HERE'S TO HER!

(Before We Were Us)

Hannah Thornton stood beside the drawing-room window, as stoically still as a sentry.

It had been her practice for many years to pass the time of day in this manner.

She would remain and watch the bustling business that was a cotton mill, with people, carts and bales trundling in and out of its gates. She would watch as the feathery strands of white fluff arrived in sacks, like infant cotton clouds, then would oversee their departure, now finished, fine and ready to be used, made to the impeccable standard that only this mill could guarantee. She would watch as the workers scurried around like grey and brown mice, darting here and there to attend to their work, their steps quickened in fright when they knew she was supervising them from atop and afar.

She had heard the hands refer to her as the black crow, the ominous guardian of Marlborough Mills who presided over them all from her lofty roost, like a menacing presence that they could not shake off. She had to smirk at the comparison, for it reminded her of the Tower of London and its resident ravens. Legend has it, should they all fly away from the fortress grounds, the stronghold will dissolve to dust and the monarch will fall, casting a plague of trials and tribulations upon England for a thousand years. Yes, she deemed the analogy fitting, for as capable as her son was, she could not help but pride herself on the idea that if she were ever to abandon her post or forsake the mill, the machines and mortar would crumble into rubble, like the temple in the story of Samson, and not a stone of this magnificent cotton kingdom would be left standing.

Then again, it mattered little now.

The mill would indeed perish, and all because its king was being deposed.

Well, if it fell, it served them all right for getting rid of him. He had given his everything to this place. His best years. His blood, sweat and tears, not that he let anyone see the latter, and what thanks did he get in return? None, that was what.

It occurred to her that today would be her last watch, her last stand in this battle for… she would not call it survival, because they would survive, she would make sure of it, and he would not allow it to be any other way. He would work heroically to ensure that she was comfortable and content. To be sure, she would not call it survival, but thrival, not that this was a word, but it should be, because they had strived to thrive through many strife-riddled chapters of their joint existence. Nobody deserved success more than him, not after all those ups and downs and bends and twists that had taken them from riches to rags, to rags to riches, and now, it would seem, to rags once again. In this saga of victory and defeat, he had never once allowed himself a moment of peace, of amnesty from his latent insecurity, for his entire journey had been one of deprivation and scrupulous self-denial, and because, all along, he had feared this day would come. He had dreaded that he would lose everything all over again.

And now he had.

Bah! Doom and destiny had conspired to bring her son down, she was sure of it. Providence was wicked, and Mrs Thornton shook her fist at it in furious defiance!

Yes, today was her last day standing here. She had observed as all the men, women and children arrived in the morning, as usual, and much to their credit, they had gone about their tasks with as much energy and enterprise as they typically would, as if nothing was amiss, as if this day was not as ill-fated for them as it was for their employer. Mrs Thornton, who was not one to smile by nature, her features almost having forgotten how, struggled to fight the urge to break her stern expression, and so the slightest crease wrinkled the corner of her lips as she beheld the scene unfolding before her. There was a palpable sense of camaraderie in the air. Despite facing the loss of their livelihoods, and for some, the potential threat to their very lives if they failed to secure work soon, not a single grumble leaked from their lips. They showed up, they laboured diligently, and they remained steadfastly loyal to their master and the mill. Shouldering the weight of this sombre day collectively, they stood as one, akin to a tightly-knit family. Deep within, Mrs Thornton harboured a silent gratitude for their unwavering support. While she might not have required it herself, she understood its significance to him.

At any rate, the hours had passed, and, at length, the machines had slowed and stopped, their spinning subdued, their great roar snuffed.

With the drawn-out paces of threadbare shoes, the workers had trailed out, one by one, dragging their feet, demonstrating to the very last that they did not want to go. It was like a funeral procession, with their eyes cast to the ground, their shoulders drooped in depression, their shuffling unrushed and solemn, a chorus of a solemn hum coming from them.

And yet, there he had stayed to meet them, to face them, at the mill gates, tall and confident, as if nothing was different, as if today did not mark the end of an era. With an outstretched hand that grasped each weathered palm as an equal, he thanked every one of them for their service as he individually handed them a well-packed drawstring pouch with their wages, generously paying them until the end of the month, an extra three weeks, even though he had no obligation to do so, and the cost would come out of his own diminishing pocket. From her perch, Mrs Thornton, the maternal crow, had witnessed the exchange, a sea of grown men holding back their emotions and refusing to break down, even when Higgins, whom she had been greatly mistaken in, having proved himself an assiduous and reliable man, had imparted a piece of paper, a list of names of all the workers who would gladly return to serve under the former Master of Marlborough Mills if his fortunes should ever return.

