Page 10 of Through Darkened Clouds

Mr. Lennox dismissed this reply with pressed lips.

The doorbell rang at that moment, halting Mr. Bell from saying something more to the arrogant barrister.

Martha, a maid who alternated her workdays between the Thorntons and the Hales, answered the bell and allowed the familiar caller in.

Mr. Thornton acknowledged the servant girl with a friendly nod and stepped into the hallway.

“Ah, Thornton, in here!” Mr. Bell called out, hearing Thornton inquire after him.

Mr. Thornton walked through the open doorway to the room in which he had enjoyed many intellectual and moral discussions with Mr. Hale. The space seemed unjustly invaded now by others.

“Margaret’s London relations have come at last,” Mr. Bell said. “This is Mr. Lennox, brother-in-law to Margaret’s cousin Edith. Mrs. Shaw, her aunt, is upstairs tending to our recovering patient.”

Intense jealously flared up at once within Mr. Thornton. Was this the ‘Frederick’ that Margaret had so longingly desired to be at her bedside?

Henry Lennox stood to receive the newcomer as Mr. Bell continued his introductions. “This is Mr. Thornton, known to all of Milton as the master of the town’s largest cotton mill.”

Mr. Lennox raised an eyebrow at the man’s apparent success here. “Mr. Thornton,” he acknowledged politely as the two men shook hands. “What brings you here today?” the Londoner asked with a false smile, appraising the tradesman with curious interest. Mr. Lennox wished to know if Thornton had any claims on or intentions toward Margaret’s heart, for he himself had taken this journey hoping that his assistance in the hour of Margaret’s great need might plant a seed of affection.

“I’m a friend of Mr. Hale’s,” Mr. Thornton replied, taking an immediate dislike to the visitor’s effrontery. “I studied the classics with him.”

“Ah, yes, I’ve heard of such things. How some of our industrialists are continuing their incomplete education. What did you study, if I may ask? I’m curious to know what a tradesman would be inclined to learn.”

The successful mill master bristled at his condescension but answered in an even tone. “We took up the Greek sages—”

“Aristotle? Plato? I see. Then you may aspire to be one of the philosopher-kings. A tradesman philosopher—think of it!” he said, amused at the idea.

Mr. Bell read Mr. Thornton’s narrowing eyes and unsmiling response accurately. “Mr. Thornton is coming with me to Oxford to see to the burial and the funeral. He has been a great help to the Hales since their arrival in Milton.”

“Has he? Very good,” Henry replied casually, then turned to acknowledge Mr. Thornton. “I thank you for your service to the family while they lived here,” he said, as if to signal that his services would no longer be needed.

Mr. Thornton seethed at this dismissal. His stomach churned at the thought of Margaret harboring any deep affection for such an obnoxious man. Was this the man he had seen Margaret with at the train station that terrible night? He could not tell—it had been too dark in the twilight.

He wished desperately to get away from this torture.

“Is there a successful speculation market in the cotton trade?” Mr. Lennox inquired of the Milton manufacturer. “My brother and I have been thinking of dabbling in such ventures.”

“I’m certain there are investing schemes to be found; however, I do not dabble in them. I am too engaged in the everyday work of planning, purchasing, and selling, tending to every aspect of operating my business.”

Mr. Bell nodded in approval.

“Yes, I see. You must be very busy indeed,” Henry answered. The rise of this type of wealthy manufacturer intrigued the London barrister. It seemed these men aspired to be accounted among the upper classes. And yet, they walked among their factory workers and tended to the noise and soot of behemoth machines of metal and wood. Indeed, he thought he detected the smell of smoke on the man.

Upstairs, Martha poked her head into Margaret’s room to see if she was needed.

Shivering, Aunt Shaw directed her at once to heap more coals on the fire.

“Martha,” Margaret asked, beckoning the maid to her. “Who has come to call?” she asked, having heard the doorbell a moment before. Her hushed voice was weak and defeated, unlike that of her once vibrant self.

“The Master, miss. Mr. Thornton,” Martha answered quietly and turned to stir the coals.

“Mr. Thornton,” Margaret mechanically echoed to herself. She sat up, alight with awakened interest. She listened intently for the timbre of that voice which always caused a secret rush of feelings within her. And straining to hear, she caught the faint sound of his Darkshire tones from down below, which filled her with a confusing mix of exuberance and dread.

Quickened by a desperate desire to communicate something of her regard for him, she searched her thoughts wildly for a plan, for this moment of opportunity might never occur again. How could she show him her great appreciation for his friendship to her family? He might despise her, but she would not be deterred from offering sufficient gratitude to one who had been a friend to her father.

Her heart fastening on a purpose, she flung off the bed coverings that confined her and rose to dress.

Aunt Shaw was startled by the unexpected movement of the invalid. “Margaret! Whatever are you doing? Take care you don’t exert yourself…”