Chapter Text
Spring 1844
The chestnut-haired eleven-year-old parson’s daughter wandered through the meadow near their home in Helstone, Hampshire, taking in the bird calls and the tiny wildflower blossoms in bloom among the tall green grasses. Her father was in his study, as usual, communing with one of his wealthiest parishioners and discussing the plight of their poorest. Her mother was lying outside on the bench in the early afternoon sun, being attended worshipfully by her faithful ladies’ maid, Dixon. And Margaret, as the moppet was called, was investigating the sounds coming from the far end of the garden.
There had been strange noises reaching her ears all morning, and now that she was finished with her schoolwork and had put in her hour on the well-tuned piano, she was free to roam about and figure out who was responsible for all this banging and clanking. As she neared the yellow rosebush, so high she could not see over it, the noise got louder. Rounding the giant shrubbery, her breath caught in her throat as her eyes were met by a tall, rugged man with an iron hammer in his hand.
The carpenter was strong and dirty; his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows and he had on no necktie. Rather, his throat was bare and glistening with sweat, and his sinewy arms showed their musculature as he heaved a fencepost into the hole he had been digging. His hands were besmirched with mud and iron, large and masculine as they gripped the unruly timber. It was clear he had not shaved in several days, and his hair was dark against his clear sunkissed skin. In his disheveled state with his well-worn leather waistcoat, unshaven face, tanned forehead, and hair drenched in sweat, it occurred to Margaret what a contrast he was to her own father.
Mr. Hale was a rather slight man of mean height who had a somewhat effeminate quality about him. He seemed delicate, as he was slim and his skin was pale from spending most of his time indoors. Unlike this hulking fellow, he was never rumpled or unkempt; rather he was always perfectly manicured, his black frock coat fitted to a tee and his neck always neatly collared. His hands were small and creamy and clean, except for the occasional ink stain on his fingertip from writing his letters. And perched on the end of his nose at all times was a pince-nez. No, this working man was nothing like her dear Papa.
And Margaret Hale had never seen anything so beautiful.
Spring 1851
It only took Margaret one look at Henry Lennox’s hands to know that she could never be attracted to him. They were blemish-free, only slightly larger than her own, and his nails were clean and pink and trimmed to perfection. In fact, he reminded her somewhat of her father: studious, slender, and rather too well-dressed for her taste. Yes, she had been half-raised in the upper-crust of London society and knew that such things were popular among the Ton, but she could not help that it appealed to her naught.
How he had gotten it into his head that she should ever be interested in him was a mystery to her. She, of course, was miserable at having to cause him pain, but it could not be helped. And so, she muddled through her refusal, trying to console him as best she could whilst allowing him to maintain his dignity.
When he bitterly spat that “a London girl would not have behaved so,” all semblance of remorse fled her, and her piteous countenance was replaced by one of regal disinterest and unspoken dismissal.
Spring 1852
“He’s taken the house on our behalf! What nerve!” Margaret cried after her father informed her that they would not be searching for appropriate lodgings in Milton that day. “Who is this Mr. Thornton, may I ask, that he thinks he knows what our family needs in a home?”
“Margaret, my dear, you must hush. You will upset your mother with your rantings, and you know she is already in a state over this whole move,” her father gently chided her. “I believe before getting too agitated by the situation, we should have a look at the house. It may be that it is indeed just right for us.”
She knew there was no reason to argue with her father. His guilt over leaving the Church and removing their small family to this industrial town was so overpowering that he could not stomach seeing her upset. She had vowed to herself that she would be supportive and that he would have no reason to repent this strange shift in circumstance on her behalf. Of course, she was not any happier about this than her mother or Dixon, but someone had to be his champion in this most difficult chapter of his life.
As she had imagined, the house in Crampton was anything but just right for the Hales and Dixon. There were only three bedrooms. The fireplaces were smoky. The servants’ room was barely more than a closet. And the wallpaper was hideous. This would not do!
