Margaret of the North (2 page)

When her father passed away,
Margaret had no choice but to return to London.  There, with no demands on her
for help and compassion, she had time for reflection, for looking inward and
searching her soul, for acquiring wisdom and growing.  She found it sadly
ironic that it was the loss of people who needed her that allowed her that
indulgence, impossible in Milton.  Gradually, inevitably, solitary reflection
replaced months of grieving for her parents and everyone she had known who
could no longer abide the miseries wrought by poverty.

Margaret saw her life in Milton
as sorrow couched in many guises—sorrow from death of loved ones, of friends,
of strangers who touched her life; sorrow from witnessing desperation and
neediness; sorrow from losing a genuine chance at happiness through ignorance
and pride.  In the end, she had to accept that much of it was beyond her
capability to change, particularly with regards to the passing of loved ones
and others whose miseries began long before she knew them.  For that, she could
only grieve and let the course of healing take as much time as it needed.  Her
heart was a slightly different matter.  She did gain a clearer understanding of
her desires.  But she also realized she was left with only regrets at losing
the person who had become dearest to her and she could only resign herself to
it.  It was a disconcerting, sobering insight that taught her to be wary of her
own arrogance and less complacent about assuming she knew herself well.

Not everything concluded sadly in
Margaret's soul-searching.  It led her, as well, to one of those life-changing
epiphanies: She was of age and free to take control of her future.  The
prospect of having to secure employment, should the small allowance she
inherited from her parents be inadequate, never intimidated her.  In working,
she believed she could find more satisfaction than she did from whiling away her
hours in her cousin's endless dinner parties and card games, as pleasant as
they were.  Then, a considerable, unforeseen legacy from Mr. Bell made that
epiphany more intoxicating.

She realized that becoming a
woman of means multiplied her choices and she could do exactly as she pleased. 
Were she inclined to, she could choose a life of independence, even solitude,
or move to Spain to be near her brother and live ruled only by her conscience. 
Who knew, she thought with a mischievous smile, if in that more permissive
country, she might meet some tall ardent Latin lover.  She had surmised that
Henry Lennox, an old friend she felt at ease with, was just waiting to renew
his proposal.  As fond as she had lately grown of him, she did not love him and
could not persuade herself to marry merely for companionship or mutual benefit.

A few months into living within
that new level of serenity and a mere couple days before her life took on its
present turn, Margaret heard from Henry of the financial troubles at Marlborough
Mills.  That night, she was extremely restless, staying up nearly half the
night agonizing whether she must do something.  Although the ease with which
her fortune grew might have bothered her conscience enough to induce her to
directly help the families of workers out of a job, she could admit to herself,
at least, that it was Mr. Thornton's misfortune that she was most anxious to
relieve.  It seemed logical to her that an offer of a loan to keep his business
going was the best way to help others, in any case.  After all, he could give
employment to many.  But she was sensitive of his pride and painfully cognizant
that he could refuse to have any extensive dealings with her.  So, she thought
that someone in the profession like Henry must explain the proposition so that
it would neither offend nor make Mr. Thornton feel obliged to her.

The following day, she had a long
discussion with Henry on how she could help restore Marlborough Mills into
operation, reminding him that she was its landlord and keeping it going was in
her best interests.  Henry needed no convincing: the investment was a wise
move, certain to earn her a higher interest than the bank could give her, and
he was confident the business could only succeed.

Two days after learning about the
sad fate of Marlborough Mills, Margaret and Henry had taken an early train to
Milton, arriving there late morning.  Though Henry understood that they were
there on business, Margaret also wished, secretly, for a proper moment when, as
seamlessly as she could, she would let Mr. Thornton know that she had a
brother.  She would tell him casually that this brother came to Milton when her
mother had been ill but that his presence was concealed because his life was in
danger.  She was certain that Mr. Thornton—in whose fairness she had complete
faith—would judge her more charitably once he realized that, in lying to the
police, he was protecting her brother.  Regaining his good opinion was
essential to her peace of mind.  If she had hoped for anything more, she did not
deign articulate it to herself.

