Page 22 of One London Eve
“There are hills behind the canal that we can see from some of our windows,” Margaret continued in a hopeful tone, swallowing her disappointment at such a curt answer.
“Yes, you may enjoy taking yourselves there from time to time, if you wish to escape our structured landscape,” Mrs. Thornton replied with an air of disdain, looking directly at Margaret.
“It was very kind of Mrs. Thornton to offer to lend us one of their servants,” Mrs. Hale mused aloud after the visitors had gone. “One wouldn’t expect such a kindness to look at her. I mean to say that she holds herself rather aloof and is not easily given to smiling. But it is a lesson, Margaret, not to set your opinions on first impressions.”
“Yes,” Margaret agreed rather absently, thinking of someone else.
“Her daughter reminds me a little of your cousin Edith with her flaxen hair…and an apparent interest in fashion,” Mrs. Hale remarked, raising her eyebrows at the last observation.
Margaret laughed. Fanny’s dress had been altogether too vibrant plaid with wide-hooped skirts. “It must be all the rage in the shop windows,” Margaret replied, to which her mother smiled in shared amusement.
Outside in the carriage, a similar appraisal of the morning call was underway.
“Well, we have done with our duty. John must be pleased,” Mrs. Thornton said, settling into her seat. “Mrs. Hale looks to be the frail type. Neither of them, I fear, is suited for Milton living. Miss Hale is already longing for the countryside.”
“Did you see what she was wearing? Such a plain skirt for receiving callers! I should think having lived in Londonshe would have acquired better habiliments,” Fanny remarked, smoothing the fabric of her own new dress.
Mrs. Thornton glanced at her daughter, a disquieting sense rising as she compared Fanny to the young woman they had just seen. The fact that Miss Hale did not endeavor to impress with fashionable clothing was a point in her favor.
Miss Hale seemed a sensible girl, unlike her own daughter, who fussed and fidgeted about what she wore and what other people said and did. It was a sore spot in Mrs. Thornton’s soul that she could not admire her own daughter, however much she outwardly doted on her. She could not help it, for she had an inherent contempt for weakness in a person’s character.
Her son, she could adore, for he embodied all that was truly admirable: honesty, strength, self-discipline, courage, and determination. Which made Fanny all the more pitiable next to her brother. It was just not in the girl to be like him.
All this went through Mrs. Thornton’s mind in a moment, which led her to ponder next why her son took such an interest in Miss Hale. Why could not he have chosen a Milton girl? Miss Hale seemed amiable enough, but something in the way she held herself apart agitated Mrs. Thornton’s pride. Southern persons could always be expected to put on airs, she mused.
Born and bred in the lassitude of a country parsonage and brought up in London society, Miss Hale would hardly withstand the turbulent turns and trials of living where market forces could sink whole industries overnight, and the threat of violence between men and masters always brewed under the surface. It was better for John to find a bride of sturdy character if he was to marry.
She hoped John might soon tire of his fascination with Miss Hale. He was not accustomed to courting women. It unsettled her to think how easily he had formed an attachment to MissHale—after just one dance with her. He had no experience with love, and she did not wish to see him suffer any heartbreak.
Chapter eleven
It was not many days later that the Hales received an invitation to tea at the Thornton’s residence. Mrs. Hale was intrigued at once.
“This would be a very good opportunity, I dare say, to see how these great manufacturers live,” she told her daughter. “I’m curious to know what kind of grand house they might live in, amongst all of this…dreariness,” she said, waving a dismissive hand toward the windows.
“I think you’ll find that it is a very different grandness from what we would expect in Hampshire or in London. The most impressive buildings here seem to be the gigantic factories,” Margaret remarked, thinking of what she had seen of the town thus far on her walks. “I suppose it’s to be expected in a town like this.”
“Hmm…I wonder how many servants they have and how large their rooms are. And I should especially like to see what they serve for tea here.”
Margaret took this reply as an indication that her mother would go. “Will papa come with us?” she asked, hoping that hewould. The more people to diffuse attention from herself, the better. She was already feeling uncomfortable at the prospect of entering Mr. Thornton’s home.
Father did indeed want to go, and they set out in a cab together, Mr. Hale tucking a blanket around his wife in the frigid January air. Dixon had shaken her head at Mrs. Hale’s insistence on going, as Mrs. Hale had begun to take to her bed more often since arriving in Milton.
Margaret was glad her mother was settled between them, for then she had less opportunity to really see the passing scenery. However, as they drew closer to Marlborough Mills and passed through the tall, open gates, her eyes grew wide. “This is where they live?” she asked incredulously.
“Remember, mamma, what Mrs. Thornton said about living across from her son’s factory,” Margaret said.
“It is a great convenience for Mr. Thornton to live near his mill,” her father added.
Mrs. Hale craned her neck to try to determine the height of the looming factory across the mill yard. “Near it! Why, they must live in the very shadow of it!” she exclaimed.
Margaret was fascinated by the scene, however stark. The factory walls were massive, and the clacking noise seemed to pour out through the bricks into the empty dirt yard. The stone house they pulled up to was neat and surprisingly clean, being so close to the source of so much smoke and dirt.
Mr. Hale helped his wife up the stairs as Margaret turned to take in the view from the portico, above the yard below. Everything within sight was stone, brick, iron, dull gray and brown. There was nothing of nature to gaze upon but the sky above, and even that was clouded over with the perpetual haze of the chimneys’ exhalations.
The size of the factory at this proximity was impressive. Although Margaret attempted to resist attributing this industrialglory to any one person, she could not help feeling a growing wonder and admiration for the power one must have to command such an enterprise.
A maid ushered them into a large, airy drawing room and left to call Mrs. Thornton to her guests. Every surface seemed polished to glimmer in the light. A massive table gleamed in the anteroom. Shades of dim green covered the walls and the patterns of the upholstery. The atmosphere was still, despite the muffled noise invading from the mill. All was perfection and order, but without warmth. Glass domes covered dried flowers. Not a thing showed that any living was done here.
