Fate & Circumstance - A North & South Continuation

CHAPTER ONE - REACHING OUT

THIS STORY IS AS YET UNFINISHED.  I am hoping that I will be able to add to it one day and have started to look back over my notes for it, but I cannot say when the next chapter will be published.  My other story, Past & Present, is complete.

CHAPTER ONE – REACHING OUT 

Her footsteps echoed against the hard stone floor like small, desolate cries in a vacuum of silence. Where once the vast weaving shed had been a hive of industry, so now it stood heartbreakingly quiet, a bleak, soulless sepulchre of its former self, the dreams and aspirations of its master tossed aside and discarded like the cotton waste littering the floor. The heavy machinery which stood in long, seemingly endless rows, once capable of roaring like a multitude of ferocious monsters, their noise so deafeningly loud that it had been impossible to either think or hear, now stood as though slain, cast into perfect stillness, their echoing thunder brutally curbed by the factory's spiralling decline. Only a stark, choking hush remained, the countless men and women who had once attended the now-sleeping giants having slunk away, their dissenting voices that she'd once heard raised in fearsome protest now imperceptible whispers lost in an eerie void.

Slowly, her heart aching keenly for everything that had been lost, Margaret walked past the regimented rows, her feet instinctively carrying her in the direction of the Mule Room. Memories clamoured, their echoes resonating through her mind like the voices of restless children. Oh! How long ago it had been! And yet she could remember that first fateful visit with a clarity that defied time. She could recall, with bittersweet poignancy, the first time she had followed this very path, recklessly pursuing the pursuer of a terrified worker, driven by some heedless force within her to follow in their stead, for it was here, in this vast, cavernous mill amidst the unforgiving clatter and roar of machinery, that she had first witnessed the brutal discipline that a master could dispense to one of his hands. 

She halted abruptly, lanced by the sudden memory, as she came to a standstill just inside the doorway of the now uninhabited Mule Room. On the day she had first visited this room had been filled with workers, each one busy in their work, the machinery's urgent clamour and the motes of cotton fluff that twirled in the humid air seeking to dim and blur the pained, anguished cries of the worker who'd fallen prey to his master's wrath. She could remember how she'd felt - the revilement and horror that had eaten at her insides as she'd watched the horrific scene before her before, casting aside all demureness of manner, she had leapt impulsively to the worker's defence. 

"Stop!"

At first he hadn't heard her. She had cried out again, more than once: stark, desperate calls that had risen in strength and entreaty, her lone voice of dissent vying feebly with the relentless din of the surrounding machinery as she'd pleaded for compassion, for humility. 

It had been a cruel introduction to factory life. She could not have believed that people could treat each other with such unthinking disregard! Indeed, she had abhorred him immediately, the Master of Marlborough Mills, as he'd stood so bellicose and indomitable before her, his cobalt eyes glittering, fierce with rage. In truth, his behaviour had deeply shocked her - not only in his mistreatment of the wretched worker but in the way he had then, with eyes so dark and fixed, furiously turned upon her too and barked out his orders to his overseer to get her out of the room. 

After that day she had never thought that she would ever return to Marlborough Mills again, never foreseeing the way that her life would thereafter become so irreverently bound to the mill – both to its workers, through her friendship with the Higgins', and to the man whose behaviour had so disgusted her, for that hatred, so quick to flourish, had faded over time to be slowly eclipsed by love as her understanding and regard of John Thornton had grown within her, blossoming unnourished amid the withering soils of her disdain. 

Oh! So much had happened; the months come and gone. It wasn't until this morning at breakfast as she had listened attentively to Henry telling her of her newfound wealth due to Mr Bell's shrewdness in entering into a Speculation with George Watson, that she had known that she could not allow it to be too late. That had been the moment she had known that she had to act; the exact point in time when she had been driven by emotions cemented in an all-consuming resolution to help Mr Thornton. She could not bear to see him slip into obscurity while she lived her dull, comfortable existence wanting for nothing. Nothing, that was, except his love – the love she'd rejected and wished everyday that she could recapture as her own. 

She walked towards the window, the hem of her skirt skimming the cotton-strewn floor, to stare disconsolately onto the deserted yard. The last time she had seen it, it had been covered in a blanket of thick snow, unsullied but for the narrow tracks of the carriage wheels and horse hoofs that had quickly had their indentations blurred by its continuous fall; a forlorn and dismal scene that had mirrored so bleakly every sorrow that she had been battling to master inside her. Raw emotion from the shock of her father's death and her anguish in being separated from the man she loved had been like claws dragging ceaselessly at her heart. It had been almost impossible to remain composed when every part of her wanted to scream out for comfort and love and sanctuary from the pain. It had taken every ounce of strength left in her already beleaguered body to retain her poise, even if she couldn't find it in herself to conceal her sorrow. 

