THE NEWS

(The Thornton Tales)


MRS SHAW

The page is filled with scratches, crossed-out words, and unfinished lines.
Ink spills over, as though the writer's thoughts cannot be contained. It is horribly, hideously messy, and she loathes to see such disarray! But this is a most hideous day! So on, she writes.

I cannot bear it!
I simply cannot bear it.
Margaret—our Margaret—
She is to marry him,
That—that tradesman!
A northern brute!
Uneducated, uncouth, a hawker.
Not even a gentleman—
But a man of commerce, of business,
A grubby one, at that.
A man who smells of oil and grime,
A man who thinks himself equal to my dear niece—
Oh, but I cannot finish this thought.

She strikes through the words angrily,
Her pen trembling,
Hovering over the paper,
Trying to settle upon the right words,
But failing.

She rubs at her brow.

Where are the smelling salts?

Oh! How can she only write her feelings in poetry when she is most agitated?

My poor sister—
What will she say from heaven?
What would she say if she were still here?
It would kill her again, for sure.
She will never know. She cannot know.
It is too distressing to think—

Margaret, my sweet niece,
Born in Helstone, raised here in London,
Under my watchful eye.
She is to leave us.
What did I do wrong?

I did my best by her, with God as my witness, I did my best.
Soon, she will be swept away
To that dreadful northern town—
Milton: That is its unattractive name,
As if it deserves the name of a poet.
A mire where there is nothing but industry's stench,
Where the poor and the proper sort mix in the streets.
And men like him,
Sweating, shouting—
I will never understand it.

She begins again,
Trying to compose herself,
But the words tumble out,
Disordered, unchained.

Oh, Margaret,
Why? Why him?
Your mother would have—
She would have been horrified.
Horrified.
She will think I have let you down.
How could you?
You were born to more than this—
More than a life spent in dust and clatter.
Dirt-ridden urchins scuttling about your yard.
And the factory bells—
They will pierce the air.

You will have no peace.

You will go mad.
And what then?
What will you do then, Margaret?

The page is torn at the edges,
Ink soaked through in frustration.

She will be tied to him,

His property.
Unable to flee.
She will be lost to that place.

But then…
She never fit in here, did she?
Margaret, that wild, wilful girl.
She reads too many books.
Her mind filled with worldly nonsense.
So different from the rest of us.
She never cared for the city,
For our London life,
Never liked the drawing rooms,
The languid afternoons, the refined walks.
She was always out of place,
Chasing some fanciful notion,
A girlish romance,
Some great adventure,
Some unknown fate.

And now she has it—
Her own fate, her own life—
But at what cost?

The pen slips from her hand,

Sending an objectionable squiggle across the blotted page.
She bites her lip, staring at the paper,
Waiting for the words to come,
But they do not.

Oh, how I tried to stop her.
How I begged her—
I begged!
But she will not listen.
Her mind is made up,
Like a stubborn child,

Like her poor Mamma,
Her heart set on a foolish dream.
She will not see reason.
She will not see the truth.
I will never understand it.
That place—Milton—is hell.
The streets clogged with soot,
The sky sickly with smoke and steam,
The very sky is grey,
And everything is loud.
So loud.

And now she is to live there,
Raise children there.
There!
Among men who never look up from their work,
Men who think of nothing but the next day's wages,
Their business, their factories, their smoke.
And she—she will be his wife.
A wife to that man,
That... tradesman.

To think the daughter of a Beresford will marry into trade.

How will she endure the disgrace?
I cannot make sense of it.
She will waste her money,
Her youth,
Her... her life.
For what? A dream of nothing.

She halts.

Out of breath.

Hands shaking.

Heart racing.

Sickness rising.

Tears welling.

I cannot—
I cannot bear it.
But off she must go,
Off to face the consequences of her obstinate error,
Off to a life that will only drown her.

Well, just like my poor sister,
I must sit back and watch
While she makes the ultimate, unsalvageable mistake,
By tethering herself to an unsuitable man.
Oh, well.
She has made her bed, I suppose.

Good luck to her!


