In Consequence by Trudy Brasure

{Note to readers: the final chapter of this story will appear when it is finished, hopefully by early July.}

The first pink glow of the coming dawn began to lift the night shadows from the empty mill yard outside the Master’s bedchamber. The faint sound of clanking metal and hissing steam from the distant engine room penetrated the sleeping bride’s dreams as the solid form she was nestled against began to stir at the call of duty.

“Don’t,” Margaret called out in hazy desperation, clutching at her husband’s nightshirt to keep him close. “Stay with me a little longer,” she whispered softly into his chest, feeling a twinge of shame for her outburst. She could not bear his withdrawal yet from this perfect haven of peace. The wakening dread of another grieving day loomed ahead of her. The impending loneliness of the hours without him caused her to cling to him.

She was weary of the heaviness in her heart; she wished to stay in the safe comfort of his arms forever. Margaret traced her fingertips over the thin-clad chest in front of her, in fresh wonder of her privilege to touch him in such a way. The exuberance of their newly wedded bliss had been marred by tragedy, the natural joy of such an occasion cut short by affliction. He deserved so much more.

He had patiently borne the vicissitudes of this trial and had offered gentle comfort at every turn. A surge of profound love filled every fiber of her being and flowed out through her fingers as they continued their hesitant exploration of his strong form. She wished to give him all her tender affection.

His slowed breathing and perfect stillness gave her courage to touch the bare skin exposed below his neck. Then, with daring purpose, she stretched her neck to place two feather-light kisses along his throat.

The tightening grip at her back sent a sensual thrill coursing though every nerve. She ceased her gentle assault with pounding heart, the blush of sudden shame stilling her hands and keeping her eyes closed.

Seconds passed until he moved to bring his face to hers. She felt the touch of his lips and moved her own in loving accord.

The gentle fervency of his hesitant kisses turned every tired fiber in her body to tingling energy. She slid her arm around his neck and kissed him with more abandon to let him know she was in no fragile, untenable state. She wished to lose herself in the exaltation of love, to cast aside the shroud of mourning to know and feel what it was to be alive.

He groaned at her inviting response and rolled to trap her beneath him, kissing her with matching ardor until he remembered that only yesterday her mother had been put to her final rest. He tore his mouth from hers. “Are you certain this is what you wish?” he rasped, hovering over her with trembling longing to love her as he had not done in days, starved for that intimate bond of affection only so recently gained.

The light of love in her eyes took his breath away as she reached up to smooth his roughened jaw and curl a small hand possessively about his neck. She nodded almost imperceptibly, her eyes locked with his.

He let out a ragged breath before swooping down to crush his mouth to hers.

*****

The Master of Marlborough Mills strode through his factory with bristling energy. The muscles of his long legs slackened to be released from hours of desk-work. Now free from ledgers and accounts, his mind returned to those rapturous moments of fervent fusion in the day’s first light.

A pulsating thrill coursed through his veins as he remembered how she had clung to him, pulling him ever closer with a desperation for his touch that had torn at his heartstrings and urged him on to a feverous pitch of tender passion. He had loved her without restraint and she had wanted him – needed him – to take her to that place where only they two existed and the world was set right.

The knowledge that it was he, and he alone, that could give her such comfort gripped his heart with a fervor of wild emotion that blazed through every portion of his being, leaving him stunned at the notion that he should be what she was to him: the reason for everything he did. For now, every task he performed, every decision he made – small or great – and every endeavor for the future rebounded to her safekeeping and comfort. That he should be her happiness….

The image of her face, glowing with peaceful contentment in the aftermath of their ardent lovemaking, sent tremors of feeling to his very depths. In the midst of all her distress, he had been able to erase every trace of sorrow, if only for a moment. The way her eyes lit with tender adoration would be seared in his memory forever.

The mere thought of her filled the air around him with vibrancy of purpose and power. He felt that constant, aching desire to hold her….

“Master…Master!” The insistent call cut through his mental wanderings and he stopped to face his overseer, who looked aggravated in his endeavor.

“Yes?” Mr. Thornton returned, lifting his chin in authority as the clattering din of the factory continued around them.

“That man, Higgins, wants a word with you. Says he has important matters to discuss. Shall I tell him to meet you after hours?” Williams offered, hoping for a chance to berate the new mill worker for his impertinent intrusion upon the master’s time.

Mr. Thornton cast his eyes over the multitude of synchronized machines to meet Higgins’ inquiring gaze as he bent over his station. “No. I’ll speak to him,” he clipped, leaving Williams standing in the long aisle.

“I called out when yo’ passed, but yo’ head were elsewhere,” Higgins complained with a slight grin as the Master drew near.

A twinge of embarrassment flashed color into Mr. Thornton’s cheeks as he furrowed his brow in consternation.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” the worker offered in low tones, believing he understood his employer’s distracted state.

“Thank you.”

“I’ve got some figures for yo’ and a host of questions I need fair answer to afore we set to anything,” Higgins announced, training an eye on the moving arm of the loom in front of him as he deftly continued to work his station.

“Meet me at noon tomorrow, then….I’ll provide the lunch,” the Master added as an afterthought, with a slight lift to one corner of his mouth.

Higgins grinned and nodded in acknowledgement. “How’s Miss Margaret?” he continued, his face returning to solemn consideration.

“She bears up well.”

“And the parson?” Higgins asked.

The Master discerned the worried gleam in the worker’s eye with a warm glow of appreciation for his genuine care for the aging vicar. “Not as well, I’m afraid,” he admitted, feeling strangely free to converse openly with this man.

“It’s a sore trial to lose your wife. I dun think the wound ever mends. I think on mine yet ever day, and it’s been these seven years,” Higgins related, maneuvering the loom in front of him all the while.

Mr. Thornton could only nod, absorbed as he was in how it could be that he had never considered the father of two daughters as a bereaved widow. He doubted he would ever look at Higgins in a callous manner again. And with these thoughts turning over in his mind, he strode away to continue his round through the mill.

*****

When the toil of the cotton mill had ceased and the masses had been freed until morning, Mr. Thornton followed straightaway the path to Crampton with an eagerness to see the one whose beguiling image had chased his thoughts all day.

He had taken only a few steps inside the house when she came rushing to greet him. Soft gleaming eyes told him of her own lonely longing. No words were needed as she willingly thrust herself into his waiting arms.

The anxiety of hours vanished as he felt the press of her form against his. She offered and he received sweet kisses of glad reception. Chaos might reign without but this touch of lips, this assurance of her affection, stilled all the restless rattlings of his soul and chased away the contumelies of existence.

Relaxing his hold on her, he looked into her eyes with wonder, his arms wrapped around her waist in possessive pleasure. She was here, swathed in the requisite clothes of this era – his very own goddess of love and delight. The memory of the morning’s bliss stirred his desire.  He pulled her close for one more kiss, staving off the urge to take her home at once.

Instead, he climbed the stairs to go to his grieving father-in-law whilst his wife stayed to sew in the parlor below.

Mr. Hale clung to these nighttime visits as a drowning man gropes for something solid to save him. The days he spent silently spinning doubts and flinging hard-wrought questions to the Divine, whom he was oft times more tempted to curse than praise. To his son-in-law’s patient ear, he delivered many of these doubts and fears, the dark and twisted knots of which seemed to unravel in the open discourse with one who was unmoved by the rough course of faith through the deep sea of grief. The younger man offered carefully reasoned words to steer the shipwreck back to chartered territory as one who has himself navigated such perilous waters.

Margaret remarked to her husband at the end of each of these long sequestered talks how much her father seemed altered for the better by his visits.

It was the third such evening, when Mr. Hale endeavored to apologize for keeping his daughter from her rightful home that John discerned the moment was ripe to lay bare the path intended for the widower’s future.

“Margaret does not wish for you to be alone,” Mr. Thornton gently explained.

