Margaret that Thornton had never so much as missed a day paying his rent, and that even if the rumors proved true and worst came to worst, Margaret would be sure to find another tenant quickly, as the cotton business continued to boom.

Margaret had had to excuse herself with a splitting headache after that meeting, and not long afterward Henry had embarked on his own journey north, to visit Lennox family interests in Scotland. But he assured her that he would stop in Milton on his way back to get firsthand information on the state of her investments there.

Thinking of this, Margaret felt inclined to continue her walk straight to the station and get on the next northbound train herself. But even though she was of age, it would be unseemly to travel alone, or even with Henry. For all her vaunted independence, she was still trapped by rules and customs. She could not just galivant off by herself. And even if she could, or she went to the trouble of convincing Aunt Shaw to travel with her... What could she say to him? What could she do? Forego the rent? Mr. Thornton would never accept such charity.

Margaret could just imagine the set of his mother's shoulders, her look of utter disgust, if Margaret were to so much as suggest that they might possibly be in need of help. Mrs. Thornton would be insulted, deeply insulted, at Margaret's shameful and foolish want of respect for her son. Margaret the arrogant heiress, Margaret the blind, with no regard at all for industrial might and brilliance of tradesman John Thornton. That is what she would think.

And she would be right. As much as Margaret felt her stomach clench in fear at the thought of the mill closing, it would be foolish of her to act on such an outlandish possibility. Rumors were simply rumors. Margaret knew Mr. Thornton to be an immanently cautious and fore-sighted master. Even if he didn't profit as much as others had by speculation, that was only to his credit. Even if he were at a low point, she should be certain that he would weather the storm.

So she kept walking back to her home, and only hoped that Henry would return soon with good tidings.

Margaret had only just stepped up to her room and had barely gotten her bonnet off when Edith set upon her to tell her that Henry had indeed just arrived.

"But it's so dreadfully inconvenient of him, Margaret," Edith was saying. "You know I am hosting a luncheon this afternoon, and had Henry come by himself we would have had an even number. But he tells me that he has invited a Mr. Thornton to join us, who has come to London about some law business, and it is something dreadfully delicate, so we shall have this man throwing off our number and moreover I shall not know how we should speak to him."

Margaret found herself sinking down on the edge of her bed. This was more than she had wanted. This was too much, too suddenly. "Actually, Edith, I feel rather tired after my walk," she said slowly. "I believe I shall just have tea in my room. You may excuse me from the luncheon."

"No, no! That will never do. You do look wretchedly flushed, to be sure; but that is just the heat, and we can't do without you possibly. You know we planned you to talk about Milton to our guest Mr. Colthurst. Oh! to be sure! and this man comes from Milton. I believe it will be capital, after all. Really, I think it is a happy hit of Henry's. I asked him if he was a man one would be ashamed of; and he replied, 'Not if you've any sense in you, my little sister.' I hope he can at least sound his h's."

"Henry did not say what is so delicate about Mr. Thornton coming up to town? Was it law business connected with the property?" asked Margaret, in a constrained voice.

"Oh! He's failed, or something of the kind. Henry warned me that we must all speak rather delicately about his business. But you must attend, darling. You shall look a queen wearing the golden gown that Dixon and I laid out for you."

"He's... failed? Is that what Henry said? His mill has failed?" Margaret felt her breath catch in her chest.

"Oh, I really have such a terrible head for these law details. Henry will like nothing better than to tell you all about it. I know the impression he made upon me was that Mr. Thornton is very badly off, and a very respectable man, and that I'm to be very civil to him: and as I did not know how, I came to you to ask you to help me. And now my dear you are starting to look rather pale, so you must rest here, but for no more than an hour, please, and then you must come down and join us in the parlor, for I shall not know what to say."

Edith's blue eyes implored her, and Margaret mutely nodded her assent. After Edith left her to rest she then mechanically removed her clothing and changed her shift in preparation for dressing for the luncheon.

She felt stricken.

Mr. Thornton had had a failure. Marlborough Mill was closed. ...And what of Higgins? What of all the workers, the children?

Margaret felt as though someone had died. She felt almost the way she had when she so suddenly learned that her father had died, and for hours she had been too stunned to think or even to weep.

But she was dramatizing things. This was a blow, not a death. Mr. Thornton was still alive, alive and here in London.

Alive, and coming to her very house.

What must he feel?

Margaret felt her energy slowly begin to return.

She would see him. Even if she could not speak to him freely with so many people about, she would look for some clue to his feelings in his eyes and hope that he could read something of the depth in hers.

Note: Margaret and Edith's conversation is taken almost word for word from chapter 51 of Mrs. Gaskell's novel.