MRS WATSON

Monday, 22nd May, 1855

I am sorry I have neglected you, my one, true friend. It is been so long since I have written to you, my dearest diary. So much has happened, and yet, I have been so consumed with being a wife and leading lady of Milton—and I have put you aside, as I thought a woman, a married woman, too mature to need one. But today, I just could not help myself. I must write. It feels so good to hold my pen again, and I do miss the comfort of it. I used to write in you, to you, all the time when I was younger. Do you remember? There were so many things I could not talk about with Mother or John—well, especially with John, who always thought me silly. Writing down my thoughts helped me feel less alone.

But now, I am married, and my life should be full— or so I thought. Today, however, my mind is a whirlwind, more tangled with thoughts than ever before. I find myself at a loss for words— me! The one who has never been without them. That shows you how shocking and scandalous this news is. I cannot wait to tell you!

John, my brother, is to be married. John! Oh, I can hardly wrap my mind around it. I have always thought of him as so serious, so dull—like an old stick in the mud, always wrapped up in his work and his thoughts. He has hardly ever given us the slightest reason to think of him as anything but sensible and severe. He was, to my mind, unchanging. And now... now he is to marry.

But, wait for it—he is not marrying Ann Latimer, the girl everyone thought he would. That would make sense. I would even be pleased by this association. No, he is marrying Margaret Hale. Of all the plain, hoity-toity creatures, he has chosen her. I can hardly believe it! When did this happen? How did it happen?

I am so confused, I can hardly keep my thoughts in order. It is all happening so quickly. Margaret Hale! I suppose I must start calling her Margaret now—after all, she will soon be my sister-in-law. It sounds strange to think of her as such. How will she fit in here, with us? I cannot imagine she will be much fun to have around. She strikes me as painfully grave—certainly not the sort of person who would want to go shopping with. She reminds me of my mamma, all scrupulousness! Neither of them can tell a joke or take one. And neither shares my love for music. Such dull ducks. They will get along, I am sure.

I am in such a fluster over it all.

But then again, perhaps I am being too harsh. Perhaps I did see this coming. I did notice the way John looked at her, though I am sure no one else did. People think me silly, but I am not blind. There was something between them, something in the way he became all nervous around her, and I think she must have been aware of it too. John is always the master in the room, but with her, he was like a schoolboy in trouble. It was quite funny seeing him so uncomfortable. She was good at toppling him from his throne. And I saw the way he was after she left Milton. Watson said it was because the mill was struggling, but I knew it was because of her. He missed her. So he will surely be happy now that she back and she is to be his. Then again, John, happy? I cannot imagine such a thing. Reasonably content and satisfied, I can picture, but not happy. But then, maybe she is his idea of happiness. Like a new hat is to me. Still, I never thought it would come to this. I never thought that my boring brother would marry at all, but especially someone so foreign to Milton. But perhaps Margaret will be just right for him. They are both so earnest. Neither likes society. They shall not seek out parties or drink champagne. And they do not gossip. Then again, they have been the source of so much gossip themselves. I suppose they will suit each other. Neither of them has ever shown much of a spark, so perhaps it is for the best that they have both chosen someone equally tiresome to marry.

I suppose I should not complain. I am not marrying her, after all, and it could be worse. Margaret could be worse. I just wish—oh, how I wish—she could wear something a bit more fashionable! I have only seen her in those gloomy dresses, never anything that catches the eye. Yet, that green gown was striking, I must admit. I am sure she wore it to capture John's attention that night, and it worked. He could hardly keep his eyes off her, though he feigned disinterest. Oh, but if only I could help her with her attire! How absurd that she should not have all that money, I do hope she spends it properly on the right finery. I could guide her. She could look so much better if she just let me help her—if she would let me improve her. She is not ugly, after all. She is rather pretty, in a country sort of way. But I suppose that is not important, is it? What is more important is that John is happy. He deserves happiness. Even I can admit that. I have not forgotten our misfortunes. Of how we lost everything, and he did everything to keep me safe and made sure I never went without anything my heart desired. He is bleak and boring, yes, but he is a good brother. He looks after his own. So it is time he had a wife who looked after him.

So, I will just have to resign myself to the fact that my life is about to change again. And as much as I may fuss and fidget, I suppose I will have to accept Margaret as my sister-in-law. At least she has not been completely dreadful, and she is not unkind. So, who knows? Perhaps I will grow to like her more in time. I might even learn something from her, though I doubt it.