Then they had left. And everything was silent. Everything was eerily empty.

The yard stood lifeless, a graveyard to industry, a burial ground for dead dreams.

She had lingered there a while longer, as if cemented in place, patiently waiting, mutely praying that she was mistaken, that all would be well, and she would blink and find it had all been a figment of her imagination, just a hideous nightmare. But no, the scene before her did not change. It was very much real, very much their reality.

Suppressing a snivel as a rogue droplet of water escaped her nose, for she was not one to give way to something as self-indulgent as sentiment, Mrs Thornton was about to return to her seat and pick up her sewing, but then a shadow flickered in the corner of her eye, and returning her eagle gaze to the yard, she spotted a figure making their way across it with rapid, determined strides.

John.

At first, she thought nothing of it as she watched him walk towards the outer stairs that led directly to his office. The mill may have closed, but there were doubtless a number of menacing papers that demanded his attention still, each one mocking him for his supposed failure, not that it was his failure, not he, not a man who had worked with ceaseless aptitude and integrity for years without demanding anything in return. But he would see it as a failure, and try as she might, wish as she may, she could not change that.

However, the detail which caused her to squint and mistrust her eyesight, was that he seemed to be dressed in his finest. Indeed, after weeks of appearing worryingly dishevelled with his grey pallor, rolled-up sleeves, dirtied shirt, hair that fell over his brows, unshaven jaw, and a general wearisome expression, each of these unfortunate points had been rectified, and he was, in essence, as handsome and impressive as he had ever been. Nevertheless, if this point alone was not enough to disconcert his mother, there was the additional and decidedly unusual fact that he was carrying with him a bottle of excellent champagne along with two glasses. Mrs Thornton had to think about this. This was an odd sight, indeed. It made little sense. It made no sense. Her son rarely drank, and what was even more peculiar, he detested champagne, he never touched the stuff.

Dwelling to deliberate on his strange behaviour, she sighed heavily. Ah, of course. He would be toasting to her, the mill. They had been through thick and thin together these seven years. She understood. He needed this. He needed to say farewell and good luck. To thank her for everything, to say sorry for having to let her go, and wish her well for a future in which they would no longer be partners, their fates once entwined, now severed by the saw of ruination. It was a miscarriage of justice, and she could not bear it, but accept it, she must, for his sake, if nothing else. Very well, she would leave him to it. She would leave him to his goodbyes and his grief.

In solitude, he gently closed the door, placing the glasses on the table with utmost care before pouring the champagne with meticulous precision, ensuring no drop was wasted. Acknowledging his weariness, his legs began to shake with exhaustion, and he felt sure he would collapse to the floor like a piece of crumpled paper. But he would not give in to his fatigue, not here, not now, not when he had something important to do, to see through. A surge of determination coursed through him as he gripped the table; he yearned to replenish his energy, to immerse himself completely in the impending moment.

Clutching both of the crystal flutes, he raised one to his lips while offering the other out to an invisible presence in silent tribute. After a brief pause, he tilted his head, supped and swallowed, letting the golden, fizzy liquid slip down his neck. He had hardly eaten or slept in weeks, so even a mere sip left him a touch giddy. Still, by God, it was refreshing. It had been a long day, and while it irritated him to admit it, he welcomed the Dutch courage.

And so, with a quiet resolve, he embraced his seclusion, allowing its quiet currents to guide him toward a sense of calm, quietly thankful that after months of feeling constantly harassed by a hassling horde of bankers, suppliers, customers, workers, and the other mill masters, he was at last alone, he was at last at liberty to do what he had impatiently awaited for what felt like an age.

Finally, the day, the hour, the moment had arrived.

Today was an occasion not for sorrow, but for celebration.

A bittersweet smile danced across his face as he softly murmured, 'Here's to her!'

Today marked her twenty-first birthday, a day he could not forget amidst all that had occurred, as his sense of security and self-reliance had toppled, and his world came crashing down around him.