Over the course of their tour, she learned that Mr. Thornton was the Master of Marlborough Mills, and that he apparently had some influence in this strange city of Milton-Northern. Well, thought she, he may have influence over the people of Milton, but he can have no influence over me!
While her father settled back into their inn and ordered their lunch, Margaret Hale took the opportunity of finding this Marlborough Mills with the determined intention of giving their high-handed benefactor a piece of her mind. Walking through the yard, she was gazed at curiously by several raggedly dressed mill-workers in moth-eaten shawls and fustian clothes. Bidding them all good day as she passed, she continued on into the building.
What greeted her when she strode through the door was like a snowy wonderland, cotton fluff drifting almost magically in the air, some hanging as if not moving at all, while the rhythmic music of the mechanical looms drummed out a beat that was at once soothing and yet overwhelming in its volume. An overlooker approached her and asked her what her business was. When she asked to speak to Mr. Thornton, she was led up a flight of stairs and down a suspended gangplank to his office. Once the door was shut behind her, it was as if the great pounding symphony of looms became a quiet lullaby vibrating through her shoes.
Looking around the office, she saw evidence of a man accustomed to having his way. It was clean and clutter-free, just a lamp and a ledger, a pen, an inkwell, and a calendar on his massive desk. Next to the door, under the windows which circumfrenced the room, was a small table on which sat a ewer, a basin, and a fresh cotton towel, along with a decanter of water capped with a crystal glass. Behind his desk, she saw a bookshelf filled with trade-catalogues, yearly ledgers, and - to her utter surprise - a volume of Plato.
She imagined the great Mill Master, fat and bald, sitting in his counting house counting out his money, while sucking on a cigar and laughing about this poor Church defector from the South moving to Milton thinking he could make a living teaching. Her disgust for the presumptuous man only grew as her time waiting in his office kept increasing. Finally, after what must have been half an hour or more, she decided she must find Mr. Thornton herself and make her case; her father would be waiting for her, and probably with some anxiety.
So, across the landing she walked and down the stairs, asking a young weaver where she might find his Master. The portly, freckled boy of perhaps fifteen pointed a pudgy finger toward the corner where, unlike the rows and rows of new steel machines, six red-painted and antiquated looms stood, one of which was apparently not working. She made her way quickly through the vast blizzard of industry and engineering and found two women in long white aprons exchanging worried glances while intermittently looking down toward something at their feet. Instinctively, Margaret followed their gaze, only to be met with the sight of a pair of fine black wool trousers and equally expensive calf leather congress shoes. The top half of the owner of these accoutrements was obscured from her view by a tremendous machine whose red paint was chipping away from its iron skeleton.
“Mr. Thornton,” she said, trying to speak over the din without shouting.
No answer.
“Mr. Thornton,” she said louder, this time bent forward toward where she assumed his ear would be.
“Wrench,” he called from under the loom, a masculine hand poking out in expectation.
“Mr. Thornton!” she finally yelled, unable to hold in her frustration a second longer.
“What is it?” he shouted, pushing himself out from under the hulking appliance with no little effort.
As he stood, irritation chiseled into his every feature, Margaret felt a strange sensation, vaguely familiar, but powerful enough to overtake her. Watching him reach his full height, taking in his lithe but broad frame, his rolled up sleeves, his undone collar, and finally watching him pull his filthy hands through his black hair, she found herself planted to the ground, her mouth unable to form words but unable to close. When his summer-blue eyes finally fully opened and met her own, she knew she was thoroughly defeated.
“Well?” he repeated impatiently, wiping the grease from his calloused, able hands.
She blinked, her eyelids low as she watched him squeeze the smeared rag down each long, grease-stained finger intentionally. Her lips made an unconscious “O” as she stood, transfixed by his every movement. Blinking rapidly, she tried to bring herself back from her hypnosis in order to lodge her complaint with some shred of pride.
