Becoming Mrs. Thornton: A Sequel to North and South

Chapter 13

Chapter 13 – Becoming Mrs. Thornton – copyright Jill Hughey 2014

The large hand of the ticking clock pointed to one minute before the hour when Mrs. John Thornton appeared in the anteroom of her husband’s office.

“Good morning, Mrs. Thornton,” Mr. Chives said as he popped his short, wiry frame to attention. He turned on a heel to tap lightly on the paneled wood door to his right, then opened it to usher her forth. Margaret drew in a deep, restorative breath before following. How silly to be nervous about a meeting with her own husband, a man whose bed she’d crawled out of not four hours ago.

Of course Margaret had been in John’s office before, but the industriousness, the contained energy of enterprise, struck her anew. Ledgers filled shelves along the wall. Correspondence and reports waited in two tidy piles on the corner of her husband’s massive desk. Samples of raw fiber overflowed several small boxes on a table behind which a draped display of Marlborough Mill’s fine cotton cloth shone pristinely white from the wall.

Nothing hinted about the occupant himself, no clues about hobbies, no portraits or knick-knacks, though anyone who knew him understood the very lack of personal items told a great deal about John Thornton. The blood of commerce coursed through his veins as thick as the blood of family.

“That will be all,” John said to Mr. Chives with a dismissive nod to the young man. He dragged a chair around so Margaret could sit beside him rather than across the desk where his visitors usually perched. “Sit here. I must show you some accounts for all of this to make sense.”

Margaret swallowed, feeling even more out of place than she had. Accounts? She’d helped Father and Dixon with the running of the household, but the accounts John managed ran for pages and pages. She slipped into the chair, internally chastising herself for making such a fuss last night.

John began to explain his idea. “When Higgins and I organized the cookhouse, I ended up, by default, as a sort of steward. I am charged with supplying the food, and originally, with finding the matron, though Mary has stepped into that job well and no longer requires any guidance from me. There is, of course, the money from the hands that must be tallied. As you know, I do not want the meals to become charity, so the income and expenses must be kept properly for review by my bookkeeper.” He waved his hand over a pile of papers on centered on the desk. “The job requires too much of my time.”

He looked at her with the glow in his eyes. “You have been trained, I believe, to run a household in London at least as grand at your aunt’s. I have no doubt of your ability to manage Marlborough Mill’s cookhouse, if you are interested.”

“Manage it?” she croaked. “Do you mean I would be responsible for all those tasks you just listed? That I would help Mary Higgins to plan the meals, and then order the food and account for the money?”

His stern nod assured her that he would, indeed, expect her to perform the job, and do it well.

She clasped her hands in her lap, then glanced about his office to make sure they were unobserved before she all but leapt at him, locking her arms around his neck and whispering as effusively as she dared. “I would like it above anything. Oh, do you really mean it?” A fearful thought stilled her. “Do you truly believe I can do a good job?”

“I will help you for as long as you need. And I think Mary Higgins will, as well, don’t you? I am certain she would much rather deal with you than me.”

She nodded into his stiff collar, gave him another hard squeeze, then sat back down. “Show me,” she demanded, searching the stack of papers for the cookhouse accounts.