The Journey Home

Chapter 4 A Break from the Past

The setting sun reflected off the multiple panes of glass that separated the master's office from the sorting room below. After many years in Milton, the master of the mill recognized the late summer afternoon sun that in a matter of a few short weeks, would disappear by 4:00. He sat back in the worn leather and wood chair, staring at a particular beam of light that reflected the rose and violet shades of the setting sun, an unusual display of light for a gray and smokey northern town. The whirr of the machinery and hum of voices, occasionally broken by a shout or deep laugh from the men below wafted up the stairs to his office; but the master took no notice as they were the embedded noises that were part of his daily life. At that particular moment, the noises were a far off din as he was deep within his own thoughts and memories, a rare indulgence that he allowed himself from time to time.

He was nearly 40 years old, no longer the young upstart mill owner. He had become the elder of the Milton mill industry. Many of his contemporaries had left Milton, too many of which saw their businesses fold due to the uncertainty of the ever volatile cotton industry. He had survived in part by instinct, but also a keen understanding of global political events. He anticipated troubles with the American cotton supply, and adjusted accordingly. He converted the looms of one of his mills to handle the longer grain of Egyptian cotton, when the American supply withered in the fields of a war torn country. He also invested in a new venture run by his friend, Nicholas Higgins, who had a genius mind for making machinery parts for mills and steam engines. He had purchased the mill that once housed Mr. Slickson's business and converted several of the warehouses to a machine shop. The Master was a man of great property and fortune, however, he still leased his original business, Marlborough Mills.

The lease for the property of Marlborough Mills, warehouses, workshops, sheds and his own home, was laid on the desk before him. Multiple pages, but he was focused on the last page and the neat signature that sat next to his own, faded slightly. His long straight index finger made gently circles on the surface. His last connection to her. After all this time, he still had this one golden thread that tied him to her, the woman who he loved. He was sure that his affection for her was not returned. Many times over, he could have purchased the property out right, but he did not. He needed this reminder of her, every time he sent a bank draft to the London lawyer, the reminder that he still loved, despite the truth that she did not love him. He put his head back to rest on the high back of the chair and closed his eyes.

For too long he had relied upon the accustomed places to bring back the accustomed habits and train of thought, so that he could, for a time, forget. For months at a time, he could preoccupy himself with thoughts of his business, of the care of his mother or the weakening economy of his cotton industry. Oh, he could momentarily be reminded of her, the images recalled in soft detail - the stairs where she embraced him and shielded him from danger, the place at his table where she sat attentatively listening to the bold talk of men about breaking the strike, or her soft small hands, folded in her lap during the dinner at Harley Street, the last time he saw her, just before she dissapeared. He forced himself not to dwell and to move on to the business at hand.

He would be lulled into a confirmed forgetfulness when the days events lead to a night of forgotten dreams about the routine of his daily life. But on ocassion Fate would intervene, cruelly and without warning. He would dream of her, lithe and errect, with her gorgeous raven black hair tumbling past her shoulders, strands of curls taken by the wind and blown across her face. She turned to him, smiling with recognition of the man who was not a stranger, but the man she spent each day and night. She would quickly run to him on tip toe, her arms out stretched to be enveloped in his warm embrace. The simple act of her whispering his name, "John", no louder than a sigh, would send him into euphoria, as his massive frame encircled her body like a heavy and warm cloak, protecting her from all her pain.

And then he would awaken, believing her to be there with him in the large cold bed, only to turn and realize her abscence from the pillow, from his life. He would lie for a moment and attempt to recapture the joy of having her as he had drempt, but he could feel the dream slipping through his fingers as the cold reality of his lonely life settled back in his breast. It was only the dream of a broken heart, and waking from it was the cruelest of punishments.

Had it improved over the years? Well, at least she wasn't his every other thought, although scarcely a day went by that he did not think of her, remember her, and wonder was she well, and safe and loved? Please, Lord, he thought, let her be loved.

No more. She was not coming back. He raked his fingers through his hair and gathered the document and placed it in a leather bill fold, along with the accounts, and a bank check that he would take to the lawyer in London. He was resolved - this would be no more. His actions would cut the ties to the past, and he would put the hopes and dreams to rest once and for all. He stood, took his black frock coat from the coat rack and his hat from the console next to the door. He was off to Fanny's to make arangements for the care of their mother while he went to London to arrange for the purchase of the mill property.