Was she in love with him? She could not know for certain. Bessy’s talk of marriage had stirred her to examine her feelings. As she studied him again while he talked to others, noting the curve of his mouth, the flash of a brilliant smile, the intelligent furrow of his brow, she realized no one else in this entire town—in this whole empire—would ever fascinate her as he did.
She stayed in dazed realization of this for a moment until a chortle from Mr. Henderson at her elbow interrupted her reverie.
The conversation inevitably turned to the strike. Mr. Horsfield, a dignitary of some sort who was visiting Milton, asked how long the masters supposed it would last.
Mr. Slickson gave a sidelong glance to Mr. Thornton before offering his presumption. “It will be over in a matter of a few days, mark my words.”
“I imagine their bellies are fairly empty by now,” Mr. Hamper added, with a triumphant tone. “Two weeks is a long time to get by on whatever pittance their Union can give them. Hunger is our best weapon. A man’s stubborn intentions grow weak when his stomach is growling.”
Grunts and hums of agreement followed.
Margaret was appalled. “But what about their children?” she burst out.
The room fell silent. Eyebrows raised as diners glanced at each other across the table. Mr. Bell smirked in admiration, while her parents wore cautious expressions.
All eyes fastened first on Margaret and then upon the dinner’s host.
Mr. Thornton set the glass he held in his hand down before meeting Margaret’s eyes with pained deliberation. “Their parents are at liberty to return to work at any time. We standby ready to pay wages for men who will work,” he replied with smooth coolness.
“Hear, hear!” agreed Mr. Hamper while others noised their approval.
“But do you not see that they are the ones who suffer most? They are innocent, and yet they are caught up in this…this game of stubborn refusal to come to terms with one another!” she countered in exasperation before bowing her head to gain control of herself, her chest heaving.
A flare of conscience—or was it pain?—made Mr. Thornton lower his eyes. His expression hardened, his mouth a tight straight line, while everyone looked to him for his reply.
His voice was low and even as he made his reply. “The hands decided to strike, knowing perfectly well it would entail sufferingof some kind. We are not obligated to comply with their demands.”
Margaret gave him a quick glare in response.
“I’m certain we all hope a resolution will quickly end the strike,” Mr. Hale offered, trying to shift the conversation to more positive topics.
Mr. Thornton glanced at Margaret as general conversation resumed, but she kept her gaze lowered.
The rest of the dinner was torture for Margaret. She ate in silence and moved to the upstairs drawing room with the rest of the ladies afterwards, but stood aloof from their gossip and boasts. Her mother, however, was happy to engage in such frivolous talk.
Margaret’s stomach tightened as the men rejoined them. Mr. Thornton caught her eye, and she watched him say a few words in passing to others as he made his way to where she stood, aloof from the others.
“You are not enjoying the conversation here?” he asked, in a bemused estimation of her boredom.
“If only I were interested in Mrs. Hamper’s new parlor curtains or what Bertha Simmonds wore to church last Sunday, I should be enraptured,” she returned with a smile, relieved to engage in a light-hearted manner with him.
She noticed a few glances from others directed their way.
“I suppose I’m more interested in subjects of far more importance, such as the ones that were discussed at dinner,” she continued.
His expression grew solemn. “I’m sorry our talk of the strike disturbed you. You must understand that our position is based upon the logic of our calculations—in order to keep the mills in operation. We are not responsible for how the workers will respond to our decisions.”
Margaret drew herself up, her soul rebelling against his cold reasoning when speaking of his workers. “But it is everyone’s moral responsibility to take care of children who are starving. And I believe that as one having so much power over others, you have a responsibility to find a way to communicate with them as human beings, not as some extension of your machinery to be ignored.”
Some distance away, Mrs. Thornton’s eyes grew wide in alarm as she observed Miss Hale take on a sparring stance with her son from afar.
“What would you have me do?” he retorted with barely controlled vehemence, leaning closer to keep their conversation private.
“Well, I certainly would not hire replacements, as I believe I overheard you are planning to do. These workers toil in your factories for years, and yet you treat them as nothing and give their work to others!”
“I will not stand by while my mill goes to ruin—“
“Yet you will stand by and allow children to go hungry and their parents to go mad with desperation. I saw such a family today, whose infant can no longer cry normally for starvation—all while you pile delicacies in front of your fellow masters!” she returned, her blood hot in righteous fury.
