Mr. Hale introduced his wife to his pupil, and Mrs. Hale’s eyes shone approvingly as she took in the measure of the tall manufacturer. “I must thank you, Mr. Thornton, for the basket of food you left for us as a welcoming gesture. How very thoughtful,” she said.
“It was no trouble at all,” he answered quietly, a hint of color coming to his face as his mother glanced at him.
“I hope the wallpaper in your drawing room meets your approval,” he added, as his mother poured tea into his cup.At this remark, both his mother and sister looked at him in surprise.
Margaret also lifted her eyes to observe Mr. Thornton’s kind appeal to her mother.
“It is pleasant, thank you. It reminds one of country flowers, which is just what I like.”
“I can’t imagine country life,” Fanny began. “Although I suppose it would be quiet, there would hardly be anyone to meet and no events to attend. I should like to know, Miss Hale, how you like Milton, since you have now lived in the country and in London.”
Margaret hesitated to answer, uncomfortably aware of all eyes upon her. “I don’t know. I expect I cannot give Milton any true estimation when I have not yet made any friends and have attended no events. I will agree with papa that there is an energy here that is new to me. You must allow me to favor my country home, however. I have a great fondness for nature, which is terribly lacking here.”
Mrs. Thornton glanced at her son to see if her remark dissuaded him.
“Did you attend soirées and balls in London?” Fanny pressed, unable to comprehend that anyone would prefer trees and open fields to concert halls and ballrooms.
“Yes, I did,” she answered, her face again growing warm as she imagined the gaze of Mr. Thornton upon her.
“I’m certain you will find Milton cannot compare with London if you are seeking continual gaiety and social amusement,” Mrs. Thornton interjected.
“But there is a very marked interest in culture and learning here,” Mr. Hale interposed. “I hear there will soon be a new library where all classes of people will be welcome to borrow. The Lyceum is already open for lectures of all kinds. I believe there is also a music hall.”
“Yes, there is,” Fanny said. “Although they let anyone in. There were far too many people at the piano concert a week ago,” she sighed.
“Miss Hale has told me she had seen none of our factories here in Milton as of yet. Have you been inside one of our factories, Mr. Hale?” Mrs. Thornton asked, directing her gaze to Mr. Hale and then to Margaret.
“I have not, although I should be very interested to see how the modern machinery works,” Mr. Hale answered, holding his teacup aloft.
“We can arrange a tour next week, if that suits you,” Mr. Thornton offered.
“Yes, let us arrange it. I’m sure Margaret would like to come along,” the older man said, smiling at his daughter. “She has been curious about all that goes on in Milton.”
Mr. Thornton looked to Margaret to ascertain if this was true, hope rising in his chest that she should find an interest in his town.
Margaret again felt consternation at the conversation having pivoted to her opinions. She merely smiled weakly at her father’s remark, acutely aware of Mrs. Thornton’s appraising stare.
Mr. Thornton soon made his apologies and left the company to finish their tea.
The rigid tension in Margaret’s posture relaxed, and her interest in the conversation waned. The room was emptier now, and her mind wandered to the yard outside.
Mr. Thornton glanced back at his home as he crossed the icy yard. The chilly air nipped at his face and bare hands, but he felt warmth crawl through his veins, thinking of who was insidethose walls. It had been a stinging pleasure to enter his drawing room to see her sitting there, in surroundings so familiar to him.
Did she truly take an interest in the new world around her? Could she ever learn to be happy here? These questions concerning her future happiness never strayed far from his mind. Doubts plagued him as he looked about him through her eyes. The dirt yard, the towering brick factory, the house of gray stone that was his home—nothing could be further from the world that she had come from.
What did he have to offer her? He had worked for years—years of self-denial and unyielding adherence to his principles—to create the comfort his mother and sister now enjoyed. But he did not own the land, nor his house or factory. Security he could never offer her, for there lurked always the danger that all he had worked for could come to naught through forces beyond his control: a swing of the market, a damaging fire, or a loss of business because of a sustained strike. All these must ever be a danger.
He strode through the wide corridor towards his office, where stray cotton fibers drifted along the floor even there. The thunderous sound of more than a hundred working looms was muffled in this separate section for his clerks, but there was always the distant noise of the main weaving shed. He closed the door behind him and sat down at his desk.
He remembered the first time he had seen her. She had been aloof from the whirl of activity around her—as one apart. Yet, she was not in the least disturbed by her solitude. Instead, she seemed to carry herself with an air of regal grace.
Even now, as she had sat in his own drawing room—the movements of her lips, the slow turning of her head, her confident posture—bore an elegant manner that was effortless to her. Could one such as she accept the life of a manufacturer’s wife?
He could not claim to be a gentleman, whatever that antiquated distinction was worth. He was far too engaged in matters of trade and profit-making for that. And he would never concern himself with titles or terms that held little meaning in discerning the heart of a man. He knew what he was and what he wasn’t. He did not need society’s approval to know his value.
He was a man of strong convictions. And once his heart and mind were set upon a clear purpose, he would follow through with unwavering intention. He could not offer her a peaceful life on a country estate. But what he could offer was his deep devotion. He was certain that no man could love her as he did. He could not bear to think of her belonging to another.
And so there was nothing to be done but to continue to make himself a better man—as he had always striven to do. And to hope her affection for him—for he had seen the spark of such, hadn’t he?—might grow with time.