“I’m certain I can manage. I have my books…” the old man returned, casting a blank gaze to the volumes on his desk.

“There is no need for you to keep a separate house. Marlborough Mills has many empty rooms at present. You could have your own study as well, to which you could bring your pupils.”

“I should not like to interfere…” Mr. Hale protested, shaking his head as his brow crumpled in doubt.

“It is not an interference to welcome family under my roof. It would please me very much to be able to take up our conversations most every evening. And surely, you must know Margaret would be very content to have you near,” John declared.

The older man fumbled with his fingers, rubbing and interlacing them in in dazed contemplation, his eyes vacantly trained upon this restless motion.

“You do not need to answer at present. But I hope you will consider it,” the son-in-law said softly.

More silence.

An image of the future’s promise appeared to John’s thoughts. He smiled at the possibility of the vision’s persuasive power and opened his mouth to share it. “I should like very much for you to be around to read to my children.”

Mr. Hale snapped his head around in questioning surprise.

John dropped his gaze for a moment as a rush of warmth gave a tint of color to his face. “Of course, there is no news at this time. But I expect it will not be long…” he stammered in a low voice.

“Of course,” his father-in-law echoed as he looked wonderingly about in wholly new contemplation. “Are you certain there are enough rooms?” he asked after several moments of pregnant silence, lifting a hesitant gaze up to his daughter’s husband.

*****

“He will come, then?” Margaret guessed eagerly from her husband’s triumphant smile as he descended the stairs.

“He has not given the precise word, but I feel certain it is settled,” he said, coming to where she stood and reaching out to draw her close.

She threw her arms around his neck, jumping into his embrace. “I knew I could trust you!” she breathed in joyous relief.

“I will take every opportunity to please you, for such reward,” he replied, only half in jest, unable to contain the broad smile that pulled up the corners of his mouth.

Ignoring his teasing remark, Margaret slackened her hold as a contingent concern came to mind. “What of Dixon?” she queried, gazing up to him with cautious hope.

“What of her?” he echoed, wishing the subject away.

“We must take her on as well.”

“Must we?” he returned with a pained expression.

She nodded, her eyes dancing at his affected protest.

“Then, I suppose she must come,” he conceded with a sigh of defeat. She tightened her grasp around his neck once more in beaming gratitude.

“Now, I believe I am sorely in need of reward for my magnanimity,” he announced with a devilish grin, his arms tightening about her waist.

A matching smile spread over her face as she stretched up to oblige him with a kiss.

In Consequence by Trudy Brasure

John opened his eyes to the filtered light of a gray dawn, conscious at once that this was his one morning of leisure. He stretched his neck and placed the gentlest of kisses on the forehead of the sleeper beside him before carefully climbing out of bed. It was no easy task to leave the shared sanctuary of this new intimacy. Sheer force of will, dutiful habit, and the niggling fear of overwhelming her with his need compelled him to quit the place that was for him the longed-for respite and reward from all the strivings of his days.

A floor board creaked as he crossed the chilly room to start a fire. The rustling sounds of his movement broke the spell of silence that kept the dreamer asleep. John stepped nearer to the stirring body under the covers and watched, transfixed, as Margaret drowsily raised herself to sit, the long curls of her hair falling in disarray around her.

“Good morning,” he murmured, the deep timbre of his voice wavering in the unadulterated joy of being the one to witness such moments.

She answered with a faint humming noise as she brought her hands to her face to wipe the tiredness from her eyes and then blinked to take in her surroundings.

A smile flashed on his face and then faded as he observed the dawning recognition of her waking reality – newly married bride, bereaved daughter, and worried sister – passed over her features. How much he wished he could abolish the suffering he saw settle into her eyes!

“It’s Sunday,” she muttered, hearing no sound from the mill outside and surprised somewhat at this small revelation. The days and nights since their return had passed in a blur.

“Yes,” he answered with an inward sigh. For weeks, he had imagined the incomparable satisfaction of having Margaret seated at his side at the church his family had attended for years. At this moment, he fervently wished this trial of grief swept away so that they might continue to enjoy all the new and simple delights of their conjoined lives.

“We will return to your father’s house after we breakfast,” he assured her, sitting down on the bed beside her. He reached out to take her face into his broad hand and passed his thumb gently over her cheek as he searched the traces of sadness in her face. Avoiding the temptation of pressing his lips to hers, he pulled the soft curves of her feminine form against his firm chest. The scent of her filled his being as his stubbled cheek and chin tangled blissfully in her hair. He longed to hold time captive and keep her in his embrace until all pain of sorrow melted away.

After a time, he took a determined breath and with all his strength of will released her and stood from the bed to continue to dress and allow her to do the same. He walked to the porcelain basin where razor and towel where laid out for his use. He would be satisfied and grateful, he resolved as he began his shaving ritual, to accompany her this day. They would face whatever trials lay ahead together.

*****

Frederick was glad for his sister and brother-in-law’s company, for it was apparent that the visitor from Spain strained to be released from the confinement of this cold and dark house in which he was prisoner.

All were unnerved by the restless to and fro motions of Mr. Hale, who seemed divided in his desire to spend the last reaming hours with his living son or to sit with the prostrate form of his wife, who would soon be taken from sight forever.

Dinner was somber, for everyone knew that this was the last time the remaining family would be gathered together on English soil. Frederick assayed to remark on the hospitable climate of Cadiz and its seaside beauty. A broad invitation to visit him once he had married procured little more than a glance from his father and a polite smile from his sister.

At last, the hour of parting came. Mr. Thornton announced the arrival of the cab in an effort to quell the tension rising in his breast as much as to avoid the pain of any prolonged good-byes. He hurried both of them into the small coach and took a breath of relief to spend the next few minutes safely confined from public view.

The Milton magistrate’s eyes darted about uneasily as he stepped out into the night air with his fugitive relation. He directed his charge to go and wait in the shadows of the platform while he procured his ticket.

“Mr. Thornton!” The middle-aged station-master snapped to eager attention in the presence of the powerful mill owner. “It was well-played to have brought those Irish through here a few months back. That did the strike in, didn’t it?” he chattered, having no particular interest in either side of the matter, but taking great pleasure in accounting himself quite clever to converse with such a well-known citizen.

“Yes,” Mr. Thornton answered mechanically, casting a furtive glance in Frederick’s direction. His face was downturned, blending well into the dark oblivion far from the gas-lit lamps.

The magistrate turned his face at the same instant the fugitive snapped his head in restless impulse toward the station, allowing a faint beam of gaslight to illuminate his features for one crucial second as an unknown form approached from the booking-office.

“You’ve got married very recently. Congratulations to you, Sir,” the station employee continued, satisfied to have remembered this tidbit of news as well.

“Thank you,” the Master muttered, impatiently watching the station employee gather the correct change and required ticket.

“Here you are,” the uniformed man declared with a friendly smile, handing the Milton cotton manufacturer his due.

Mr. Thornton gave a swift nod and swung around to glimpse a scene yards away that made his blood run cold: Frederick jerking his arm from the menacing grasp of a man in the shadowy darkness.

A terror he had never known before shot through him at the sight of this unraveling nightmare. Time was suspended in the lapse of helpless heartbeats as he raced to halt the ensuing scuffle.

“Get away from him!” John snarled, thrusting the aggressor away with wild violence.

The stranger’s eyes widened as he staggered backward, flailing his arms in vain as he pitched over the platform’s edge to the soft ground below.

Only now did the combatants hear and feel the rumble of the approaching train, coming from the other side of the platform. The cyclops of steel thundered into the station and announced its arrival with a fulminating hiss.

“That was Leonards,” Frederick sputtered, his heart still racing from the terrifying encounter.

John nodded in strained coherence at this fantastical coincidence. His own pulse pounded in his ears. Grateful to find the ticket still in his grasp, he thrust it into his brother-in-law’s hands with the admonition, “Go!”