She remembered that he had been courteous towards her, possessed of an impassive but flawless civility, his expression studiously veiled of emotion. Their conversation had been brief, stilted. He had asked her, as if for her own unimpeachable confirmation, whether she was leaving Milton. Her heart splintering all the while, she had affirmed that she was, only to watch him turn abruptly away from her without another word. 

Indeed, he had not made any motion to speak to her again until she had taken her leave with Aunt Shaw. She had wanted so much to say something more to him before she had left - to own that her opinion of him had indelibly changed; that she could not envisage a life away from Milton and those that she had grown to love so dearly. More than that, however, she longed to be able to right the misunderstanding that had arisen so catastrophically between them and tainted his opinion of her so terribly. She wanted to tell him that it had been Fred he had seen her with that fateful night and that, despite what it must have looked like, it had never been the situation he had so pointedly perceived. But she had said nothing. She hadn't been able to find the words to begin. 

As the carriage had taken her out of the yard that day, she had been seized by the desperate impulse to turn and look back at the house. To just once more cast her eyes upon it. Would he still be there, standing in solitary isolation upon the steps, the snow fluttering around him? Had he watched her go, relieved to see her gone after the way she had treated him? Had he any of the regret that had gripped her own heart so mercilessly? 

In that chilly, claustrophobic carriage she had eyed the window next to her and considered pulling it down and poking her head out, but commonsense had pulled her back. After all, what sort of young lady thrust her head through a carriage window, risking injury in the process? The image of her mother's face had reared up before her, admonishing her for even allowing herself to consider such a folly and she had sunk back against the seat of the carriage, quiet and sullen, staring tearlessly down at the black gloves that had covered her hands... 

And now she was back, unable to stay away, unable to bear the thought of him losing his livelihood in such a cruel way...

Suddenly, without warning, the echo of footsteps behind her broke Margaret's reverie, bringing her back to the present with a start. The second she heard those steps come to a standstill just behind her, her heart began to pound with nervous expectation. She felt almost faint with the tumultuous anticipation of seeing him again. Oh! The servant who had let her in must have told him she was here! Her thoughts scattered like seeds on the wind as she tried to compose herself before turning to face him. Now the moment was upon her she felt her stomach start to somersault wildly. She had come this far. Sheer determination of spirit had got her here and she would carry her actions through even though the consequences of such impulsiveness were as yet unknown. 

She waited, her heart trembling, to hear his voice wash over her, her hands clasped tightly before her in an attempt to stop them from shaking. But no greeting came and as she turned she was confronted not by Mr Thornton, as she had expected she would be, but by his mother. 

Mrs Thornton stood before her, her arms folded defensively, her expression as black in that stony face as the dress she wore. 

Her first words were stark and coldly delivered. "He's not here if that's why you've come. He's not here." 

Margaret took a step forward and reached out to rest her hand lightly upon Mrs Thornton's arm in a gesture of consolation and compassion. She wished only for the old animosity to be gone. From what she had learnt from Henry she knew that the Thornton's situation was precarious, that it stood to hurtle towards rapid descent.

"I'm sorry that the mill has closed," she said gently, wishing that she could speak freely in order to try and dilute Mrs Thornton's obvious uncertainty for the future ahead.

But Mrs Thornton turned away from her, dolefully shaking her head, rebutting her tentative gesture of reconciliation. "When I think of all those years of work and dedication my son has gone through to achieve what he has and to establish a name for himself amongst the men of Milton, I cannot help but feel the unjustness of it. He does not deserve to suffer so." Her weary, disheartened gaze surveyed the deserted room that had once been alive with activity, before focussing once more upon Margaret's quiet presence before her. "What was it for, Miss Hale?" Then with an ill-concealed bitterness she could not temper: "Why is it that you should fall on fortune just as he is losing his?"

How could she even begin to answer such a question? Margaret knew implicitly the meaning that lay behind it. He had worked hard and long for the things he had. She had merely been the fortunate recipient of someone else's generosity. To this woman who had such pride and love for her son, her change in circumstance must have seemed a bitter blow.