But for now, I am left to ponder how on earth I can ever get her to wear more fashionable clothes. And I must destroy that horrid brown hat!

Until tomorrow,
Fanny


MRS LENNOX

My Darling Max,

I hope this letter finds you well, despite the reason for your absence. How I wish I were by your side in Scotland to offer what little comfort I can while your uncle ails. But alas, as you know, I am confined here, still somewhat unwell, and with the added condition of our little one growing inside me, I find myself often fatigued, much to my dismay. Oh, how I wish I were feeling more energetic! But then again, I can never quite seem to keep up with everything—too many things to think about, too many things to do! Only yesterday, I had to have a stern word with Cook and Nanny. The life of a wife and mother is truly exhausting, but I bear it with the grace my sex must.

Oh, my dearest, I do hope you will forgive the state of this letter—my hand trembles terribly, as my heart is full to bursting, and I can hardly control the flow of my emotions. I feel as though I must tell you at once, before my thoughts trip over one another's skirts and become too muddled. And do excuse the excess of exclamation marks, it is quite startling, I know. But once you read this, you will understand the to-do. How could I not let my excitement (and confusion!) spill onto the page?

Margaret! Yes, you read that correctly—Margaret has agreed to marry Mr Thornton, and they will soon be returning to Milton. I can hardly believe it! One moment, she was set to stay here, with me, a constant companion, and now she is to become a wife. Not the old maid we once feared she might be, after all. It feels like such a change, such a swift passage of time, that I scarcely know how to comprehend it.

I should be happy, of course—I am happy for her. Who would not be? She is the kindest angel that ever was, and she deserves to have the same joy and security I have found in our life together. But, Max, my love, there is a part of me that feels quite wretchedly sad. For you see, Margaret has been such a solace to me, particularly with dear little Sholto. She has been so good to him—he adores her, and she, with her natural way with children, has made him laugh in a way I have never seen before. She always seems to know what is wrong with him and puts Nanny to shame. And as for me, well, I love her like a sister. It is hard, very hard, to think of her leaving.

As for Mr Thornton—well, I confess he is wonderfully dashing. I have finally met him, and while he is certainly a man to look at, his manner is so very different from yours. There is something fierce about him, something intense, almost to the point of being a little unsettling. There is a blaze behind his eyes, cold and hot all at once. You should see the way he looks at Margaret with those eyes. So adoring. I can see that he worships her beyond words. He is devoted to her, of that, I am sure. Then again, darling, no one could compare to you. You, with your steady calmness, your kind, gentle nature—you are my world. There is no blaze in you, but there is no need for it. Your mildness is a warmth that never falters, and that is what I love most about you. That and the way you dance so beautifully.

How I wish, oh, how I wish that Margaret had fallen in love with your dear brother, Henry. I could have seen them together—he is such a fine man, after all, and I know how much he cares for her. And she could have lived here, in London, or we could all have lived in one big house. It would have been perfect. But alas, it was not to be, was it? I see now that they were never meant to be. There is no passion in Henry—not the sort Margaret needs. And that, I think, is what draws her to Mr Thornton, despite his undesirable qualities. His being in trade, his rough ways—it all makes mother livid! She can hardly bear the thought of it. But, my dearest, there is something about Mr Thornton—a fire in him, a spirit that Henry simply does not have—a soul that matches Margaret's own. She is no ordinary person, I have always known that, and so she cannot be expected to marry an ordinary man.

I know I must sound silly in all this, and I hardly know why I feel so conflicted. But I cannot help it. My heart is full, and it is a strange, confusing feeling to be torn between joy for Margaret's happiness and sorrow that she is leaving me. Milton, too, feels so far removed from everything I know—such a harsh, strange place. I cannot quite understand why she feels so drawn to it. But, of course, it is her life, and she must follow her own path. If Mr Thornton is anything like you, my darling Max, then Margaret will be the luckiest woman alive.

I shall stop my rambling now, though I could go on for hours! Oh, how I do go on sometimes! Please know that you are ever in my thoughts, and I long for the moment when we are reunited. Margaret's newfound happiness has only reminded me of my own, and I cannot wait to have you home. Love is everything, after all.