Frederick grasped John’s hand with both of his, the anxiety of longing expressed in his face. “You will take care of my family. I am thankful to you, my brother,” he avowed.

“Godspeed,” John returned, clasping his free hand over Frederick’s as one last glance of mutual approbation passed between them. The traveler snatched his bag from the ground and hurried to board the train.

The magistrate cast a wary glance behind him and stood watch until the train, with its smuggled human cargo, chugged away into the night. With only a breath of relief to have averted the unthinkable, he turned with a fresh swarm of fear at the consequences of the incident which had passed with lightning horror only minutes ago.

Stepping toward the platform’s edge with heightened trepidation, he peered over to find the perpetrator, a gangly drunk clothed in the garb of a railway porter. The remembered whiff of gin now caused the Master to grimace in disgust. A low groan came from the inert, crumpled form below before his head lolled to one side and he began to come to life.

John’s heart battered wildly beneath his ribs as he rushed to tell the station-master of the injured man. “You will please look after one of your porters. He took a fall off the platform after accosting a passenger. He smells strongly of gin,” he managed to explain with a forced air of calm authority while his arms and limbs trembled uncontrollably.

“Of course, Sir! I’m sorry, Sir…shall I call the police?” the station-master asked in flustered obedience.

“No! The gentleman has departed and I must be away,” Mr. Thornton replied as he sped to return to the cab awaiting his return.

Once inside, he slumped against the leather cushion in the black privacy of the small compartment. His mind whirled in countless directions until it rested upon two points: Frederick would be safely out of the country in a matter of hours, and any babbling about a mutineer from a drunken sot would stand as nothing against his own word. His pulse resumed a more normal pace and the tension slackened from his tightened muscles. Resolved to make no mention of the frightful encounter at the station, Mr. Thornton had gained the better part of his solid composure by the time the cab pulled up to the Crampton house.

Margaret noted the tension that tinged his reply to her welcoming inquiry, but supposed it was only begotten of the questionable nature of his accomplished mission. She bowed her head with a trace of shame and a swell of meek gratitude that he had sacrificed his position and principles to safeguard her brother.

*****

The day of the funeral arrived. No sunlight pierced the murky clouds above the bustling town as a black-plumed carriage from Marlborough Mills jostled over cobbled streets toward Crampton. Unable to bear being abandoned in the barren spaciousness of her new home, Margaret accompanied her husband in her best black crape, determined to offer her father her aid as far as it was required.

Mr. Hale moved in a haze of helpless despair under Margaret’s fluttering attentions. A gentle entreaty from Mr. Thornton, stating that the hour had come, seemed to penetrate the mist of self-inflicted suffering. The former vicar’s eyes rose to follow the calm behest of his son-in-law. The older man leaned on the arm of the younger, as John led him to the waiting carriage.

Margaret watched them leave partly in relief but with a whisper of discontent to be banished by custom from the ceremony that would be the last acknowledgement of her mother’s brief part in this earthly existence. Nevermore would she see her mother’s face. All alone in the quiet parlor, she sank to her knees and covered her face with her hands as she allowed the flow of tears, so bravely withheld, to come freely.

Between the anchoring support of his new son-in-law and his old Oxford friend, Mr. Hale endured the ritual proceedings, softly muttering the vicar’s lines in time, the cadence of words giving meager comfort even if their import rose beyond the grasp of desperate grief at the moment of this official sundering.

Margaret was dry-eyed and composed when the mourners returned. Standing in the window with her Bible in hand, she set it aside to go to the door.

With Mr. Bell on one side, and her husband on the other, her father was guided into the house by his loyal friends. The internment of his wife had stricken him nearly blind with grief and he now tottered between the stronger men as some frail old man. Margaret’s face paled to witness it.

With glances of worried thanks given to his helpers, she kissed her father and led him to his easy chair, forthwith busying herself preparing refreshments.

When all had eaten, very little having passed through Mr. Hale’s lips, he expressed his desire to retreat to his chambers.

“Why don’t you go home,” Mr. Bell proposed to the careworn daughter, when her father had disappeared up the stairs. “I will stay here as long as necessary. Do not overburden yourself today, my dear,” he finished, receiving a grateful glance from the newly married husband.

A knot of sadness pulled tight and heavy in Margaret’s stomach as their carriage returned to Marlborough Mills. Torn between caring for father and husband, she felt an oppressive futility in rising to fulfill the role of serving either with the wholehearted devotion she desired to give. She swallowed to fend off the tears of despair that sprang to her eyes.

John escorted her into the drawing room, where Fanny and his mother offered their appropriate condolences to Margaret. Aggrieved that duty called him to leave her in her suffering state, he explained to his wife in his most tender voice that he must tend to a few things at the mill and would return as soon as he was able.

The new wife nodded her compliance, reluctant to let him go, but knowing all the while the burdens of his obligations. Ever gentle with her, he had patiently born the weight of compounded responsibility for days. How could she object to his faithful accomplishment of every task? Loneliness wrapped around her like a shroud as soon as the echo of his footsteps faded away.

When he returned later to the same room, his wife was not in the room. “Where is Margaret?” he asked with an anxious tone that pricked his mother with annoyance.

“She has just gone to her sitting room. She wished to write to her cousin in London, I believe,” Hannah answered pointedly, letting him know the girl had not been abandoned by his family. Indeed, he would never know what a trial it had been to keep company with the grieving girl for the hour or so he had been gone. When to speak, what to say, how to keep her engaged and yet give her time alone with her thoughts? All of these concerns had become a hard-worn chore for the normally taciturn matriarch. All her efforts were unmarked by him, she supposed as he rounded past her with a scant acknowledging word before he made haste to his bride.

The door to Margaret’s sitting room was ajar. He spoke her name as he pushed it gently open and entered the room where pink and mauve flowers blossomed on the walls in patterned profusion and green carpeting imitated the lushness of a garden setting. Elegantly wrapped wedding packages of various sizes were arranged in piles by the walnut secretary. But there was no occupant in the expected seat.

His heart leapt as he saw standing as still as a statue, head bowed, in the middle of the room. “Margaret!” his whispered in panicked concern, sweeping to her side to discover her cheeks wet with tears. “Margaret,” he said again, this time in comforting tenderness as he wrapped his arms around her. She melted, sobbing, into his embrace.

He cursed himself for leaving her, damning all the obligations that would keep him from tending to this one precious object of his life. “What is it?” he asked with helpless gentleness, feeling a fool for knowing, in part, the answer.

Margaret swallowed her sobs and took a long breath to make some reply. The sight of the neatly stacked gifts had reminded her of her mother’s smiling image outside the church only days ago. “She was so happy,” she endeavored to explain.

“At our wedding?” he guessed. She nodded.

“She was…..was it not right that she should be?” he asked, softly imploring.

“Yes,” she answered.

“I am sorry. Can you ever think of it with some measure of content – knowing she was happy in those last days?”

“Yes, but it is so hard…”

“I know, I know,” he soothed, caressing her back with his hands.

“And father…” she began.

“You are troubled to leave him alone,” he responded. “He must come live here…with us.”

She raised astonished eyes to his. “Are you in earnest?” she breathed, incredulous that he should propose a solution she had scarcely dared to divine herself. “Your mother….” She shook her head in doubt.

“My mother will accommodate my wishes. It is my…our house. We are free to choose the occupants. There are several empty rooms. He may have a study as well to keep his privacy and to meet with pupils.”

The oppressive weight of silent anxiety lifted at his words. He was in earnest, and had thought it all through! Fresh tears formed in her eyes as her heart swelled with love for the man she had married. She relaxed further in his hold even as doubts began to gather again in her mind. “He will not wish to be an inconvenience.…”

“Do you think I have befriended your father this long and do not yet know him?” he returned with a cajoling smile. “I will convince him that he does us a great kindness to come here. I shall enjoy taking up the classics with him – every night, if we so choose. And you shall not need to divide your time between your former home and Marlborough Mills. It will be a great comfort to have him near, will it not?”

