Chapter 4
Lovell, Massachusetts
1859
Margaret strode over the cobblestone streets of Lovell as rapidly as her long skirts and petticoats would allow. Her normally placid expression was marred by a severe downward slant of her eyebrows and the compression of her lips to a thin, taut line. She was determined to put as much distance as possible between Chilton Mills and her person.
That hurly-burly man! He had no manners or refinement; she was offended by his appearance, his brash manner of speech, and by every word he had uttered. If this behavior was typical of the men of Lovell, she was truly sorry to have left Williamsburg behind. Southern men had an air of refinement, an in-bred gentility and grace that checked them from committing any offense in word or deed. She had a fleeting impression that this stranger was as attractive as any man of her acquaintance, but such a scandalous thought was quickly pushed aside by her remembrance of his curt manner of speech and rude behavior. Besides, she had more important matters to consider than the brilliant blue eyes of a lowly workman.
After several false turns, she finally found the street that housed the office of Mr. Thornton’s agent. She stepped inside a small waiting area and asked to see Mr. Reynolds. A smiling male clerk asked her to wait one moment while he informed Mr. Reynolds of his visitor. After several moments, he returned to lead her into a large, well apportioned office where an equally smiling gentleman professed that he was delighted to make her acquaintance.
Mr. Reynolds was nattily dressed, and sported an enormous checkered handkerchief in his breast pocket. His broad nasal tones jarred against her ear, but his manner was friendly and conciliatory. Little did Margaret suspect that Mr. Thornton had sent a lad ahead, running full tilt, to apprise Mr. Reynolds of Margaret’s visit and request that he offer her all assistance.
The agent offered her a leather chair and asked how he might serve her. Margaret patiently explained that the property recommended to her family was unsuitable, and Mr. Reynolds shook his head dolefully, clucking in dismay.
“I am sorry to hear this, Miss Hale,” he exclaimed. “However, I understood from Mr. Thornton that your family’s finances were—how shall I put this—somewhat limited? The Winchester property is one of the few with a reasonable rent.”
Margaret smiled sourly. “I believe there has been some misunderstanding, Mr. Reynolds. If I may speak bluntly, my family, while not unduly wealthy, does have the means to afford whatever lodging you are able to show us, short of mansions or estates. My father may be a clergyman, but his family left him a modest stipend, and my mother comes from a wealthy southern family who endowed her handsomely upon her marriage. I believe you will find us capable of handling the rental of other, better properties.” She named a price that made Mr. Reynolds’s eyes shine, and finished her speech with a charming smile, one that in the past had enabled her to get her way whether in the purchase of goods or in handling a difficult parishioner. It did not fail now.
Mr. Reynolds smiled broadly and rubbed his hands together. “That is good! Miss Hale, please accept my apologies for the misunderstanding—and may I say that, while it is highly unusual for a man of my position to do business with a young woman, I believe it will be a pleasure dealing with you.”
Margaret nodded. “I believe we understand each other perfectly.”
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By late afternoon, Margaret had found what she believed to be a highly suitable property, and promised to return on the morrow with her father so that the deal might be closed. It was in a neighborhood on the outskirts of downtown Lovell, a brick row house within easy walking distance of the Merrimack River. It was close enough to the city for her father to make his way to and from his schoolroom, yet nearer the country so that Margaret might enjoy walks along the river and her mother might benefit from air less tainted by industry.
Walking back to their hotel with a satisfied smile on her face, she was deep in thought as to which pieces of their furniture would best fit in the rooms of the smaller space. As she considered how to arrange to have their belongings shipped to Massachusetts, a young woman barreled around the corner of a building and slammed into her.
Margaret dropped the few parcels she had purchased at the dry goods store, scattering them about the sidewalk. The young woman fared worse, however; she slipped to the pavement and lay there, winded. Ignoring her parcels, Margaret knelt by the girl and exclaimed, “Oh, I am so sorry—I was wool gathering! Are you all right?”
The young woman shook her head as if to clear it. “Oh, miss, I am sorry—I’m fine, just a bit winded. Let me help you.” Struggling to her feet, the girl quickly gathered the parcels and, dusting them off with her sleeve, handed them back to Margaret. As Margaret gathered her wits about her, the young woman peered at her inquisitively.