With all my love,
Your Edith


MRS THORNTON

(Note: Hannah: Mrs George Thornton, for there will soon be two).

I sit before the mirror in my bedroom, my hands trembling as they hover over the polished surface of the vanity. I hate the word vanity, since I have never been vain. I have not had the time for the vanity to be vain.

Still, my finger lingers. The silver frame catches the last gleam of daylight, its pale light dancing across the glass. But I do not see my own reflection. I see only the storm in my mind—sharp, chaotic, unfocused. My thoughts whirl about me like dust motes in a darkened room, ever-present yet impossible to grasp.

The telegram came this morning. It was brief, as telegrams are, but its message was clear: the mill is saved. John's tireless efforts have secured its future. I knew he could do it. I never lost faith in him. And yet—though the relief should flood me, though I should feel nothing but gratitude and pride—I find myself gripped by a cold, unsettling dread. The mill is saved, but at what price?

Margaret Hale. I gulp. Margaret Hale is to be the new Mrs Thornton. She is to marry my son, John. My son, who I raised, loved, protected, who has always been mine in ways that no other could claim. And now, he is to belong to her. She is to take him from me.

I cannot fathom how this has happened. I thought I knew my son, or at least I thought I knew what he needed. John has always been a man of purpose, of direction, dedication, and self-denial—but this?

The question that haunts me: Has she bought him? The thought is repugnant to me, something I would never wish to entertain, but it creeps in nonetheless. Did she lure him with promises of wealth, of status? Did he feel that he had no choice but to marry her, to secure both his future and the future of the mill? But no. No, I cannot believe that.

He has always loved her, even when she had nothing. I remember it well—the way he looked at her, with such longing, such hope. The way he talked of her—the pining, the pain, the passion. He has never once cared for her wealth. Perhaps it was always her, from the very beginning. Perhaps, despite everything, he was destined to choose her. I have known for some time, ever since I first met her, ever since he first mentioned her, that it would happen. She was the one. She was the one for him. She was so startlingly perfect for him. So much so that I refused to accept it. But still, I pushed it aside. And now, fate has wielded its will.

But will she be enough for him? Will she accept the ceaseless demands of the mill, of Milton, of his heart?

And what of me? What will become of me in all of this? It feels so selfish to ask, I know, but surely I have the right to question. I have no other place in this world. What if I am simply left behind, like an old, forgotten portrait gathering dust in the corner of a room—once cherished, now faded and irrelevant, no longer needed, no longer wanted? The thought of it twists inside me.

For so long, I have been the mistress of this house, the first woman in John's affections. Will I now be nothing but a shadow, lingering in the background, ignored and forgotten? The thought is too much to bear.

But deep down, buried beneath the hurt, beneath the fear, I know that this is what must be. I cannot fight against it. John has chosen her, Margaret, with all her strength, with all her love for him. There is no question in her eyes when she looks at him; it is a love as fierce as his own. And that, I know, is enough.

So, I will trust in their love. I will place my faith in it, even as my own heart trembles with uncertainty. I will carry on, for them, for him. I must believe that she will be a good daughter to me, so I must do my best my her.

I take up my pen, and with trembling hand, I begin writing the advertisement for tomorrow's paper:

An Announcement of Immense import:

Marlborough Mills to reopen under its former master.

Followed by the marriage of John George Thornton of Milton to Margaret Maria Hale of…

Where did Margaret belong?

Now I see it. Now I realise. Here. She belongs here. With us. For all her faults, Margaret is made of Milton's mettle. She is strong. She is fierce. She is determined. She is independent. She is made to be a Milton woman. I saw that when she came to the empty mill, she was looking for him. She was not just a landlord looking over the carcass of a man's hopes and dreams, a shell she could exploit. She was not just searching for him; she was searching for home, and she found it, here, with him. She wants to be here. She wants him. Truly. Completely. So, perhaps, that is why she was destined to fall in love with the greatest son Milton has ever known.

And as I write, I pray. I pray for their happiness, for their love to endure and grow. I pray that, in time, I will find my place again—somewhere beside them, a part of their life, a part of their love. So, good luck to them, and may God bless them. I truly wish them all the joy in the world. My boy deserves nothing less, after all he has endured. And if Margaret is the one who can bring him that happiness, then who am I to argue?