“Yes….yes, of course,” she replied with brightening face.

“It is settled, then. Will you trust me to talk to him about it?” he asked, a glimmer of uncertainty remaining in his voice.

She nodded, assuring him with a smile, as she reached up to wrap her arms around his neck and rest her head against him in gratitude and relief. He clasped her close.

The brief moment of conjugal felicity, a ray of sunshine in the gloom, was interrupted by a steady voice.

“You must excuse my intrusion, but there is a police-inspector come to the house who asks for John,” Hannah Thornton announced summarily as she stood in the open doorway. Her eyes flickered with caution to her son.

John’s muscles froze as he recalled the night of Frederick’s harrowing escape.

He loosened his grasp around his wife’s waist. “I am called as magistrate. I will return as soon as I am able,” he explained to her with forced calm. He let his hand drop at her acquiescence and turned to go.

He moved swiftly through the house. His pulse beat a tempo of warning as a frantic chain of questions chased through his thoughts. Had Leonards spoken the fugitive’s name? Had Frederick been somehow apprehended? Mr. Thornton struggled to conquer his rising panic and resolved to meet any circumstance with firm trust that the highest justice would prevail.

He stepped outside the main doors to find a small man in police uniform who had once been a packer in his warehouse.

“I’m sorry to bother you at such a time…” the waiting visitor began.

“Mason, isn’t it? How can I help you?” Mr. Thornton interrupted, taking command of the situation at once.

“I would have come another time, but I need a statement from you to close a case. You see, it involves the death of a man and I must be careful to know all,” Mason confided to the Milton magistrate who had first commended him to police work.

An electric tingle of fear charged though Mr. Thornton’s every nerve at the annunciation of death. Cold, stabbing terror demanded he know what had happened. “Who is dead?” he asked, his breath quickening in impatience.

“The railway porter that you reported to the station-master on the night of the fourth — the name is Leonards,” Mason responded, consulting his notes.

Mr. Thornton let out a breath of relief that Frederick was unnamed, but felt prickles of remorse that he should have caused the death of any man. “I saw him move…I did not think him hurt so badly….”

“Indeed, the station-manager says he got up and clamored in some drunken rampage for money to catch another train. He was sent away by all, of course. He was found, badly ailing, along a footpath the next day and was carried to the infirmary where he died shortly thereafter,” the police-inspector explained.

“Did he say anything? I don’t understand…Was there an autopsy?” the Master questioned, straining to keep his voice from betraying the anxious confusion that roiled beneath his outward calm.

“He spoke incoherently of Navy ships and men from his past – the unintelligible mutterings of the dying, I suppose. The coroner found a liver ailment – in an advanced stage that would have taken him ere long. But the fall he took hastened his death. This is why, you understand, I had to come and get your account of the incident. You saw him take the fall?”

Mr. Thornton took a long breath and cast his gaze downward as he solemnly concentrated on the facts he should reveal. “I accompanied an associate, a stranger to Milton, to the station that night. I directed him to wait at the platform while I procured his ticket. When I had done so, I turned to see this Leonards assailing my friend. I was, naturally, very alarmed. I ran to stop this attack, pushing the porter away from my friend. I did so with some force. Leonards staggered back and lost his footing. He fell off the platform onto the cinder path below, opposite the arriving train. I hastened my friend to his train as it was the last of the evening, I believe. When he had safely gone, I looked to see if the porter was injured. He appeared to be recovering. I did not think him badly hurt, so I told the station-master of his errant employee and made my way home.”

“His fall was an accident, then, sustained from your attempt to ward him off as an attacker.”

“Yes,” the Master hasted to confirm, his nerves tensing as his eye caught the movement of a figure crossing the empty mill yard. His breath released at the recognition of one of his clerks. The mill owner nodded briefly at the passing employee.

“By all other accounts, he was drunk and looking for money. Was this your impression also?” Mason inquired.

“Yes. There is no doubt he had been drinking,” Mr. Thornton confirmed.

Mason looked up to the Milton magistrate. “Thank you for your time, Sir. I consider this case closed. It was an unfortunate incident for all concerned. I hope your friend was not troubled too greatly. Once again, I’m sorry to have interrupted you at such a time…”

“Not at all, it was your duty,” Mr. Thornton returned, feeling the tension relax in his shoulders.

The uniformed man’s mouth curved into an admiring smile. “May I wish you congratulations on your marriage, Sir? I wish you very happy…despite the lady’s recent sorrows,” Mason added with a measure of solemnity.

“Thank you,” the newly married man answered with a softening smile that swept away the crease on his brow.

Mr. Thornton had kept silent concerning Frederick’s narrow escape from the train station. Margaret carried enough burdens of sorrow and worry. He would not add to her store. She was told only that the police had come in connection with the death of Jane’s betrothed, which accounted for the servant’s pitiful wailing in the upper chambers.

Margaret brushed the waves of her long chestnut hair in the lamp-lit quiet of the great bedroom that evening as the Master prepared for bed. The weight of tension and grief lifted with the unfastening and removal of the binding clothes that defined him to the world beyond these walls. His heart beat strongly in anticipation of doffing all pretense of unyielding power and confidence to meet his wife under the bedcovers simply as a man in need of the love that seemed to pour forth from her gentle being.

Only a handful of nights, each one of them unspeakably precious, had passed wherein they had shared a bed as husband and wife. Tonight, after such trying ordeals as this day had brought, he would find peaceful bliss merely to hold her body close to his.

She shed no tears this time as she nestled her head to his chest, finding her rightful resting place in the safety of his embrace. He stroked her hair and let his lips caress its silken softness. He did not know who derived the greater comfort from this loving contact: the mourner or the comforter. But he knew without a doubt that he would endure any hardship, suffer any agony of tribulation required to hold her in his arms at the close of every day.

In Consequence by Trudy Brasure

John woke as pale light displaced the receding darkness in the small, unfamiliar bedroom of his wife’s maiden days. With drowsy deliberation, he roused himself to alleviate the dull ache in his hip, careful not to disturb the sleeper in front of him. Prickling pain surged through the arm now relieved from its ill-arranged position as blood rushed to resume its normal courses within.

He eased himself off the mattress and stretched as he stood upon a braided rug, his bare feet peeking from rumpled trousers. The crinkled cotton of his day shirt mocked the crimping crick in his neck. He passed his hand over the offending discomfort in a wincing exhalation of breath.

The house was silent. The horror of death’s dark visit had passed. Now there remained the tedious tasks to which the living must attend, walking and breathing the waking nightmare as they adjusted their lives to the loss while their minds searched the halls of memory to recall the voice and smiles of one who no more animates earth’s scene.

He gazed at Margaret with a painful longing to fill the void of her loss with all the tenderness of his powerful love. He wished her a peaceful repose for as long as it could be taken.

John put on the vestments of his position with thought to the unpleasant arrangements that must be made and the unavoidable alteration to his daily schedule. Unshaven and weary of heart, he dressed and silently slipped from the room. The chill of the morning fog seemed to penetrate the walls. He shivered in the October air as he descended the stairs.

Stepping into the parlor, Mr. Thornton noted the sleeping form of the gaunt servant girl – Higgins’ daughter, he had discovered – curled up under a gray wool blanket on the couch. A twinge of grateful sympathy softened the features of his face at the sight of her steadfast loyalty.

He crouched to start a fire in the cold room, where the family might gather before breakfast.

“I can see to that, Sir,” a wavering voice offered.

He turned to see the Higgins girl smoothing an errant strand of hair behind her ear. She was sitting upright, her tired face flushed in embarrassment of having been seen caught sleeping.

