He swung around and strode toward the baling house, trying to shake off the images that filtered into his distracted mind. He was determined to guard his thoughts more diligently. It would do no good to dream about what would never come to pass.
Chapter eight
Margaret closed her eyes, lulled by the steady sway of the train as it headed north. She would much rather have remained at the seaside town where they had spent the past several days. The plan to give her mother a brief holiday had worked very well. Margaret was certain the change of scenery and the sea air had lifted her mother’s spirits, even if it were only for a short time. Margaret had pushed away the thought of what lay ahead and had enjoyed the brief freedom from responsibilities—until now.
She had dreaded this day, when she must accompany her father to Milton to find a suitable housing arrangement. Margaret endeavored to hide her downcast spirit, for she saw her father was eager to set foot in the town he had chosen to begin life anew. Her spirit chafed against the binding helplessness of being torn away from Helstone to be planted in one of England’s busiest mill towns. Try as she might, she could not imagine a pleasant existence in the northern mill town where they were headed.
She pondered for a moment the life she might have had if she had accepted Henry Lennox. As much as her heart longed for stability at present, she knew she would not find true contentment in the shadows of Edith’s social circles and Henry’s worldly ambitions. Henry would see her father’s break from the Church as an embarrassment. She frowned at the realization, setting her jaw in defense of the gentle gray-haired man seated next to her. It was just as well she had rejected the London barrister.
The thought of Henry summoned images from a recent dream into her mind:
She was in Helstone on a perfect sunny day, happily walking among the wildflowers and tall grasses along a meadow path. Nearing her home, she glimpsed from afar a man sitting precariously on a high bough of the old elm tree. As she drew closer, she saw it was Henry Lennox! He was reaching out for her bonnet, which had caught among the thin outer branches.
Just as she rushed forward to save him from falling—a firm hand grasped her arm and held her firmly back.
It was the man from the North! He took her hand, and they began walking together as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He smiled atherin that honest and childlike way that warmed her heart.
She looked down at her feet. They were walking on yellow rose petals, strewn before them on the path by a pair of beaming girls with baskets.
Then she noticed her own attire—she was wearing a pretty gown of white lace and ribbons. The church bells were pealing.
She was on the way to her own wedding!
That was all she remembered. She had woken perplexed and uneasy that morning, while at the same time there had been a faint strain of pleasure in thinking about it. She had lain inbed for some time, absorbing the lingering emotions that had seemed so real. The dream was unsettling and yet comforting at the same time. How strange dreams are!
As she thought about it again, it unnerved her how swiftly Henry had been forgotten when the man from the North had appeared.
The dream still mystified her. She could not dismiss the memory of how she had felt, walking with him to the church. She had been happy—in a deep, peaceful way that had felt so warm. It was the kind of happiness she had not experienced in some time. And something in her mind or heart clung to it. It was unexplainable, of course—dreams always were—but she remembered how holding the stranger’s hand had felt like home.
Margaret looked at her hands, marveling at how vivid the sensation of holding his hand had been. The press of his skin against hers had been enthralling. How could sleeping imaginations seem so real?
She had had the dream the morning before they had left Helstone. Surely, such outlandish imaginings were born of the turbulent emotions of being wrenched away from her beloved home.
“I believe we’re approaching Milton-Northern,” her father announced sometime later, waking Margaret from a drowsy state of semi-consciousness.
She glanced out the window, and her heart sank low as she saw in the distance a stark black forest of tall chimneys spewing forth their contribution to the looming gray cloud above them.
The vision was so unlike her cheery childhood home, her lip quivered, and she suppressed a sob of despair. How would her mother ever be content in such an ominous setting? She thought also of herself. Where would she take walks? Would there be no beauty to rescue her dispirited moods?
She recalled something of what the stranger in London had confessed about his town and decided that he was right; there was no beauty to recommend it. If this were Milton, she might have to search to find anything good in it.
Mr. Thornton gazed at the scribbled notes he had made for the tasks and appointments to be accomplished that day. He unfolded the letter he had received from Mr. Hale concerning his expected arrival this morning and let out a long breath as he thought of the inconvenience this would require on his part. It would be far easier just to send a message. Nevertheless, he must go himself. Mr. Hale knew not a soul in Milton and deserved a proper visit from him to settle the arrangements of his lodging.
A few hours later, Mr. Thornton shrugged on his coat and snatched his hat to walk up the high street to his destination, unaware of how many storefront shoppers noted the prosperous young mill master passing by.
The pretty and fashionable Violet Grayson and her mother were on their way to the haberdasher when they saw Mr. Thornton approaching, with his usual serious countenance and focused gaze. Mrs. Grayson sized up the opportunity at once and straightened her posture as she put on her best social smile and tossed out her greeting loudly enough to catch the attention of the businessman. “Mr. Thornton!” she nodded, stepping back to allow her daughter to be displayed.
“Mrs. Grayson, Miss Grayson,” he greeted in return, grasping the brim of his tall hat in hurried respect. He continued his brisk walk with a measure of relief, for the demure look the calico printer’s daughter had given him had made him uneasy—a feeling he had experienced before when he had met her at a concert months ago.
Pleased that his busy schedule excused him from any but the briefest social encounters, he counted himself grateful he was not married, for it seemed to him that all women (his mother excepted) thrived on an indulgence of conversation and, should he marry, he would be obliged to curtail his current habits to accommodate a wife’s more frivolous needs. He deduced all this in a matter of a few seconds and then turned his thoughts to the concerns of his mill and the arrangement of the day’s allotted time.
Violet Grayson’s mind was not as easily turned to other subjects. Her thoughts were subsumed in a whirlwind of conjecture and feeling at the impromptu sighting of the rather handsome and wealthy cotton mill master. For the remainder of the day, the calico printer’s daughter wondered if her smile had been winsome enough or if the bonnet she had worn was indeed her most fetching. Surely, it was unfortunate that the weather had been so blustery that morning, for she was certain her face might have been a shade too ruddy.
Mr. Thornton rounded the last corner of his journey and crossed the street to the Clarendon Hotel. The concierge recognized at once the prominent Milton manufacturer. “Mr. Thornton, sir. I’m sorry, but you’ve just missed Mr. Hale. He promised to be back in one hour.”
Mr. Thornton returned promptly at the appointed time, but Mr. Hale had not yet returned, so he was ushered up to Hales’ sitting room to wait. The third-floor room was neat but sparsely furnished. A few comfortable chairs and a low table were set in front of the fireplace. A writing desk and chair sat against the back wall. Mr. Thornton crossed an expanse of carpet to the tall bay windows overlooking the town. He glanced out to locate his factory’s chimney among the many on the horizon and then pulled out his pocket watch to note the time.
He would wait ten minutes. He could afford no more.
