Margaret of the North (34 page)

"I am sorry," he
muttered sincerely.  "I never meant to imply that you were not doing
enough."

"No, that is not it,
either.  It is just that we are so different, your mother and I.  Maybe she
would have resented any woman you married but knowing that still does not make
the situation easier."

He was sympathetic but he felt
helpless, unable to contradict the truth of her statement.  Yet, he doubted
that there was anything that he nor anyone else could do to change his mother.

"It is hard but I can
actually live with her indifference, even her avoidance of me, maybe, even
learn to ignore it, in time.  I realize that it must be hard for her, too,
living with the woman who took from her the person around which her world had
revolved."

"I am sorry I was not aware
of all this."  He answered lamely.

"You are busy with your work
at the mill.  How could you be?"  The edge had returned to her voice,
wrought by the perception that the situation with Mrs. Thornton was hopeless
and that John could never fully understand her despair over it.

She abruptly got up from her
chair and picked up her book.  "I know and accept that the mill is
important to you.  I also realize that it is unpleasant and quite vexing to be
caught in between your wife and your mother."

She walked towards the writing
table and nearly slammed her book on the pile on top of it.  She turned, her
eyes flashing.  "What upsets me the most is how your mother seems so
detached towards my daughter, who is of her flesh and blood."

"What do you mean?"

"She did not come to see
Elise until a few days after she was born.  I cannot remember if she has
touched my child at all.  It worries me that she might treat Elise the way she
does me."

"Give my mother time.  It
has been a long time since she has seen, much less held a baby, and she is not
very demonstrative, as you know."

"No, except to you." 
Her voice faltered and she sat down on the chair in front of the writing
table.  She covered her face with her hands as she struggled to keep from
crying.

"Margaret, my love!" 

He could not bear to see her cry
and it no longer mattered to him then that she might repel his efforts at
comforting her.  All he wanted to do was hold her, tell her that he would do
almost anything to make her happy.  He came towards her, knelt on one knee, and
disengaging her hands off her face, kissed and caressed it lovingly.  She had
shed no tears but her eyes were moist and red and clouded with such
mournfulness as he had not seen in her before.

"Has it been that hard
living in this house with my mother?"

She covered her face with her
hands once again.  "I miss Mama.  I miss my father and Frederick.  My
parents never even saw my daughter, never knew I would have one."

He gathered her close into his
arms, "Oh my love."  She buried her face on his shoulder and,
immovable, reticent, impenetrable, she clung to him.  Then, her body began to
quiver against his, gripped by a disconsolate sorrow about which he felt
helpless.  All he could do was hold her until she calmed down again.  Happy as
the two of them had been, it had not occurred to him that she would continue to
grieve and miss her family that much, especially now that she had her own. 
Then, he reminded himself that, as strong as his wife seemed to be, she was, in
fact, quite young and probably occasionally needed someone to turn to for
counsel and implicit support, such as that her mother or her father or even Mr.
Bell had given her.  Had she hoped that his mother could have become that
trusted confidante?

Margaret raised her head and
although her face was not wet with tears, her eyes were nearly bloodshot and
her lips swollen as if she had bitten them hard.  He peered earnestly at her
face, his eyes deep with concern.

She tried to smile, "I will
be all right."  Then, aware for the first time that he was kneeling on the
floor, she added, "But you must get up!"

"I will but will you come to
bed?  You look exhausted."  He offered her his hands as he stood up.

She nodded, rose from her chair,
and found herself suddenly lifted and being carried to the bed.  He whispered
against her hair, "Remember that, however trying things become, I love you
more than anything in this world and I am here when you need me."

He laid her on the bed and sat
next to her, looking deeply, tenderly, into her eyes.  "Remember also that
we will be seeing Frederick and Dolores in Paris, probably as early as next
summer."

"We will take Elise
along?"

"Of course.  Dixon, too, to
help you take care of her.  Dixon would be happy to see your brother again, I'm
sure."

That night, he held her in his
arms where she fell asleep and remained until she awakened the following
morning.

**************

The Thorntons and their household
moved to the new house as summer began to wane.  In Mrs. Thornton's new rooms,
her beloved furniture and ornaments from the old house had been arranged to her
specifications.  She had to admit that Margaret showed sensitivity to her needs
in designing her rooms to suit her preferences in color and austere trimming. 
Her only complaint was that too much light streamed into her sitting room in
the morning but she solved that problem by keeping her drapes closed.  When the
clutter was cleared from unpacking boxes and the frenzy of moving and settling
in had ceased, Mrs. Thornton felt sad and sorry for herself—left with all her
familiar possessions, remnants from a life of complacency and content that she
doubted she would ever have again.

She had a good view of the
backyard garden with its trees, flower beds, a relatively large expanse of
lawn, and the small vegetable and herb bed enclosed in a low fence just outside
the kitchen.  In the morning, she woke to the chirping of birds and in the
tranquility of her new surroundings, she slept past her usual time for
awakening during her first few days.  Her days were generally calm and
peaceful, occupied by hours of needlework in the afternoon.

The casual elegance of the
house—its light moss green wallpaper, vases of flowers, Chinese vessels and
pewter candelabras—was too fanciful for her tastes and she spent most of her
afternoons in her large sitting room.  With her spacious suite to while away
her hours in, the tension between her and Margaret eased somewhat.