“I can manage here. Perhaps you could tend to the dining room,” he suggested gently. She sprang to follow his command, leaving him alone to set the coals glowing.

The doorbell rang a moment later, causing the girl to retrace her steps. Mr. Thornton’s ears pricked at the sound of a familiar voice in the hallway. He took swift paces to where his mother handed a large basket, laden with food, to Mary.

“Mother,” he exclaimed, in welcome surprise.

“Mrs. Hale…” she inquired with caution, the servant’s red-rimmed eyes and somber silence offering her little cause for hope.

The strong man dropped his gaze from the eager inquiry. “She is gone,” he muttered.

“When?” The whispered word was choked out after a moment of stunned silence.

“Sometime very late…in the night.”

Hannah’s heart bled for her son as she studied his weary, disheveled appearance. He would bear the burden of sorrow with strength and dignity, fighting against the forces which would try to crush out his happiness, so recently attained, in this unjust turn of fate. “And Margaret?” she asked after his new bride, uncertain how well the girl would bear up to the untimely strain of loss.

“She sleeps, for now,” he answered, his forehead creased in contemplation of breaking her restful peace.

“Do you go to work?”

He let out a long breath and shook his head in a quandary of indecision. “I am scheduled to meet with a buyer, who has been forestalled already for my wedding travels.”

“I will stay to assist in whatever way I am able. Go, if you have need. I will remain as long you are away,” she offered, receiving a nod of thanks.

“You have not eaten?” she asked, guessing the answer.

“Little thought has been given to food this past day.”

“Sustenance must be provided,” she said, brushing past him to survey the empty dining room. “There is little wisdom in starving the body at such a time. The heart needs strength. Call the house to breakfast in an hour. I will help see that it is ready,” she commanded as she turned to follow the young maid to the kitchen.

John moved to follow her firm direction, grateful to allow another to establish order in the confusing wake of tragedy. He knocked gently at the bedroom door he had so recently quitted and opened it to find Margaret hurrying to fasten on her petticoats.

“I heard the bell. Has someone come?” she asked in a fluster, prepared to forestall the morning’s oppressive gloom with needful activity.

“My mother has come to help. Do not trouble yourself,” he soothed, taking her hands into his to stay her restless motions. “She is even now preparing our breakfast.”

She stared unblinking at him for a moment before the tears began to gather in her eyes in awful comprehension of her loss. Here was one called mother, so unlike her own, who would offer comfort and kindness while her own dear mother lay cold and lifeless across the hall. Shameful jealousy stung at the realization that only one mother remained betwixt them. It was unjustly cruel – she would never have her gentle mother back again!

“Margaret,” her husband murmured as he witnessed silent tears spilling down her cheeks. He swiftly enfolded her into a tender embrace, holding her close as the first choking sobs of grief wracked her body. Relieved in some measure that her stoic stance had broken, John offered silent comfort to the sufferer until the tears subsided and she released him from his patient service.

The family was gathered for breakfast in an hour’s time. Somewhat embarrassed by his emotional outbursts the night before, Frederick attempted to meet the others with a measure of cheer but broke into tears over some remark of his sister, whose sympathetic and sorrowful gaze reminded him pointedly of their shared grief.

John spoke gently with the broken-down widower in his study afterwards, and was gladly given leave to make all necessary arrangements, Mr. Hale being neither able nor willing to make any effort towards these final steps other than to mumble a request that no grand gestures be made. He had an aversion to the pompous affectations of mortals to morbid social ritual and was certain his wife’s sure entrance to heaven required no earthly fanfare.

The newly married Master gave his wife an affectionate good-bye before heading out to accomplish several unbending tasks, with a promise to return as quickly as he could.

The hours passed with unbearable slowness for Margaret. The quiet efficiency of her mother-in-law was a mixed blessing for the mourning bride. The daily pattern of responsibility being wrested from her, Margaret yearned for some common toil to occupy the numbing emptiness of her mind and half-wished her mother-in-law away. Yet, underlying her temperamental annoyance, she found a certain comfort in the widow’s unseen presence and blinked away the fresh rise of tears at the remembrance of her soft-spoken words of sympathy and the surprising warmth of caring in her eyes.

It was both a pleasure and a hollow comfort to spend time with Frederick, who found relief in chattering away, telling her more of his past and his hopes for the future. Their eyes flashed at one another in shared anxiety when their father finally joined them in the drawing room, having spent most of the day in the closed room with the dead.

The faded light of late afternoon added to the somber atmosphere of the quiet room. The ticking of the clock on the mantle could be heard. Mr. Hale’s grave face appeared shocked into still confusion as he lowered himself onto his favorite easy chair. His children watched him intently as he drew his brows together, his eyes unfocused upon the carpet before him.

“Dixon has given me cause for alarm,” he announced, bringing his gaze to Frederick.

*****

Margaret and her brother spoke in hushed tones in the front parlor sometime later as the last light of day began to dwindle. Discussing the danger of Frederick’s stay had greatly agitated Mr. Hale and Margaret had coaxed her father to rest in his room before dinner. The siblings had not long been occupied in their new venue when a knock on the front door was heard. Dixon grumbled from some distant place as the door was opened without her aid.

A tall figure appeared at the threshold of the carpeted room. Margaret’s weary heart soared at the sight of her husband, his returning presence infusing in her fresh hope and strength in this sorest of trials. How the hours had dragged on without him! She rose instantly from her seat to greet him, suddenly glimpsing what had not been there before: around the upper arm of his coat was a band of black crape.

Tears sprang to her eyes at his gesture of unity with her family, the fresh recognition of her permanent bond with him striking her deeply. He was her husband now. She would never be alone again. He would stand by her through all of life’s trials.

“Margaret,” the returning groom muttered with agitated concern, taking gentle hold of her arms at the sight of her tear-filled gaze. “Has something happened?”

She shook her head, unable to look at him as she blinked back tears of gratitude and relief. She could not explain in words what had touched her so profoundly.

“Nothing has happened, but there is news,” she whispered, raising her face to his as she gained some control over her emotions. “The other day, Dixon encountered in the streets of Milton someone who sailed with Frederick in years past, and who knows of his history,” she related with trepidation.

John’s breath stilled. A chill of foreboding pulled his muscles taut.

“I should have let him pass by, but it was such a surprise to see a face from the south in these parts,” Dixon lamented with a shake of her head, stepping into the room. Mr. Thornton gave the family servant a look of impatient forbearance.

“You have no faith in this man’s sympathy,” John deduced, speaking to no one in particular. “What kind of person is he? What is his name?” he asked.

“The worst sort. His name is George Leonards. A sorrier sailor I’ve never seen,” Frederick answered with a flare of contempt.

“He’s a ne’er-do-well and a plague to his family since he was a boy,” Dixon readily added. “I asked him what he was doing in Milton and he said he had business to attend, but he looks just as he ever did – an out-and-out ruffian searching for some scheme for easy profit.”

“He did not like Frederick, I’m afraid,” Margaret relayed.

These accounts sank heavily in John’s heart. He let out his breath in consternation at this untidy complication. His experience as a magistrate had taught him only too well how unscrupulous greed and spite could motivate men to pursue their unscrupulous desires.

“Does this Leonards know where you live?” Mr. Thornton asked Dixon. “Did you meet him close to this house so that he might have followed you home?”

“No. He took the omnibus away,” she replied. “He does not know where we abide. And not many in Milton know of us, having come so recently from the south,” Dixon added in a more hopeful tone.

Her answer did little to alleviate the weight of his concern. There might be time for some reprieve, but there could be great danger in keeping a fugitive.

“You must not stay,” Mr. Thornton decreed, looking to Frederick.

“That is what father said as well,” the exiled son replied with a sigh. “But I’ve only just arrived!” he countered in rising rebellion. “I’ve a mind to stay as long as I please. I’ll not cower at the hand of a rogue such as Leonards!”