Margaret: his beloved Margaret.

He had not forgotten her; how could he?

John had specifically chosen today to officially close the mill. It had been a most resolute decision. It was because he wanted to have something to rejoice in. When he looked back and remembered this day, one that would forever be tainted with regret and marred by humiliation, he did not want to focus on all the anguish and shame, but to feel a swell of joy in his heart to think that while his future lay in tatters, hers was taking flight. And, in an inexplicable way that was entirely irrational, he felt as if this was his gift to her.

He had wanted to give her so much, his all, his everything, but she had refused it (wise woman), and so he told himself that in his failure, he was giving up his achievements and prosperity to bequeath Margaret her happiness. It was all nonsense, of course, he had played no part in her emancipation from a dependant daughter, niece and cousin with no defined home or role of her own, to an independent heiress and woman who could, at last, take control of her own life, a life that had until now been dictated by the wants of others. Yet, he had been prevented from giving her any real present, as both hardship and impropriety prohibited it, so he told himself that he had struck a final deal as a businessman, and had made a contract with fate, offering himself up for her sake. It was a straight-up trade. His future for hers, and he somehow liked the poetry of that, because, after all, had she not accused him of being heartless? Of being able to care for nothing other than buying and selling?

Ha! The truth of her words was deplorably ironic.

But this changed nothing.

His pride for her was immense. She had shown remarkable strength, and now, as a woman of means and maturity, she possessed an unstoppable spirit. He had tormented himself with the idea of going to London to see her, only to dismiss it as folly. Would she refuse to see him? Or worse: would she even remember him after a year? Could her time in Milton have faded into a distant, inconsequential memory, one that she would rather forget?

The notion of her looking upon him with disdain, or harsher still, indifference, weighed heavily on his vulnerable soul. He could not stomach the thought of believing he meant nothing to her while she meant everything to him. And the mere suggestion of seeking her out for financial assistance wounded his pride deeply. He couldn't stoop to that level, especially in her eyes—a worthless, bankrupt manufacturer, once regarded as a tyrant.

Though she would readily aid his workers, she might hesitate when it came to him. He couldn't bear the idea of her viewing him as anything less than the man he once was—a man who, despite his faults, held her in the highest regard, even if just from a distance.

How right she had been not to accept him almost two years ago. Had she already known what he had not? That he was destined for failure? That his self-assurance, his ego, would fall and fracture into smithereens? Perhaps she had. If they had been married now, possibly even with children, he would not have been able to provide for them as he ought. Margaret had never been a vain woman who wanted all that was gold, all that glittered, but even he could see that she would have lamented at their unexpected privation, thinking, for the rest of her days, how much better she could have done if only she had been bold enough to refuse him.

He pondered her whereabouts now, imagining her revelling in her newfound sovereignty with family, friends, and perhaps even a fiancé—though the thought soured his expression momentarily.

No, there was no use scowling over such things. Jealousy had no right to be aggrieved.

No, she was lost to him now.

No, he was nothing to her. He could give her nothing.

No, she deserved better than him.

Should he have gone to her?

No.

Would she have wanted to see him?

Never.

Did they stand a chance of ever being together?

No. Never.

At that moment, the door creaked open, and Williams, the steadfast foreman, cautiously peeked his head around the frame, well aware of the master's fluctuating temperament of late.

'There's a visitor for you,' he announced, his voice tinged with a hint of uncertainty.

'Business or personal?' John asked crossly, annoyed at being interrupted, especially when there was nothing to be done now to salvage his position.

'Both, they say,' Williams answered.

John stopped.

They? He had not said "he."

As Williams swung the door open wider and stepped further into the room, John's gaze caught the subtle outline of a brown hat behind its concealing structure, and, all at once, an overpowering deluge of hope flooded from his core.

'She's right determined, she won't be dissuaded,' said Williams with raised brows, and John felt a spark of hope ignite in his heart.

'She says you cannot refuse to see her,' the foreman added.

'How so?' John pressed, breathless with suspense, shaking from head-to-toe in anticipation.

Here Williams offered a knowing grin, 'She says it's her birthday.'

I meant to have this story out a month ago so I could celebrate Margaret's 21st birthday along with my 31st, but never mind. Anyway, here's to Margaret, our beloved heroine—here's to her!

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