“Don’t forget that there will be factory owners and bankers. Papa is corresponding with one of the cotton mill owners there. This man is held in some esteem in his society—as you have esteemed the Gormans, mamma. There will be more society living in a town,” she reflected, attempting to soften the harsh blow of drastic change.
“What, among factory people?” her mother retorted in pained derision.
“No, I’m quite certain we shall not have anything to do with the factory workers. But papa may teach some of the sons of these manufacturers, bankers, and shopkeepers.”
“Oh, I don’t know what’s to become of us, Margaret! It’s a hard burden your father has placed upon us—and to give us no warning at all. I’m sure I cannot bear it. To think of leaving all of this!” She gestured with a toss of her arm to their garden and then covered her face with her hands, her handkerchief at the ready.
Margaret spent the rest of the day tending to her mother’s fits of despair, moments of disbelief, and bouts of crying with words of encouragement that she yearned to believe herself.
As the sun began to reach the horizon and the sky turned rosy and orange, the front door at last opened and Mr. Hale stepped in. The drooping shoulders and frightened look of guilt in his eyes tore at his wife’s heart, and she ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck.
“Oh, Richard, Richard! Why did you not tell me?” she sobbed as he held her in his arms.
Margaret flew upstairs to her room and flung herself upon her bed to let tears long held back flow freely.
Having spent all his anguished courage in making one momentous turn, Mr. Hale could not exert himself to take up the ceaseless trail of decisions left in the wake of uprooting a life of twenty-odd years. Mrs. Hale grew only more frail and fretful, taking to her bed in despair of an odious future, her moans now giving Helstone its due.
Dixon did nothing to ease matters with her constant mutterings against the master of the house, who, she was convinced, was leading them all into social perdition and shame.
So it was that the burden of moving the household—all the planning, coordinating and the execution thereof—fell to Margaret. And although she bravely wore a face of calmcomposure for her parents’ sake, her whole soul cried out against being forced to leave her home and she foolishly clung to a wild, desperate hope her father would change his mind and all would be restored.
Melancholy increased as the day of departure approached, and she tended to the sad and exhausting task of packing all their belongings to be carried away to an unknown future. Yet amid this burden, she escaped her duties to cherish every moment out of doors that she could, wandering the garden paths and flitting away to steal a few moments on the still forest floor.
The low but piercing call of a steam-whistle resounded over Marlborough Mills, sending the factory workers spilling out into the yard at the lunch hour.
A young woman with the tired garb of a factory worker clasped a baby to her chest as she walked with a wavering boldness down the unfamiliar passageway that led to the Master’s office.
A door opened, and a clerk emerged with hat in hand. He frowned as he caught sight of the approaching figure. “What are you searching for, miss? The dispensary for the sick is for workers only.”
“I’m looking fo’ to see the Master,” the woman replied firmly, lifting her chin.
“The Master’s busy. He can’t—“
At that moment, the door across the way opened, and Mr. Thornton strode through.
“Master! If I could ‘ave but a moment of yo’ time,” she called out eagerly as she stepped forward. “M’ name’s Jen Daugherty. Yo’ helped us when my husband coudna’ work for being crushed by the bales o’ cotton.”
Her words brought the memory of that day flooding back to him. Mr. Thornton recognized her at once.
“I’m not asking fo’ naught. It’s us that owe yo’ thanks for gettin’ Jem his wages when he couldna work. The others say the masters is all the same and greedy, but I know yo’ve a heart. Yo’ knowed better than to throw a poor family to the streets for a mishap that weren’t any of their doin.”
She took a step closer to her benefactor to show him the babe in arms. “We named ’im after yo'…in part: James Thornton Daugherty.”
The corners of Mr. Thornton’s mouth lifted in response. “He looks to be a healthy lad.”
“Aye, that ‘e is,” she answered proudly, kissing the little head in confirmation.
She babbled on about her babe for a moment before stopping herself. “Not that yo’ would know about such things… not yet anyhow. I ‘ope to wish yo’ happy someday, when yo’r gettin’ yo’r own son.”
The master was speechless.
“I’ll not take any more of yo’ time. I came only to tell yo’ that Jem and me thank yo’ for yo’r kindness.”
“I’m glad he is well…that your family is well,” Mr. Thornton returned.
She nodded, pleased to have accomplished her mission, and turned to leave the master to his important matters.
Mr. Thornton’s reasonable self would have briskly turned and continued on his way. But he stood rooted to the ground as he watched the young mother’s retreating figure. He was struck by her tender determination to show him the child that was so precious to her. Until this moment, he had never thought of holding a child of his own in his arms. Instantly came the vision of the girl from Hampshire holding his babe.