But Mrs. Thornton was not too
happy.  She missed all the big and little things that used to help her
structure her day at the old house.  She longed to hear the humming, whirring,
and clanging of the mill machines, to watch the bustle of workers, to be
surrounded by the white cloud of cotton fluff that floated from the mill into
the courtyard, and to see John stride purposefully across the
courtyard—everything that reassured her all was well with her world.  Restless
in the interminable silences of the house, she found it irritating that she
could not readily walk out and, in a couple of minutes, enter the large door into
the mill as she used to do.  Not long after settling into her rooms, she
insisted on going with John to the mill.

The mill was a good four
kilometers from the house and it usually took John half an hour to walk to it. 
Mrs. Thornton, although sprightly, could not keep up with his pace so he had to
slow down for her and nearly an hour later, they arrived at the mill.

They had walked without speaking
so as not to impede their progress but within sight of the mill, John could not
hide his irritation at being delayed and, as soon as they entered the gate, he
said, "I have a meeting this morning, mother, and I am already late. 
They're probably waiting for me in my office right now."  He hurried
towards his office and left his mother to walk to the mill by herself.

At around noon, he met her inside
the mill as she walked around, moving slowly, her shoulders drooping.  She did
not appear to have her usual vigilance.

"You are tired, mother.  You
should go home.  I will tell Williams to fetch you a cab."

She protested, "I can walk
home with you when you finish this evening.  I will wait in your office.  I can
rest there."

"No, mother.  You have never
stayed this long and the walk here this morning has probably tired you out even
more.  Go home and rest, please."

Mrs. Thornton said no more and
nodded her head, unable to protest, as she had often done, the wasted expense
on a cab.  She was, in fact, too tired to walk home, too exhausted in spirit by
her disappointing morning.  The walk to the mill was too long and although
acutely conscious of her son's impatience with her pace, she had been incapable
of going faster.  By the time she had entered the mill, she had lost the
enthusiasm with which she began her morning.  Worse than that, with her
flagging energy and guilt at delaying John from his tasks, the walk around the
mill was not the antidote she had expected against the ennui of her quiet
uneventful days at the new house.

**************

John returned home that evening
to find Margaret in the conservatory off of the drawing room, humming a lullaby
and rocking Elise to sleep in her crib.  She sat on a chair facing the garden,
absorbed for the moment in a world peacefully centered on her child,
inattentive to the sounds and the stirrings that were the usual signs of life
within a home.  John paused at the door to watch his wife and daughter for an
instant before joining them.  Coming home to his wife continued to be the
reward he dangled in his mind's eye that awaited him at the end of each day. 
He had thought at first that having a child would limit the precious sweet
moments he had with Margaret.  It was true that they did not always have as
much time alone together before dinner as they used to but not much else had
changed.  Margaret was often waiting for him in their sitting room by herself
or just ready to put Elise in her crib.

John had not anticipated either
that he would dote on his daughter, now as lively as any baby could be, but as
individual as any adult in the house in expressing her needs as well as her delight
and frustration.  Every morning, Mary brought her in to nurse and on weekends,
he and Margaret played with Elise in bed before all three of them went down for
breakfast.  In the dining room, Elise was entertained by the greater variety of
voices and sounds and the larger, brighter surroundings.  She usually lay in
her baby carriage, her eyes alert, adding her babbling to the usual ambient
noise of breakfast, and occasionally playing with the colorful objects hanging
from a string tied between the carriage handle and cover.

John approached his wife as
noiselessly as he could and bent down to press his lips against the nape of her
neck.  Margaret, happily surprised by the warm soft sensation, extended her arm
behind her and around his head as she turned to kiss him back.

"Good evening, love." 
He said, smiling at her.  Then, he bent over the crib and kissed his sleeping
child.

Margaret rose from her chair and
joined him as he stood watching Elise for a few moments.  "It would be
wonderful if we could all sleep as peacefully as she does."

Margaret smiled, "Wouldn't
it?  But having no care in the world would bore you, I think."

He chuckled a little and placed
an arm around her shoulders as he led her away from the crib.  "Did you
see mother when she came back from the mill this afternoon?"

They sat on chairs farther away
from the crib and talked in hushed tones.  "Yes, she seemed very tired and
went straight to her room.  She asked Jane to serve her lunch there.  First
time I have known her do that."

"I think the walk to the
mill this morning was too much for her.  That and going around the mill, making
sure workers were not slacking off, exhausted her by noon.  She was probably
hungry, too, but I know she would have starved rather than come with me to
lunch at the dining hall."

"Next time, you could take a
cab.  Or we might think of buying a barouche for our use.  It would be useful
to you when autumn and winter come."

He looked at her thoughtfully,
the hint of a scowl playing on his forehead.  "That is a possibility but
we'll talk about that another time."

She peered closer at him. 
"Is anything the matter?"

"I had a meeting with worker
representatives this morning—another one of my attempts to understand where my
men are coming from.  I figure if we resolve problems and disputes before they
pester, we can go longer without having to deal with strikes."

"What a marvelous idea. 
Maybe you could even prevent them this way."

"I have no illusions about
that.  Something can always come up that may make one inevitable.  These
strikes have often been about wages and working conditions and resolutions are
sometimes complicated and difficult if not impossible, particularly when market
forces are not favorable."