“No,” the Milton magistrate stated firmly, noting the alarm on Margaret’s face at her brother’s words. “It is too dangerous to act with impunity. You must return to Spain as soon as possible.”

“Frederick and I were talking,” Margaret interjected hesitantly. “Perhaps Henry could help him clear his name. More light may have been shed on Captain Reed’s offenses these past years. If testimony could be gained…”

“No,” her husband reiterated without cavil, meeting her startled look with sympathy for her innocence. “The tribunal is set apart from the court systems which we rightly trust to mete out justice from reasonable evidence. Clemency is not the method of the military. Their figures of authority exact strict obedience from the leagues of men at their command. To examine the justification of individual protest would be, you must understand, uncommon.”

Margaret bowed her head in concession, nodding her reluctant accord. The spark of defiance died in Frederick’s eyes and he gazed at the floor in stark comprehension of his fate.

“I regret that England can never be your home,” Mr. Thornton continued more gently. “But from all you have told us, it seems that purpose and place await you in Spain,” he added, eliciting a small smile from the English-born adventurer. “Perhaps someday we will set sail to visit you,” he remarked auspiciously, this time gaining the hopeful smile of his wife.

The subject of Frederick’s departure was discussed once more at the dinner table, where Mr. Hale confessed he would not feel at peace until he knew that his son had safely boarded the train to Liverpool. Margaret offered to take her brother to the station, but Mr. Thornton insisted that the departure must take place after daylight and that he would be the one to ensure that Frederick was safely on his way out of the country.

Hannah Thornton sat watching all that transpired with circumspection, her eyes widening at her son’s promise to safeguard one accounted a criminal to the Crown.

A solemn silence pervaded the Thorntons’ carriage ride home that evening until John’s voice pierced the settled gloom. “It may not be the proper time to tell you, but I must not keep news of such portent to myself any longer….Mr. Bell has given me ownership of the mill and the house as a wedding gift,” he announced without embellishment of emotion.

A passing streetlamp threw light upon his mother’s astonished face in the darkness.

“You own the land and all the property thereon?” Margaret asked, surprise sounding in her voice.

“Yes.”

“How wonderful,” she remarked with quiet enthusiasm. “He is very generous; you will not need to pay rent ever again. That must be a great benefit to your position, is it not? Are you pleased?” she asked, a little uncertain after her words if he was comfortable to be gifted what might over time be earned.

“How can I not be? Yes, I am pleased,” he assured her warmly, taking her hand in his in the shadowy darkness and giving it a gentle squeeze.

In Consequence by Trudy Brasure

Fanny Thornton hummed an airy tune as she threaded her needle in and out of her worsted work with casual precision. Not a sound came from within the great house. The drawing room wherein she sat was arranged to perfection, the objects for human use and enjoyment as cold and still as the alabaster flowers under sparkling glass.

The well-pampered girl lifted her eyes from her sewing and arched an eyebrow as her mother set aside her embroidery to take a turn around the room with listless purpose. Fanny felt no especial excitement in welcoming Margaret into their comfortable routine. In fact, she sighed to think of how dull the conversations would be with her new sister-in-law. It would have been far better, in Fanny’s mind, if John had chosen someone more attuned to the things properly of interest to a girl of privileged position in Milton society. She lamented that Ann Latimer had not caught John’s attention.

She tugged at her thread with a twinge of annoyance. Her mother had been distracted and irritable since John had departed on his wedding day. He had not been gone above three days! Yet Mother fretted over losing her beloved son, as if he would never return to this house and resume his same tedious ways!

Hannah Thornton cared nothing for what her daughter thought as she paced to a vase brimming with fragrant bridal flowers. She touched the velvet softness of a fully-blossomed rose. The creamy white petals, now edged with yellowing curls, stretched forth from the base, burst with resplendent glory for a brief reign in time. Soon, the flower would droop, the petals fall, and the whole arrangement of faded beauty be discarded.

Yet these remained, the only remnant here of what had taken place just days ago. The other flowers had been sent to a few invalid acquaintances and to Mrs. Hale, whom she knew was resting from the strenuous activity of her daughter’s wedding.

Hannah had busied herself returning the household to normalcy, preparing the rooms in which the new mistress of the house would reside. Margaret’s gowns, sent to her new home in her absence, now hung in the carved oak wardrobe in her son’s bedchamber. Her belongings were placed among the freshly arranged furnishings of a private sitting room. There was nothing to do now but wait for the exultant pair to return, securing their place as master and mistress of this establishment.

The aging widow turned to dispel the gloom that gathered in contemplation of her own future. She walked to the window with sedate steps, endeavoring vainly to evade the despairing thoughts that chased her every waking hour.

She had been unprepared for the barrage of emotions that had swept through her since her son’s carriage had last disappeared from sight. For fifteen years she had been his sole guide and solace, his one true companion. No one could tell the dark trials that they had endured, and no mother’s heart could beat with more pride than hers for what her son had become. Did the girl know his true worth?

She observed the activity in the yard below, where men carried on the regular work of the mill her son had worked so hard to raise to great success. His accomplishment was visible everywhere, never more so than when men and machines kept to their task like clockwork despite his absence.

Each man and machine to his purpose, she mused with satisfaction. But what would her purpose be? She quailed at the notion of abdicating her useful role and lapsing into uselessness, astounded to learn how much she relied upon the familiar routine and pattern of life to retain her equanimity. She dreaded the changes the girl would bring, but swallowed her selfish worry to pray that her son would be happy. She would sacrifice every earthly pleasure to see him truly content.

A jolt of anxiety quickened her pulse as a cab appeared into view and made its way to the house. She watched intently as the carriage stopped, the door was flung open, and John alighted – alone. Her heart plunged to see the dark expression written on his face, where triumph should have been. Where was Margaret? A spark of jealous relief stole swiftly as she hoped to claim him as her own once again. Had they quarreled? The fleeting elation dissipated with the sober remembrance of the binding sanctity of marriage. An uneasy feeling turned her stomach and she clenched her jaw. If something had happened to cause a rift between them, careful pain would need to be paid in the endeavor to mend it.

“Are they here?”

Her daughter’s voice interrupted the stream of Hannah’s disquieting thoughts. “Yes,” she answered distractedly, resolved to wait for John’s explanation of events before revealing anything was amiss to Fanny.

She steeled herself for whatever he had to say, feeling a lightness of spirit flutter in eagerness to offer him a mother’s devoted comfort and support.

“Mother,” he gave her a faint smile and kiss on the cheek in greeting as he entered the room.

“Where is Margaret?” she asked with measured composure, searching his face for any sign of hidden pain.

Fanny’s eyes fastened on her brother, waiting impatiently to hear how he should explain this curious development.

“In Crampton. Her mother is not well,” the returning groom answered with a deep sigh.

Mrs. Thornton let out her breath slowly, chastising herself for overlooking this possibility as her gaze fell to the floor.

“Mother, I must speak with you – privately,” he continued in grave tones, glancing at his sister’s attentive posture.

His manner sparked dread in her breast and all the disquieting musings of some breach of the girl’s devotion returned to unsettle her.

“Fanny, play for us your Brahms piece,” she directed her daughter in clipped tones.

Fanny opened her mouth to protest, but gathered herself up from the sofa as she caught sight of her mother’s grim stare.

When the first tinkling notes of the piano could be heard, Mr. Thornton began his hushed discourse. “Margaret has a brother…”

“A brother! Why have we not heard of this?” The words poured out from her lips in an explosive whisper.

“He is wanted for mutiny by the Navy. He lives in exile – in Spain. But he has come; he is at the Hale’s home this instant.”

“…To see his mother,” she finished with dawning realization.

“Yes.” Shared glances revealed the gravity of Mrs. Hale’s condition.