“Have I met you before?” she inquired shrewdly, her eyes narrowing as she studied Margaret.
Margaret returned the girl’s frank gaze with amusement. She appeared to be of an age close to her own; she had soft brown hair and bright, dark eyes. She was dressed in a worn calico dress with a faded apron that had seen better days. Her hands were work worn, but her smile was brightly infectious. Margaret liked what she saw.
“My name is Margaret Hale,” she said with a warm smile.
“Pleased to meet you, miss.” The girl dropped a saucy curtsy. As she rose, she regarded Margaret with a complacent smile. “I’m Bessy Higgins. Now that I hear your voice, I remember where I saw you—you were at Chilton Mills this morning.”
Margaret in turn smiled wryly. She remembered having glimpsed the young woman in the background, attending to another loom. “Yes, I spoke to that rough workman,” she replied frankly, and was astonished when the girl emitted a peal of laughter.
“Workman! That weren’t a workman— that was the Master you spoke to.”
Margaret gaped at Bessy. “Master? Surely you are mistaken. He could not have been the Master.”
“Lord love you, don’t I know the master of the mill where I work?” Bessy declared, hands on hips. “Mr. Thornton was repairing the machine when you stepped in and accosted him.”
Margaret winced. “That was Mr. Thornton?” Memories of the morning swept over her. She remembered the chaotic workroom, so different from anything she had ever experienced—the clatter of machines and hustle of workers, the wisps of cotton fiber that filled the air like the snow she had only seen depicted in pictures from childhood stories. She recalled her surprise to see so many young women working the machines in such a dirty, noisy place, and remembered the insolent stares of the workmen. Most of all, she remembered the blazing blue gaze of the most insolent man of all.
So, that was Mr. Thornton, acting a part to hide his true identity. She recalled Mr. Williams’ look of surprise and uneasiness, and felt a hot flush of mortification rise up her neck to her face. A small voice inside told her that he only acted the role she had assigned to him; never would she have believed him to be Master. She quickly silenced that note of conscience. Why should she feel ashamed? He was the one who had acted rude and ungentlemanly.
She felt Bessy’s curious gaze upon her and thrust her confusion away. “How long have you worked at Chilton Mills?” she inquired, intent upon turning the girl’s thoughts from the incident and her own burgeoning embarrassment.
Bessy shrugged. “Since I was old enough to work--the mill pays well enough, and Mr. Thornton is one of the best masters in Lovell. At least you don’t worry about him chasing you about a loom or letting you go for being ill.”
“Do other masters chase young women about looms?” Margaret asked incredulously.
Bessy laughed again, but there was little humor in the sound. “Yes, miss, some do. Now, I had best be getting home or my pa will be wondering what has become of me.”
“Bessy, wait! May I—may I call on you sometime?” At the girl’s astonished expression, Margaret continued, “My family has just moved to Lovell and I know no one. I was hoping that I might come visit and—and get to know you better, since we are of an age.”
Bessy eyed Margaret shrewdly, studying her gown and hat. The gown may not be ornate, but was made of the finest fabric and cut, and trimmed expertly. Her bonnet was also plain, but of sumptuous material and in the latest fashion. Bessy felt dowdy in her own cotton garment. “We may be of an age, miss, but we are very different. I’m not sure my house would be grand enough for the likes of you.”
Margaret felt the sting of her words, but was dogged in her pursuit. “I promise you that there is nothing grand about my family, Bessy. Please, may I call?” Her eyes pleaded for understanding, and Bessy softened.
“Very well, miss. I live on Pulteney Street, just behind the Golden Dragon tavern. If you can find the Golden Dragon, you will find us—if you do care to visit.” With a saucy smile, she turned and hurried down the street, leaving Margaret staring bemusedly after. Margaret was usually not forward, but there was something in the girl’s manner and bearing that spoke to Margaret. We could be friends, she thought wistfully as she watched the girl’s retreating form. She raised her chin in determination as she recalled Bessy’s parting words.
“Oh, I will care to visit,” Margaret vowed as she turned and headed to the hotel they called home—but not for very much longer.