“My name is Margaret Hale,” she finally offered, willing her tongue to cooperate.
“Come again?” he shouted over the engines in growing annoyance.
“My name is Margaret Hale!” she matched his volume. The sound of her own voice shook her back to her purpose, and she once again assumed the air of the haughty duchess which came so naturally. His response to this declaration was simply a stern brow wrinkling as if to say, “And?” She inhaled sharply in order to vociferate her grievances. “I’ve come to address the issue of the house you have so high-handedly taken for my family!”
“Come back at six.” And with that, he was crouching to crawl back under the broken machine.
“I wish to speak about it now, sir!” she demanded.
Again drawing himself up to his full height, he stepped toward her, his piercing eyes intent on her own, and brought himself so close she could feel his breath on her ear. He then said in an even, low, and utterly captivating tone, “If I don’t get this machine operational, these poor people will have no work. If they have no work, they shall have no supper. Nor will their young’ns. Would you like to buy their supper, or would you like to kindly return at six?”
Margaret’s lips curled in a bashful smile at his closeness. Embarrassed by her own girlish response to his very masculine presence, her cheeks flushed crimson. Straightening her expression in shame, she simply stammered out as best she could - seeing as her throat had gone dry at the scent of machine oil, rust, and cedarwood shaving soap emanating from his smooth and powerful jaw - “Six.”
John Thornton was having a deuce of a day.
First, his coffee had been burnt by the new kitchen maid, who served it to him anyway without realizing the extent of her transgression. Then, just as he was about to leave his mother to finish her breakfast, he had knocked the cup over the edge and said coffee had spilt all down the front of his waistcoat, seeping through to his freshly starched white cotton shirt. And to top it off, as he was rising from the floor where he had bent to retrieve the offending cup, he smacked his head against the ornately carved tabletop.
Growling his leave, he returned to his rooms where he was forced to make a full change of costume exclusive only of socks before finally descending the stairs to the mill yard and making his way through to the factory floor.
It was always a comfort to him to inspect the cavernous warehouse before the engines started hammering and the fluff began to fly. Everything was in order: row after row of new machines, gleaming and fresh, prepped with white warp threads flying up halfway to the ceiling, spreading like the wings of a dove above each loom. The floors were swept clean from yesterday’s debris, the wheel was still, high up in the far wall, and the dragon that was the usually-roaring steam-engine lie sleeping in the corner. Yes, here, everything was in order. Everything was just as it should be. Everything was--
He was suddenly struck by an inconsistency in the patterns before him. Where all the other falls of warp were at the correct resting angle, one set was standing exactly erect. This glitch in the perfection of his operation glared at him from the back of the room where the six remaining older looms stood. Walking directly toward the outlier, he could see that the machine had not been shut down correctly the night before. Why?
He would not be able to investigate until the steam engine was up and running, so he made a mental note to check on it after his overlooker arrived and then headed up to his office to see to his ledgers. Upon his desk lie a long, folded document which had not been there when he had left the evening before. An invoice. An invoice dated four weeks ago! How had he not seen this? And where was he to find the money to pay for this? He had just practically emptied his coffers last month installing the new machines; this bill could not have come at a worse time. He threw the paper back onto his desk in disgust, folded his arms, and walked out to the landing to watch, brow knitted, his weavers trickle in for their day’s work.
As soon as John heard the first groan of the steaming dragon, he set out to see to the misbehaving red loom. Glancing into his office door, though, he noted the disarray in which he had left his desk. Having refolded the paper, tucked it into his ledger, straightened his pen and his calendar, he then headed down and strode toward the errant machine. It was stuck, all right. Stuck and grinding and beginning to smoke.
“How long has it been like this?” he demanded from the young lady who usually manned it.
“I dunno, sir. It was makin’ a noise sorta all day yesterday, but it were workin’ fine,” she answered timidly.