Despite her assumption that Mr.
Thornton thought badly of her after catching her at a lie, Margaret wondered
anyway whether—behind his inscrutable stare on the day they stood in front of
each other bidding farewell, never to see each other again—there lurked a
lingering regard for her that he could not conceal completely.  In London, in
the luxury of dull but carefree existence, solitude and reflection, the deep
recesses of her heart nurtured a sliver of hope.  Even as her mind accepted
that regret was all that remained for her, she still secretly wished to put a
spark to that regard once again.

From the train station, Margaret
visited the mill alone.  Henry, in less than good humor, went to a hotel
restaurant for a late breakfast after she agreed that, if she saw Mr. Thornton,
she would arrange a business meeting for the afternoon.  She was grateful for
the solitary walk.  It allowed her time to think and compose herself.  The mill
was quiet and empty, more desolate than she remembered nearly two years ago
when the machines stopped during the workers' strike.  She walked around the
mill lost in thought and deeply saddened.  It seemed to her that cobwebs and
dust were already taking over the place, untouched since the day the machines
stopped permanently just a few days ago.  How strange to see this mill,
bustling with a life of its own when she last saw it, now so still and bled of
its vibrancy.  She found the stillness unnatural and disturbing, so different
from the peaceful stillness that wrapped itself around her as she sat on the
beach, staring out at an ocean so tranquil that it soothed her spirit.  At that
time, she had been bruised, restless, and numb from all that she had suffered
and lost.

Absorbed in her reverie and the
stillness of the unfortunate mill, Margaret was jolted by a familiar but
distant voice, more disapproving than she could remember.  She turned in the
direction of the voice to find Mrs. Thornton glaring at her, chin held high and
eyes narrowed.  Mrs. Thornton approached her, spitting out bitter words
accusing her of coming to revel and mock John in his misfortune.  Unfazed,
Margaret answered in a manner calm and conciliatory, admitting she had been
wrong about John.  But in a hushed voice, she also lamented the fate of the
mill with such tremulous sincerity that it mollified Mrs. Thornton.  Deeply
worried and helpless, Mrs. Thornton confessed that she had not seen John since
the night before and that nobody knew where he was except that he was nowhere in
Milton.  It was the first time Margaret saw a vulnerable side to this strong
steely matriarch and she reached out to her in sympathy.  But Mrs. Thornton
turned away shaking her head, too proud or too angry to receive assurances from
someone she blamed no less bitterly as she did the rest of the world for her
son's unhappiness.

Margaret, acutely conscious of an
aching disappointment at not seeing John Thornton, walked back to the hotel
lobby.  There, she told Henry, her voice steady and seemingly unconcerned, that
Mr. Thornton was nowhere to be found.  They had to return to London, having
accomplished nothing.  He merely nodded, silent and annoyed.  They took the
train back to London immediately after and did not talk much.  He concentrated
on the journal he was reading and she stared absentmindedly at the
swiftly-changing landscape to mask her dejection.  The silence between them was
precisely what she needed to reclaim that state of resignation she thought she
had already achieved these last few months.

When the southbound London train
stopped for a few minutes to wait for and allow a train to Milton to pass,
Margaret decided to get off.  She wanted to snatch a few moments of respite
from Henry who had assumed an extraordinary interest in a Milton newspaper to
disguise his irritation that he had lost precious time on the trip.  She had
just descended from her train when the northbound train pulled in, clanging,
squealing, and hissing smoke.  She watched it slow down without much interest
until a familiar face in one compartment made her heart leap and her eyes
brighten.

John Thornton was lost in
thought, deaf to the clattering and rattling of metal and heedless of the
purposeful rushing of bodies on the platform.  His compartment came to a halt
directly across from where Margaret stood, mesmerized, unable to take her eyes
off him.  The sight of him awakened her spirits, now soaring out of the void it
had been in since she boarded the train back to London a mere two hours
before.  She surrendered to her sentiments, to secret wishes that she now
admitted she had had since leaving Milton a year ago.  With that admission, she
felt as if she had taken wings, broken free of self-imposed shackles created
and sustained by many months of hopeless misapprehensions.  The likelihood that
Mr. Thornton might no longer love her did not occur to her, at that instant. 
When it finally did moments later, the excitement of seeing him again and her
full acceptance of her own desires prevailed, suppressing the inevitable
dejection that could come from coldly facing reality.  She approached his
train, her cheeks flushed and her heart racing, insensible of the bustle around
her.  She did not want to take her eyes off him, willing him to raise his so he
could see her standing on the platform.