“What can be done?” the widowed woman asked in sympathy for this plight.

“Nothing at present. Dr. Donaldson has said there may be periods of lapse and recovery throughout. There may still be time…” he relayed with hopeful fervor, although his brow was furrowed in concern. “No one must know of their visitor – no one. I am willing to risk my reputation to keep this secret.  Whatever happens, he cannot stay long; it is too dangerous. I have left Margaret in Crampton while I see to things at the mill. I will go for her after dinner.”

Mrs. Thornton nodded, somewhat bewildered by the flurry of unexpected news and arrangements. One question remained unsettled in her mind. She looked up into her son’s somber countenance. “Was your trip agreeable?”

A soft haze of light broke over his stern features; his focus grew distant. She knew the answer before he opened his mouth. “It was more than agreeable,” he answered reverently as his mouth curved into a small smile. “I would have liked to stay longer if circumstances would have allowed.”

She gave a swift nod and forced a smile to her lips. It was well he was happy, she reminded herself as she felt the throb of her heart resume its normal pattern.

****

Without the expected addition of Margaret at the dinner table, the established residents of the Thornton household ate their meal together much as they had for years, although with palpable silence this particular evening.

Mr. Thornton made no delay afterwards to take the family coach to Crampton. He joined his wife in the parlor, where brother and sister quietly shared accounts of the years spent living separate lives. He smiled to hear the siblings’ exchange of Helstone memories of centered on playful traditions and eccentric and cantankerous villagers.

Mr. Hale slumped in a chair in the shadowy periphery of the candle-lit room. His wife slept peacefully at present, but her struggle with pain and weakness drove terror deep into his heart. The voices of his children drifted in and out of his dazed consciousness, his eyes lifting to their faces at the call to mind of the indelible characters of his former life.

Frederick asked a good many questions of Mr. Thornton about his experience in trade and relayed his own eager plans to become an essential partner (and fond son-in-law) at Barbour and Company in Cadiz.

The Milton manufacturer answered with simple wisdom the conjectures of inexperience as he kept a wary eye on the despondent figure of his good friend, so recently his father-in-law. He knew by his wife’s manner that she also did not forget the one who neither spoke nor moved in his chair.

When the newlyweds prepared to leave, Margaret kissed her father and brother good-night with a solemn heart and promised to return in the morning. Until her husband had arrived, she had been absorbed in her role as daughter and sister.  She marveled at the change wrought within her, for only days ago she had been a maiden, living within these walls; she was no longer that girl, but wholly a woman who knew what it was to be loved by a man. She belonged to him.

No pang of wistfulness for the past made her long to stay behind. Instead, the stirring of excitement lifted the heaviness in her heart as she travelled with him in the carriage through the darkened streets.

A tingle of nerves set her stomach fluttering as the coach stopped by the great stone house in the silent mill yard. She wondered about the welcome she would receive from the occupants within the lighted windows and what arrangements had been made for her living quarters.

They climbed together the scrubbed, granite steps leading to the front entrance. The new bride caught the glint of mischief in her husband’s eyes a second before he whisked her off her feet. “John!” she gasped as she clung to his neck, feeling her smile grow broader at his own wide grin, neither of them forgetting that this was the place where such fateful drama had unfolded between them, midst the fury of countless strangers.

The newly married master carried his bride across the threshold and set her down in his house with great satisfaction. “Welcome to your new home,” he muttered with a swell of jubilation in his breast, giving her a quick kiss for good measure.

A smiling blush still suffused the girl’s face as she entered the drawing room on her husband’s arm, raising the sober widow’s brow.

Margaret received a kindly, if not altogether warm, greeting from her reserved mother-in-law. The requisite kiss on the cheek and polite words of concern for her mother’s health were given by both older woman and daughter.

“You have arrived in time for our evening round. It is has been my custom to read a chapter of Scripture before we all retire,” Hannah Thornton announced with practiced pleasantness, as she looked to the new mistress of the house.

“By all means…please continue. It sounds a fine tradition,” Margaret faltered, unprepared for the deference paid to her by the stern matriarch.

The servants gathered into the room while Mrs. Thornton searched for her place in the heavy, leather-bound book. After reading a few sober verses from Jeremiah, she closed the book and the servants silently turned to leave.

“Sarah will be your lady’s maid,” Fanny addressed Margaret, indicating a slender girl of similar age who made a slight curtsy at the call of her name, glancing nervously at the master’s wife.

Fanny led the way toward the stairs behind the papered walls with her own attendant and Sarah in her wake.

Margaret began to hesitantly follow, casting a bewildered look at her husband.

He gave her a reassuring smile and watched wistfully as she disappeared from view.

The proud mother rejoiced inwardly to have this private audience with her son, as they had always done. She listened to his brief account of Mrs. Hale’s condition, the stupor of the old vicar, and the brother hidden from public view.

The somber reality of the troubles Margaret would face weighed heavily in his mind as he bade his mother good-night. But nothing could stay the rise of elation he felt as he climbed the stairs to seek his wife in their private living quarters.

He hesitated only a moment before he opened the dark paneled door of his bedroom without knocking.

Margaret heard his entry and looked up to see his reflection in the mirror of the dressing-table at which she sat. “Thank you, Sarah. That will be all,” she announced kindly, dismissing the maid who had been brushing her hair.

The girl laid the brush down without a word, and escaped past the imposing figure of the master with downcast eyes.

Margaret rose from her seat to face her husband. His heart twisted at the sight of her full beauty, rendering him speechless and immobile. She looked soft and beguiling in some delicate creation of pale blue silk, her hair falling luxuriously over her shoulders. He could not breathe.

“Do you have all that you require?” he asked, discovering his voice as he stepped forward to take her hands in his, his body aching to feel the press of her form against own. The intervening hours since the morning’s blissful tryst now seemed an arduous separation.

“There is a sitting room for your use,” he continued with creased brow, a sense of doubt suddenly clouding his stubborn insistence that she should share his bed every evening.

She laid a hand on his forearm. “I am well pleased with the arrangements,” she said with blushing timidity. “Truly,” she assured him, lifting lowered eyes to meet his.

“Margaret,” he breathed, taking her into his arms, the pounding of his heart sounding the joy he felt to have her in his room at last.

“I will not…ask anything of you this evening,” he falteringly promised in whispered tones as he held her soft form against him. He detected the merest of nods from the head at his shoulder and pulled her tighter against him for a moment before slowly releasing his grasp.

He saw the weary sadness in her eyes at this acknowledgment of her sorrow. A spark of guilt cast a shadow over his blithe happiness. “Perhaps I should not have taken you to Scarborough….”

“No,” she answered, surprising him with her earnest avowal as she grasped his arm. “No matter what happens…I am resolved I shall not regret the time we spent away. My mother wished us to go…” she declared, holding her gaze to his so that he would understand.

He took her into his arms again and held her close. “Then you make me confess that I cannot regret it either,” he said near her ear, knowing he would treasure the memory of those days forever.

They kept silence for a few precious moments. Slowly, he released her and invited her to his bed with a gesture of his hand.

She moved to take the side he indicated as he returned nearer his own space and began to undress by the wardrobe that had stood silent witness for years to his solitary routines. Nothing would be the same as before. It was a scintillating pleasure merely to have her in his room.

He snuffed out the light and crawled under the vast bedcovers in darkness. His ears pricked as a rustle of sheets broke the stillness and his heart leapt for joy as she sought a place in his arms and nestled her head at his breast.

“Margaret,” he rasped with emotion as he clasped her body close and rubbed his chin rapturously against the silky softness of her fragrant hair. All the vicissitudes and vagaries of mortal sorrows vanished in this moment. Here was all he needed of heaven, the divine promise of love undiminished, distilled into the presence of one who had been sent, he was certain of it, to satisfy the needful clamoring of his soul.