“Why didn’t you tell Jones?” His tone was sharp, eliciting a slight flinch from the girl.
“I tried, sir! But he were all day takin’ inventory, weren’t he?”
“Very well. Hold this,” he said as he stripped his well fitted black coat off his back. He didn’t see the other girl walk up until he was under the loom, and then he only knew of her presence by the sight of her dingy, scuffed boots and dusty skirts from his position below the machine. He could not have known that the first girl would sniff his coat and raise her eyebrows to the second, who took the rare opportunity to inhale their handsome master’s scent, her eyes fluttering at the sensation.
And so, his morning went by wrestling with the engine of the antiquated red loom. He had had enough experience working on these particular machines as mechanic and then overlooker for the former Master of Marlborough Mills, but he had hoped that when he had chosen which looms to keep of the old set, he had picked the best-performing. As he pried off one gear after another, worked belts off their sheaves, and unfastened bolts which ended up God-knows-where, he cursed himself for not personally tearing apart each of the machines before selecting which ones would remain on his floor.
His aggravation on this blasted trial of a day only mounted as one fix after another failed and the machine was growing more and more stubborn. “Wrench!” he had called, but was ignored. It was just as he had been scraping great globs of grease off an inner alcove of the complex piece of equipment with sore and impatient fingers that he heard his name. “What is it?” he shouted unhappily. Still no answer.
Looking over, he now saw three pairs of feminine shoes, one pair of which were not grimy or overworn, but rather fine and quite unsullied. Rolling his eyes at the timing of a visit from some gentlewoman - why on earth would such a lady be here in his factory? - he scooted his lean body out from under the loom. Standing before him was a young lady, perhaps twenty, perhaps twenty-five given the grown-up confidence she exuded. He took her in from the toes up, while trying to remove as much of the sooty oil from his hands as the pitiful rag the girls had handed him could. Definitely a fine lady; well-dressed with a lovely, soft figure beneath layers upon layers of linen and lace and a complexion as fresh as a babe’s.
When he finally met her eyes, she wore exactly the expression he had come to expect from young ladies of Milton society: lowered lashes, pouty lips not quite closed, blushing cheeks. Ack! He was so sick of these coquettish tricks, constantly employed against him in an effort to entrap him. A fine house and a great fortune was all he was to these so-called genteel females. He almost rolled his eyes out loud when she began to flutter her long black lashes, then pretended to stammer out an introduction.
Oh yes, he thought with no little sarcasm, I am so devastatingly attractive that you cannot even string three words together. I’m sure my soiled hands, sweat-stained shirt collar and grease-smeared face are just irresistible to you.
“Come again?” he shouted in high dudgeon. This was no place for lilting parlour voices.
“My name is Margaret Hale!” she shouted back, acting as if she were finally able to pull herself together at last.
Nice try. He cocked his head with a raised eyebrow, awaiting a further explanation for her appearance on his factory floor in the middle of a workday.
“I’ve come to address the issue of the house you have so high-handedly taken for my family!”
He couldn’t believe this. First the coffee, then his suit, the unexpected expense, the broken loom, and now this? Was he really about to be harangued by this flirtatious miss over the charity he had performed for her family, strangers to whom he owed nothing? No. Not now.
“Come back at six,” he ordered her as he bent to return to the more important task at hand.
“I wish to speak about it now, sir!”
The little minx! The vixen! First she beset him with her obvious machinations, and now she was demanding he cow to her wishes. Well, two could play this game. He straightened his back, squared his shoulders, and drew as near to her as propriety would allow - no nearer. Then, with his mouth almost touching the skin of her earlobe, he put on his lowest, most seductively guttural voice and explained the situation in terms she might understand, adding slowly, “Or would you like to kindly return at six?”
“Six,” she repeated simply, her eyes wide and her voice a gravelly whisper.
“Very well,” he said, then with a bow, he turned back to the machine and disappeared under it for the better part of the afternoon.