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When evening fell and the lamps were lit in the parlor of the house at Chilton Mills, John Thornton made his weary way to his home which was collocated with the mill and shared its yard. After several frustrating hours, the loom had been fixed at last, but at quite a cost. Because of the time the repair had required, he had lost precious hours doing paperwork and sorting through orders from customers. This meant he would have to be at the office before daybreak tomorrow to make up for this lost time. He could not afford to keep customers waiting, and knew that any outstanding orders must be filled and shipped no later than tomorrow afternoon. The warehouse was bursting with goods ready to sell, but in recent months orders had dropped off, making the customers that they did serve all the more precious.
As he entered his home and ascended the steps, he felt his exhaustion drop from him like a heavy cloak he discarded. Now that he could sit in his favorite chair and read the newspaper, allowing his mother to fuss over his comfort, he felt all would be well. Perhaps she might have started a fire in the grate—it was a chilly night, despite the blossoms on the trees in town. His house was large and spacious, but austere—his mother had had the furnishing of it, and her tastes were decidedly old fashioned. The walls of the rooms were neutral shades as Mrs. Thornton was no fan of fancy wallpapers or ornate designs. She had selected furniture for its sturdiness rather than comfort, and the paintings were dark and of traditional subjects—arrangements of vegetables and pheasants, or scenes of men in their pinks astride horses, riding to the hunt. Few pillows or furbelows graced the room, which had large crystal chandeliers that glittered when lit, reflecting their cold light upon the walls and all within.
As expected, she awaited him at the entrance to the parlor, a stiff smile on her face. Others might have thought she was not well pleased to see her son, but he who knew her better than anyone knew differently.
Mrs. Thornton was a tall, handsome woman who carried herself with a regal air. She had borne many troubles, and as a result had developed a stern outlook on life. She approached her existence from a practical rather than sentimental viewpoint. She ran her home efficiently, overseeing the servants with a firm hand. She dealt with her daughter Fanny in a similar vein, showing little tolerance for the girl’s airs and affectations. She loved one thing alone in this world—her son. John was the source of all joy and contentment in her life. He held the primary place in her heart, and she viewed his triumphs and disappointments as keenly as he did, if not more so. She kept a jealous regard over how others in their society spoke of or treated him, and did not tolerate any criticism of his words or actions. No mother had better son, and no son had more loyal and active advocate.
“Good evening, Mother,” he said softly, dropping a kiss upon her waiting cheek. “I hope you have not been waiting for me too long.”
“Not at all, John,” she hastened to assure him, although she had been waiting these past two hours for his footstep on the landing. “How was your day? Is the machine mended at last?”
Mr. Thornton smiled. Not much went on in the mill that escaped Mrs. Thornton’s sharp eyes or keen ears.
“Yes, it is mended and working. And the injured workman was attended by the surgeon and should return to work in a day or so. At least, that is what Dr. Donaldson tells me. He stopped by on his way to see Fanny this afternoon.” Mr. Thornton picked up his newspaper and settled himself in his favorite chair. “What is wrong with my sister now, Mother? A sore throat, a backache—or does she merely have the vapors?”
Mrs. Thornton pressed her lips together in a thin line. “Do not mock your sister, John. She is not strong of constitution as you and I are.” Mrs. Thornton was mortified by the hypochondria displayed by Fanny on any and all occasions, especially when her will was thwarted. Fanny had been begging to go to Boston for months, but neither her mother nor her brother had the time or inclination to escort her. Thus, she suffered headaches and pangs and spasms requiring weekly visits from Dr. Donaldson. Mrs. Thornton had little patience for such antics, but felt that John should not condemn the young girl who had no memories of the hard times that their family had faced when they emigrated to the States.
“Dinner will be served at half past eight,” Mrs. Thornton informed her son. When he nodded but did not respond, she continued, “I thought I saw a young woman enter the mill today. What business had she there?”
Mr. Thornton glanced up from his perusal of the paper. “That was Miss Hale, Mother—the daughter of Mr. Bell’s friend.”
His mother’s lips parted in surprise. “Miss Hale? Why, I thought she was but a child.”
Mr. Thornton smiled wryly. “As did I—it appears we were both wrong.”
His mother seated herself in the chair opposite his own. “Whatever did she want?”
