Page 32 of Through Darkened Clouds

“There is a bit of truth to it, I must admit. But on Sundays, when all the factories are closed, we sometimes have the pleasure of seeing the sky’s true color.”

Edith wrinkled her nose to think of anyone living in such a place. “At any rate, we are glad to have Margaret back home with us in London. I’m certain Henry would agree,” she added, giving an encouraging smile to her brother-in-law.

Mr. Thornton frowned. The pleasurable sense of connection with Miss Hale he had gleaned a moment before evaporated.

Margaret gave a weak smile, but kept her gaze lowered.

“You should bring your wife to London, Mr. Thornton,” Edith remarked brightly, thinking only of how any Milton lady would surely enjoy a London sojourn.

Mr. Thornton blinked. “I am not married,” he replied simply, resolutely avoiding a glance at Margaret, who was staring at the tablecloth with a reddening face.

“Oh! But Margaret has spoken of Mrs. Thornton,” Edith rejoined in a flustered manner.

“My mother lives with me,” Mr. Thornton explained with a polite smile.

“Then, if she is well, I imagine she would enjoy coming to London,” Edith persisted.

“My mother is well, thank you. But she is not inclined to travel,” Mr. Thornton answered.

Margaret caught his glance, and they shared a smile, both knowing his mother proudly avoided London.

It was that moment Mr. Thornton would remember most fondly that evening.

Surrounded by others all evening, Mr. Thornton found no opportunity to converse privately with Miss Hale. Nor could he discern her true feelings by her diminutive and strangely timid attitude. A desperation began to creep over him as it grew time to leave. He had not yet fulfilled his purpose in coming to London and would have to return to the mill on the morrow.

“It was good to see you, Mr. Thornton,” Miss Hale said in a wavering voice as she stood to make her formal goodbye.

Was she truly glad to see him? He could not tell. Her quavering tones were far from the strong, certain voice that he had known before.

“Miss Hale,” he began, his breath quickening with his urgency. “If you will allow me to speak with you privately tomorrow. There is a matter I wish to discuss—”

“Yes…of course,” she answered, her anxiousness increasing at his earnestness.

“Would ten o’clock be acceptable? I must return home…”

“Ten o’clock will suit,” she responded, catching a gleam of some intense emotion in his eyes. Her heart pattered in roused confusion as she watched him leave, wondering what he could mean. She almost felt he had signaled to her his old, strong attraction to her. A wave of hope swelled so within her that her vision blurred with tears.

But she dashed such a notion away. It was not possible that he still cared for her as he once had.

Mr. Thornton walked to his hotel; the darkness was broken by street lamps that cast long shadows as he passed them. He needed to clear his head and shake off the oppressiveness of the formal affair that had forced him to restrain his words with impassive decorum.

Had he gained anything by attending? He did not believe so, except for the unmatched pleasure of merely being in the same room as her. Miss Hale had been withdrawn and anxious in his presence, and he could not convince himself that it was because she bore an unspoken affection for him.

He had half a mind to leave this torture and return home. Yet he knew he could never live with himself if he did not pursue a final answer from her.

No, he was resolved. Even if she rejected him again, he must know. If there were a chance in a thousand that she would agree to come back to Milton and be his wife, he would throw himself into the midst of any fiery trial.

Chapter twelve

Margaret examined her face in her bedchamber mirror. She did not look tired, although she had scarcely slept all night. She rushed about her room—washing her face in rose water, calling Newton to help her lace up her corset, and looking for her hair ribbon.

Her stomach was too much aflutter this morning to eat anything for breakfast. She glanced at the clock for the hundredth time. Half-past nine. He would arrive soon.

Waiting in the quiet opulence of the back drawing room before the hour, she could not keep still. He was coming only to relay some news of concern to her, she told herself, endeavoring to calm the tingling energy that prickled her skin. She feared embarrassing them both by letting some tender glance or nervous act reveal her change of feeling for him.

There was only one thing she was determined to accomplish at this meeting—something she had failed to do last evening: she would convey how grateful she was for all he had done for her father’s sake. This much she owed him. But most of all, she ached for him to know that she thought kindly of him.

The bell rang. She froze, slowing her breath to hear every hint of his approach.