HOW DO I LOVE THEE?

Chapter Four

'Ouch!' John snarled as he shook his index finger in response to the sharp stab of pain that grieved it. His action was so swift that his finger blurred, so it was not until he stilled and held it up for inspection that he spied the accursed problem, the source of his pain. Scowling, John found that he had slit open the skin by means of a deep paper cut, a thin brook of blood trickling down his hand.

Moaning like the rumble of thunder that brewed ominously in the distance, John snatched up the insubordinate heap of papers before him and hurled them to the side, sentencing them to be banished from his sight for their insolence. They would not do. They were not what he wanted. And they could go and hang if all they planned to do by way of help was cut him. He was searching for his insurance certificates to take to the bank, along with his list of mutinous employees to show the Chief Inspector when he arrived any minute now. Letting out a forceful sigh of frustration, John was about ready to toss the whole sorry lot into the fire and be done with it, damming them and his whole pitiful business to the flames of Hell. He had given the mill years of his life, years in which he had denied himself the things he wanted, sacrificing his blood, sweat and tears to make this demanding mistress happy, and what thanks did he get?

None, that's what.

Trying to control his temper, John knew that if he was angry with anybody, it was himself for allowing his orderliness to slip below the high standard that he demanded of himself. His papers were typically arranged carefully and neatly, so he could always lay his hands on anything he wanted within a trice, but not of late. Ever since the bloody strike had shaken the core of his small world, his mind had been as chaotic as Pandora's box. It did not help that he had carried most of his essential documents over to the house so that he could look over them from the comfort of his own home, his office was not only unnecessary while production was halted, but also bitterly cold to endure in winter, even for a northerner with skin as thick as a bear's.

When he had finally sifted through the last sheet and still not found what he was looking for, John's already wobbly tolerance collapsed, and he picked up the stack and flung them across the room in a fit of rage that he soon regretted. Not only was it childish, but it was atrociously unhelpful, given that his confined working space became like a snow globe, a contained box in which it snowed, only here, it was not frozen water that fell from the sky, but a flurry of white paper. The fragments that assailed him, they were not unique and beautiful like snowflakes, but dull in their regimented similarity, all being exactly the same size, fluttering down and landing on his head and upon his floor, making a God-awful mess. It was a hailstorm that scorned him from above as it rained in mockery, and the thought of this made him more miserable than ever.

Hail.

Hale.

It was always about hale. A Hale. The Hale. But never his Hale.

It was too much.

John, a man who never gave in to his mortal frailties, slumped down into his rickety chair and buried his head in his hands. It was no use. He knew what the problem was. Yes, he was outraged with them, with his workers for what they had done, for how they had the brass neck to challenge him in such a savage way, all the while calling him the beast. How dare they attack his property like this, shattering the hinges of the gate as they tore through it, ripping down the shutters of the warehouse, slashing open idle bales of cotton, and smashing windows like it was a sport?

He hardly dare assess the full extent of the damage, it was just so immense, and he thanked God that the soldiers had come when they did, because if they had delayed but a minute longer, John trembled to think what would have happened. Staying well hidden in the shadows beside an upstairs window that day, he had seen them begin to batter at the doors of the factory and the house with staggering motivation and momentum, baiting for the blood of his Irish, and the master for whom they blamed entirely for their misfortunes.

John's breath caught in his throat as he inhaled sharply, and he could feel himself shaking from the sheer memory of it, an icy shiver sneaking up his spine like a snake.

Could he admit that he had been scared?

The truth was, John had not been afraid so much for himself, but for others. As a magistrate, let alone a person who read the newspapers every day, he knew of the riots that had swept through the country and wreaked carnage from John o' Groats to Lizard Point in the past few decades, that roar of discontent in the belly of the people not yet laid to rest, and it likely never would, not until fairness in all things could be established, and men could be bled of their bitterness. It had been a dark time for England. Businesses had been devastated, livelihoods ruined, and lives lost. Masters like him had been dragged from their homes, beaten along the streets, and lynched in the town squares, all through the justice and vengeance of mob law.

He ought to have gone down to challenge them, to stand up to the crowd and order that they desist and leave at once, preferably with their tails between their legs, but he had not. Part of him regretted his spinelessness, but at the same time, he knew that if he had stepped so much as one inch outside, then he would have been done for, and John Thornton would be no more.

Nevertheless, let no man say that the Master of Marlborough Mills was a coward, and it was true, he had not been concerned for his own skin, but he did shudder to think what they could have done to his mother and sister. John had spent years protecting them, denying himself every personal want and whim so that they could be safe and know the security of a stable life, and so he could never live with himself if a single hair had been harmed on their heads. He thanked God that nobody else was at the house that morning. Lord! Imagine if somebody had come to call. The Slicksons. The Hampers. The Latimers. The Hal ─

John dragged his fingers from his face, his calloused tips scraping along his cheeks and bumping across the bristles of his unshaven jaw.

He had thanked God every morn and night, from that day to this, that Margaret had not been there.

If she had, she would have wanted to help, to not quake behind a locked door like a weakling. She would have insisted on facing his workers head-on, attempting to pacify them with her goodwill and grace, hoping in her naively sweet way to reconcile both man and master once and for all. Bless her, John would have admired her beyond belief for it, but her wisdom would never have worked its magic spell, no matter how well-intentioned Margaret had been. His hands would have been too riled to heed her advice, and as for him, he would have been overtaken by fear for her welfare, and with his mind so disorientated by terror, John doubted that he could have made a single rational decision, and then where would they all be?

Gazing out at the mill yard, John was struck with a gloomy epiphany that came crashing into his mind, just as weightily as if he had been clobbered on the head with a mallet.

He did not care about it anymore, any of it, not if she were not to be here, by his side, enjoying it with him, reaping the rewards of what he had spent what felt like an age sewing. These cobbles, these walls, this place of cotton and commerce, it had been his world entire for five years, the driving force that got him out of bed every morning and kept him awake every night, but there was one thing that John knew now, and that was that none of it would do to satisfy him again.

Not without her to make it all worthwhile.

Just then, there was a knock on the door, and John jolted back into focus. Standing up, and with his back turned, he grabbed his jacket and cravat and attempted to tidy himself up hurriedly, his fingers fumbling. His office may have been a shambles, but that did not mean its master had to be. He knew who his visitor was without looking, it was the Chief Inspector, the useless lout having sworn he would be here a good half hour before. John could feel his mood sliding towards the dark side, and with a voice that was rough and ready for confrontation, he barked:

'Come!'

As if on cue, the door whined open under the strain of its rusty hinges, and John waited impatiently for the man to talk. Several seconds passed as he kept his back to the policeman and continued to hunt for his missing papers, yet still, nothing was said, not a peep. John could feel his blood boiling. He relished silence, but not this awkward hush that wasted time, and he could guess what it was all about. The cheeky cad was probably judging the sorry state of his mill office, not to mention the even sorrier state of its master. Well, he would not allow that.

'Good, you're here,' John said brusquely by way of starting them off. 'You took your time, I've been expecting you,' he added, an intentional note of irascibility to his remark. However, when no discourse was offered in reply, not so much as a terse phrase, John grew increasingly annoyed. God-damn it! Were Milton folk not supposed to be plain speakers who got to the point and were quick about it?

'Speak up,' he snapped, his own patience snapping in two like a reed underfoot, 'we don't have all day, and as I am sure you know, we have a great deal to discuss.'

'Yes, we do.'