-PROLOGUE-
Margaret Hale watched the wall clock with growing impatience.
She was seated in the office of Mr Thornton, waiting to meet him. After showing her into the room, Williams, his overseer, had gone off in search of his master. That was fifteen minutes ago.
She had passed the time by gazing out of the large window overlooking the mill-yard. Below was a strange choreography of chaos and cotton. The air was filled with the roar and clanking of machines and everywhere men were pushing wagons that bore cotton in the raw form as well as the woven form in bales of calico. Their energetic, unceasing motion was a dizzying sight to behold.
Everything was so very different from what she was used to. Ever since her father had announced his decision to leave the church and move to Milton, she had felt as if a great weight had been suddenly thrown upon her shoulders. Every day had brought some urgent question that needed to be settled. Her father, overcome with grief and fatigue, had left the arrangement of the moving and packing to her.
Her father and she had arrived in Milton two days ago. She had read all that she could find about the city to prepare herself. Milton was England's first industrial city, the economic and trade center of the North and the hotbed of radical politics. But the reality of the place had grotesquely exceeded her imagination. Milton was a busy, crowded, smoky, loud, sprawling city. The people and scenes were so different that Helstone in comparison began to acquire an almost dream-like, mythical quality in her mind.
Her first two days were spent being jolted and jostled as she and her father searched for a house to rent. So far they had not met with any success. Thirty pounds was a year was all they could afford to give. In Hampshire, they could have found a spacious house with a pleasant garden for the money. But here, a house in a decent neighbourhood with simple and comfortable rooms seemed unattainable. To make matters urgent, the cost of their stay at the Clarendon hotel was more than her father had anticipated and it had become necessary that they find and finalise a house within the day.
This morning Margaret had insisted that their house-hunting would proceed faster if they go separately. Before setting out, she had marked out eight houses that were advertised in the Milton Times. By afternoon she had gone through seven houses, rejecting each one of them after visiting it. The house in Crampton was the last. To her immense relief, the rooms were just the right size and, if they converted one of the sitting rooms into a bedroom, the right number. Unfortunately, there wasn't much to be done about the horrid wallpaper or the heavy cornice.
She had been surveying the upper floors when she met Williams. Not only had she caught him speculating about the reason behind their removal to Milton but she had also found him unwilling to share the details of the house and rent with her.
What about other houses? Mr Thornton thinks this house will do well for them.
Can she speak with the landlord? Mr Thornton will speak with the man.
How much is the rent? Mr Thornton will discuss with her father. She need not concern herself with money matters.
She had instructed an astonished Williams to take her to meet Mr Thornton. If William won't deal with her, she would rather deal directly with his Mr Thornton.
And so here she was, in his office. But there was no sign of the man.
Turning away from the noise and movement of the yard below, she scanned the office, trying to glean what she could of its absent owner. A large, heavy desk, fitted with drawers, dominated the centre of the room. The surface was covered with letters of business, financial papers, files, business cards and writing equipment. A large table lamp sat on the right-hand side of the desk indicating that this was a man who worked late into the evening. The shelf on the far wall held ledgers and account books. Nothing out of the ordinary. The only article of interest was an architectural plan of the mill that was pinned down to a high table. On the margins, dimensions and notes were written in a bold but careful hand.
She studied the plan for a few minutes before moving away. She considered leaving. It wasn't merely that she had been made to wait for unacceptably long but she was losing precious time.
She looked at the clock a third time. Twenty minutes.
Margaret stood up and headed toward the door. However, before she reached it, the door swung open and a man strode in.
Margaret found herself facing a tall, broad-shouldered man with hair as black as the night and the most startling pair of blue eyes. He looked to be about thirty, with sharp, regal features and an aquiline nose. He was immaculately, if somewhat severely, dressed. The crisp white of his shirt contrasted sharply with the black cravat and the long legs of his dark trousers brushed the tops of his polished shoes. The fine wool of his dark coat stretched over his wide shoulders, hinting at the power beneath.
Their gazes were locked in a fascinated stare and much to her horror, she found that she couldn't tear her eyes from his.
"Miss Hale," he spoke, when it became clear that her words would not come.
His voice was deep and rich. She was acutely aware of the hot colour that washed her cheeks and she instinctively sought to regain control of the situation.
"I have been waiting here for some time," she stated. It was imperative to her that he understood that she was neither intimidated nor to be taken for granted.
"I wasn't expecting you—or anyone. I'm on my daily rounds at this hour."
She was momentarily taken aback. A London gentleman would have apologised but then a London gentleman would not have kept a lady waiting in the first place. She studied the man before her. He was clearly in the habits of authority. He would not allow her any kind of advantage over him because of an unintentional inconvenience.
"Your man left me with no choice but to intrude on your schedule," she said. She saw what might have been a flicker of admiration, but it was instantly gone. She continued, "I came to inquire about the house in Crampton."
"The one on Canute Street?" he asked.
"Yes."
He paused a moment. "Are you certain?"
"Your man said you believed the house to be suitable," she pointed out.
"That was before," he said. He paused just long enough to make the statement noticeable but not long enough for her to ponder it. "There are better houses that I can—"
"I thank you but that will not be necessary," Margaret interrupted.
He narrowed a perceptive gaze on her and as disconcerting as the gaze was, Margaret knew the exact moment when he realised that the house was the best they could afford. It was mortifying that this man should know about their reduced circumstances.
"How much is the rent?" she asked, eager to bypass her embarrassment.
"Thirty pounds a year," he replied carefully.
"Very well," she said briskly, masking her relief. "Will Mr . . ." she paused to consult the advertisement in the newspaper for the name of the landlord.
"Donkin," he supplied the name.
She lifted her head from the paper. "Would Mr Donkin be willing to make the necessary repairs and change the papers?" she asked.
"The papers?"
"Pink and blue roses with yellow leaves," she described the atrocity.
"I see," he said, a hint of amusement glinting in his eyes. "The decorations are often at the landlord's discretion I'm afraid."
"Well." She would simply have to hide the paper with some of her water colours. "Then I must insist on the repairs."
"Of course," he granted.
She looked at him blankly for a moment, before realising that there nothing further to discuss with him and all that remained was for her father to settle the matter with the landlord.
"Thank you for your trouble, Mr Thornton," she said as she made to move.
"It was no trouble," he said easily and held out his hand.
Her startled gaze moved from his outstretched hand to his face. She had heard about the rather modern customs of Northern societies but she had not expected that she would be required to adopt them so soon.
He seemed to realise that the gesture had caught her by surprise but he did not withdraw his hand. The subtle challenge propelled her into action. Taking a step forward and with a confidence she did not feel, she placed her hand in his.
His warm fingers closed around her hand.
"Miss Hale," he said, giving her hand a gentle shake.
Tugging her hand free, she managed a quick, "Mr Thornton," and stepped out of his office.
As she navigated her way through the workers and the carts, she turned around and looked up at the window. Their eyes met with startling directness. She swiftly turned away and walked out of the mill.
She consoled herself with the thought that it was unlikely that she would ever cross paths again with this man. They belonged in separate worlds. And even if they did meet again, she would have nothing to do with him, she vowed—little knowing that this one brief visit would alter her life forever.
