“Then you will be helpful by telling them what may make them more comfortable with our Milton ways,” he suggested.
Mrs. Thornton opened her mouth to protest yet again, but then sat back in silence. Averse as she was to all formal social obligations, her ire at his request began to fade as her curiosity to see this southern girl grew.
Satisfied with his mother’s quiet acquiescence, Mr. Thornton informed her of one more confidence. “I will be taking up the classics with Mr. Hale on Thursdays. I have long intended to return to more expansive study, Mother,” he explained before she could object. “My head has been full of business, machinery, and matters of money these past many years. My work has given us a fairly secure life for some time. I now have the opportunity to turn some of my attention to intellectual matters. This is, after all, a town of great motion and change. We cannot expect to remain the same.”
Chapter ten
On the day that the Hale family was to arrive in Milton, Mr. Thornton found his thoughts drifting to Outwood Station instead of to the details at hand at Marlborough Mills. He had seen to it that the furniture and crates containing their belongings, which had come earlier that day on a freight car, were already being carried into the house in Crampton.
What more he could do, he could not fathom. Although impulse continuously bade him leave his office and take to the streets, he firmly refused to let such niggling move him. It was not his business or his right to intrude himself upon their lives. His work for them was done. He would, after all, see Mr. Hale before the fortnight.
All such reasoning was well and good. However, when the whistle blew for the noon break and his mill hands spilled out from the imposing factory, a new thought struck him and wiped all such constraints away.
The Hales’ pantry would be barren of fruit or vegetables. He could have fresh fruit sent—no, he would select it himself. And leave a basket of food for them with a welcoming note.
He was out the door within a few moments and headed for the High Street grocer.
As Margaret had foreseen, the noise and distress of arriving in a strange city wore heavily on Mrs. Hale. That it was a dismally gray November day did nothing to aid this transition. As their cab carried them along the streets towards tall, blackened brick row houses, Mrs. Hale’s eyes reflected her distress. Boys and men were still carrying crates of their belongings inside when they arrived at their new home.
“Ho, what’s this?” Mr. Hale said as he took his first steps into the front parlor, his family following him.
Margaret saw the brimming basket of fruit left on a small table. Underneath lay a bag of potatoes, flour, butter, and other sundries for the pantry. Her heart beat a little faster. She knew who had sent these before her father read the accompanying note.
“Why, Mr. Thornton! How very thoughtful. At least we know we have one friend in town, eh Margaret?”
She nodded with a tentative smile.
Amid the overwhelming disarray of moving in, with furniture and crates and hay strewn all about, the basket of fruit left on a table by the front window stood as a calm beacon of hope.
This kind token of welcome did much to soften Mrs. Hale’s heart—if not to this noisy, smoky town, then to the cotton manufacturer who lived in it.
The days that followed were filled with unpacking and arranging the house and with the comings and goings of delivery boys of all kinds, bringing the butcher’s order, the coal delivery, and market purchases. Every jangle of the doorbell sent a wave of tension through Margaret, anxious that it might be Mr.Thornton. She fastidiously avoided being near the door when Dixon or her father opened it.
Mr. Thornton went to his first lesson the following week. His hope of being let in by Mr. Hale’s daughter was dashed as a burly maid opened the door. She looked him over with a superior air, apparently none too pleased to show him to Mr. Hale’s study.
His tutor’s greeting, however, was hearty, sweeping away his annoyance at the servant’s attitude. Crates of books still stood in stacks around a desk and a few chairs in the small room. Bookcases had been partly filled, and a painting of a shepherd and his flock was propped along the top.
“How is your family? Are you settling in well enough?” Mr. Thornton asked as he sat down in the chair Mr. Hale had pulled into place for him.
“We are fairly well. Mrs. Hale has caught a cold, I’m afraid. The damp fogs here are not what we are used to. I’m sure she will improve before long,” he replied with a smile.
“Our winters are cold. If I can be a help in any way…I’m certain there are many things we do a bit differently here in Milton.”
“Indeed, it is nothing at all like Helstone. I thank you for your kind offer. You have been a great help already, thank you. Wait now, there was something Mrs. Hale was saying…oh yes! We will need more help here. Our cook and char girl did not come with us.”
“I’ll ask my mother about it,” Mr. Thornton said.
Mr. Hale enthused about the Greek sages and their works, and Mr. Thornton listened with interest, the only distraction being the occasional creaking of the floorboards above, which made him think of who dwelt close at hand. When he left, he had Plato’sRepublictucked under his arm.
Arriving home, Mr. Thornton paced about, gazing out the windows of the candle-lit drawing room of his home. He could not bring himself to sit and read the paper as he customarily would.
His mother watched until her patience wore thin. “You’ll have the carpet worn by Christmas, John. What is it that occupies your mind? If these lessons are distracting—“
“No, the lessons suit me well. I was thinking of the Hales. Mr. Hale made mention that they will need to hire help.”
Mrs. Thornton pressed her lips together. “I don’t see how that is our concern.”
“I would like you and Fanny to visit Mrs. Hale and her daughter next week,” he said with decision, ignoring her remark. “You will know how they might find a girl to hire. They are unfamiliar with the way of things here. Perhaps we could lend Martha a few days a week.”