Still deep in thought and unaware
of her presence, John reached for the door.  But he stopped, perhaps finally
drawn by her intent gaze to raise his head slowly, deliberately.  He was met
with glistening eyes, a wistful half-smile on slightly parted lips and a face
that was radiant with joy.  For a moment or two, John stared at her without
moving a muscle, a mixture of disbelief and hope in his eyes.  Then, he broke
slowly into a smile and stepped off the train unhurriedly, his eyes fixed on
hers as he approached her, in what seemed like measured steps.  Margaret could
not hide from him how she felt then even if she wanted to.  Her face was
burning, her breathing coming almost in gasps from the pleasant agitation that
threatened to burst out of her bosom as he came nearer.  He did not take his
eyes off her and the tender smile lingered in his eyes and on his lips as he
stood before her.  She wondered if he was relishing the truth she wore nakedly
on her countenance.

Margaret alternated breathlessly
between looking straight at John and casting her eyes downward.  She muttered
that she was in Milton that morning and he responded with the wonderful,
surprising confession that he had just been to Helstone.  She was trembling
inside when he pulled out of the left pocket of his vest a yellow rose that she
recognized so well.  She could not look at him when he handed it to her like an
offering, bearer of the deep feelings he wore in his eyes and his smile as he
gazed at her.  She glanced up at him but dropped her lids to veil her luminous
eyes.  He still loved her, she thought with incredulity.

She was confused, uncertain about
what to do next.  She found herself explaining the business proposition that
had been her avowed purpose for going to Milton that morning.  But she doubted
that he heard much of what she said.  He gazed at her lovingly—with amused
fascination, she thought—while she flustered, blushed and rushed, through the
plan she had rehearsed in her mind.  When, finally, his lips touched hers for
the first time, it was as if a delicate wisp of down, warmed by his breath,
alighted on her lips.  She was amazed that this man, who could be fierce in his
anger and cutting with his words when provoked, had such a gentle side to him. 
He kissed her again, a little more intently, and she had instinctively lifted
her face up, parted her lips and returned each kiss, oblivious that they were
on the platform of a very busy train station.

The announcement of the departure
of the London train intruded into the world in which they were momentarily
alone together.  She sprung to her feet.  Surprised, he followed her figure
with his eyes as she hurried away from him and towards Henry Lennox.  His
spirits sank for a couple of very long minutes.  But she had formed her resolve
by then and moved purposefully towards the London train to retrieve her
valise. 

****************

John scanned the passing
landscape, growing grayer from smoke spewing out of factories farther into the
city.  Stone buildings were also gradually clustering closer and he knew they
were less than half an hour away from the Milton terminal.  He smiled to
himself.  He was nearly home and, amazingly, Margaret was with him.  Was it
only the day before that he had talked to Nicholas Higgins who told him about a
brother of Margaret's, who visited in secret when Mrs. Hale was dying?  Astute,
sympathetic Higgins had seen through him and, in seeming innocence, let him
know the very fact he needed to lift his spirits and lighten the burden of
losing the mill.

In the stillness of his room that
night, he mulled over a suspicion, obscure until then, that before Margaret
left Milton, her regard for him had grown.  Earlier in their acquaintance, she
had never shrunk from his direct gaze, returning it casually and frankly when
they talked; and unflinchingly, even defiantly, when she disagreed with him. 
But he began to see in her an uncharacteristic shyness when they were
face-to-face, a habit of averting her eyes or lowering her head.  He had
attributed it to the shame she had felt from his having caught her at an
indiscretion in a public place.  He did not allow himself any further curiosity
about it, his pride stung by rejection and his heart tormented by jealousy of a
handsome, well-bred young gentleman who, he now knew, was the brother who came
in secret.  Freed of that jealousy, he began to wonder if Margaret's downcast
eyes signified a new self-consciousness about her feelings for him.  Regardless
of how others, including him, might perceive her conduct, Margaret would never
avert her eyes in shame if she knew that she had done nothing wrong. 
Incredulous but hopeful; he passed a restless evening tossing in bed and pacing
his room.  In the morning before anyone in the house was up, he quietly left
and boarded a train south to Helstone.  He was not certain exactly why, merely
that he felt compelled to do so.