John sighed and lowered the paper. “She was not happy with the accommodations that were found for them.” Before his mother could open her mouth to protest, he continued, “And I must say I don’t disagree with her. I should have paid closer attention to the areas where Mr. Reynolds was searching. The Winchester district is no place for a well-bred family such as the Hales.”
Mrs. Thornton did not disagree, but was ill pleased to think that a young woman from the south would challenge her son, or look down her nose at Lovell. “What kind of girl is she, John?’
Her son frowned in concentration as he recalled the slim, graceful figure that had stood before him. “Not above medium height. She is comely, but nothing out of the common way, and very proud.” He deliberately kept his description bland and vague, knowing that his mother would be on his scent like a bloodhound were he to espouse any interest.
His mother smiled in satisfaction. “It is just as I feared! These Hales have brought their southern airs of gentility and superiority north with them. And what are they but a family where the father has disgraced himself and left his position?”
Mr. Thornton stared evenly at her. “Nevertheless, Mother, I promised Mr. Bell that we would befriend them, and help them out in any manner within our means.” He lifted the paper before his face, signaling that the discussion was over.
Hannah Thornton sighed as she smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from the front of her gown. “Very well, I shall pay a visit upon Mrs. Hale at the earliest opportunity. Perhaps Fanny might be able to befriend the daughter.” With a twitch of her skirts, she left the room to see to dinner.
Expelling his breath, Mr. Thornton scanned the articles across the front page of the paper and noted that the turmoil in Congress continued over the territories and whether they should be free or slave. He closed his eyes for a moment in despair. This issue would never be solved peacefully, of that he was certain.
On his only venture to the southern states, when he had gone with several of his fellow manufacturers on a tour of several of the large cotton houses in the south, he had been taken aback by the vehemence of these men for slavery and their way of life. Any talk of ceasing slavery in the western territories was met with deep hostility. He recalled one plantation owner proclaiming, “We fully intend to be the equal to our northern brethren in this Union—or be out of it!”
Northern politicians were just as immovable in their desire to halt the spread of slavery to the open lands west of the Mississippi. Thornton felt full sympathy for them and their abhorrence for this vile practice that enchained human beings for their entire lives, yoking them to subservience in the fields and grand houses of the south. But to tear the country asunder—what would happen to them all? The south was a beautiful place, with charming, gracious men and women as lovely as lilies. But beneath that gentility was the ugly underbelly of what it took to sustain such a life. How could it continue indefinitely, with the clamor of abolitionists and those opposed?
Specifically—and more selfishly—he wondered what would become of his mill if the south were to secede. The free flow of cotton to the northern states would be at an end. Without the raw materials of his trade, his mill would have nothing to produce.
He glanced once more at the paper, at the reports of various speeches in Congress, and wondered what others were thinking. Could no politician be found to pull the sides together and affect compromise? He remembered the words of the Illinois politician Abraham Lincoln: “A house divided against itself cannot stand….it will cease to be divided. It will become all one thing, or all the other.” A line was swiftly being drawn between north and south—could this line be removed by the actions of diplomacy? He could not see how, yet it must be attempted. Little as he knew of politics, he knew that this fledgling nation could not split apart without terrible repercussions.
Mr. Thornton lowered the paper and stared at the fire on the hearth. Into his heavy thoughts, the image of Miss Hale returned. Try as he might, he could not banish her from his thoughts. When he had first glimpsed her standing with grave dignity by the power loom, he had felt a stirring of attraction unlike anything he had felt before.
However, his initial interest had evaporated in the wake of her cold words and imperious manner until he felt nothing but disgust. Liar, his conscience taunted him. If that were so, then why did he continue to dwell upon her face and figure? He could still conjure her smooth creamy skin, her clear eyes, and the jut of her chin. She was no bigger than a minute, he remembered thinking whimsically, and he recalled the bizarre notion he had had to pick her up and put her in his pocket for safekeeping, as one would do a prize pocket watch or gold coin. His fingers curled in memory of his overpowering desire to touch her.
Enough, he thought crushingly. He was no better than a rough hand to her. He would think of her no more. He wondered how she would react when she learned that he was the master. His mouth relaxed into a small smile; he would like to see her face when the truth came to light.
“John, are you ready for your dinner?” His mother’s voice pierced his thoughts and he left his newspaper and thoughts behind in anticipation of the evening meal.