He still held her, long after her breathing had slowed and she had slipped into peaceful slumber. His arm wrapped around her in joyous wonder at his privilege until, at last, sleep crept in to loosen the grasp of waking contentment and coax him into the realm of dreams.

In Consequence by Trudy Brasure

Note from the author: “In Consequence” is a work in progress. In order to give the author time to finish her work, this story will be updated every other week until further notice. Thank you for reading.

Mr. Thornton’s gaze followed the unclad figure of his wife as she slipped out from under the bed sheets to hastily don her white dressing-gown.

“We must dress quickly if we are to eat breakfast downstairs,” Margaret muttered, tightening the sash at her waist, her back to her husband.

The corners of his mouth lifted to observe her blushing modesty after such a spell of unhurried lovemaking as they had just shared in the morning’s gentle light. He drew a deep breath and propped himself against the pillows to luxuriate a few moments more in this dream-realm of perfect contentment. He would be loathe to leave the place where the glory and wonder of marital bliss had been revealed to him.

Reluctantly, he climbed out of the bed to tug on his drawers and trousers. Throwing a shirt over his head, he turned to see his wife, now in her long chemise, laying yesterday’s garments in her trunk. No longer hiding behind a screen, she went about the mundane task of dressing and tending to her clothes. The sight of it entranced him, for here was a vision of the life that now lay before him, where the common routines of their existence would blend into new harmonious rounds, transforming the ordinary into something exquisitely wonderful and precious.

She would come home with him, and live in his house. The contemplation of this simple fact caused his heart to contract in fervent longing, astounded for the thousandth time at his fortune.

He crossed the room in a blaze of ardor.

“At times, I cannot yet believe you are truly mine,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around her from behind.

“I believe that has been made abundantly clear,” she answered softly, feeling heat rise to her cheeks. She felt the strong sinewy lines of his forearms beneath the clasp of her small hands.

He held her closer, the implication of her answer sending a warm sense of satisfaction through every portion of his body. The joy he felt in the close, intimate bond they had created surpassed all his imaginings. He would never tire of their coming together, but feared that his own desires might overwhelm her more hesitant inclinations. “Are you happy?” he murmured with his cheek pressed near hers, wanting to hear the confirmation of his fondest hope from her lips.

She twisted about to face him. “I thought that was also plain,” she returned, lifting her luminous eyes to his.

His heart leapt up at her words. Although he rejoiced that their love had sparkled and dazzled in the bright dawn of these first days, he secretly worried that in time the life of a manufacturer’s wife would lose its luster.

Margaret’s thoughts held no such misgivings. Settled securely within her husband’s embrace, she reached up to tenderly stroke his face, her fingertips tracing the spot near his temple where the stone had struck him on that terrifying and life-altering day. “It seems so long ago…when we hardly knew one another.…” She faltered, recalling with a pang of guilt how she had once dismissed him as a heartless tradesman.

“Not so long ago,” he answered, taking her hands in his and kissing the slender fingers that had touched his old wound. He could well remember the months he had longed to gain her affection, and the thrill of hope that had overtaken him when he had seen the look of tender concern in her eyes that momentous day.  “You captivated me from the very beginning. I knew there could be none other,” he admitted with conviction.

“I find it difficult to believe, when I spoke so vehemently against you. And it was most unjust of you to come declare yourself when I had no indication of your feelings,” she accused him, pushing away from him in playful offense.

He pulled her tighter and kissed her for her teasing manner. How much he had ached to kiss those petulant, rosebud lips that day!

He loosened his hold as a question of burning curiosity recurred to him. “You were surprised at my strong feelings, yet you accepted me…why did you?”

She dipped her head to escape the inquiring intensity of his blue eyes. “I don’t know…” she faltered as she sought to explain the evolution of her feelings for him – to understand the secret workings of her heart. Now,  when the very clasp of his arms around her felt more natural and essential than any other pleasure of life, it was difficult to remember the early callings of attraction to the tradesman of such extraordinary power and determination, so beyond the pale of the staid, sophisticated gentlemen she had known in the south.

“Somehow, I knew that you spoke honestly…from the heart. I did not know it then…but I suppose…I believe my heart answered in kind.” She watched the creases of confusion on his brow vanish as the dawning joy of her confession illuminated his face. He took her face in his hands and bent to seal his approval of her answer with a kiss.

*****

The train hissed its reluctance to idly halt at a small country station. Margaret raised her head in surprise as her husband rose to his feet.

“Where are we?” she asked in confusion as he reached for their bags overhead.

“Saltaire,” he answered with a mischievous grin.

The noise of countless industrious workers, laying bricks and unloading carts, filled the air with the energy of achievement and purpose as the Thorntons were given a tour of Sir Titus Salt’s grand plans, materializing in brick and mortar around them.

The crowning jewel, the mill itself, would soon rise several stories along the Leeds and Liverpool canal. The surrounding countryside, an idyllic peace within miles of the slums of Salt’s current mill in Bradford, was marked with stakes and foundation trenches for the development of the workers’ homes and community.

The robust foreman of this ambitious project proudly showed the Milton cotton master and his wife the extent of Sir Titus’ enterprise, pointing out where the bath-house, library, hospital, concert hall, schools, almshouses, gymnasium, and boathouse would be located.

Returning to catch the next train west some time later, the newlyweds were suitably impressed at what vision, wealth, compassion, and modern industry might do to offer hope for the progress of humanity.

*****

Smoky, leaden clouds hung over the clatter and bustle of Milton’s streets as a nimble black cab steered around a lumbering cart heaped high with cotton bales. Within the private confines of the swaying compartment, Mr. Thornton grasped his wife’s hand tighter to erase the anxious look that stilled her face and made her eyes grow distant.

Margaret gave her husband a warm smile. His touch and the loving gleam in his eyes eased some of the tension that unsettled her stomach.

A litany of worries had begun to invade her mind as the train had approached Milton. If Frederick had not arrived, there would be cause for alarm. And if he had arrived, there would be need for great caution. Above all else, she hoped that her mother’s health had remained stable during her absence.

The coach stopped in front of the last terraced house on a crowded Crampton street. The newly married couple mounted the stairs together and rang the bell. The corners of Mr. Thornton’s mouth lifted in irrepressible exuberance as they prepared to present themselves as a married couple, even as apprehension dogged his hope that they would be given continued reprieve from any unpleasant or complicated family affairs.

The door was opened a crack and Dixon’s blotchy face peered out from the shadows.

“Oh, it’s you, Miss!” she exclaimed in relief. She flung the door open to admit them, giving the Master a cursory nod of acknowledgement. Caution flashed in her eyes as she cast her gaze toward the stairway, the lines of her face plainly etched with some distress.

Margaret’s smile froze. The tension of foreboding stiffened her muscles and sank her sanguine hope that she would find all at peace in her parents’ home. “How is mother?” she asked, determined, yet afraid, to discover the truth.

“Margaret! Is that you?” An eager call came from the upper floor.

Margaret glanced up at the smiling figure peering down from the upper landing, the familiar tenor of the long-absent voice quickening her spirits. “Frederick!” she breathed.

A lean young man with pleasant features, ruddy from the Spanish sun, came clambering down the stairs. He took his sister’s hands into his own. His eyes twinkled in mirth as he wonderingly appraised her. Seeing the gleam of incredulity in her own careful assessment of him, he let out a breathy laugh before haltingly enfolding her into a welcome embrace.

Mr. Thornton smiled to witness such a reunion, although his hopes for enjoying a quiet evening with his wife were dashed.

Glancing at the tall stranger patiently looking on, Frederick loosened his grasp on his sister to approach his new brother-in-law. “Mr. Thornton,” he declared with an outstretched hand, “I’ve heard much about you. My father speaks very highly of you.” A glimmer of curious uncertainty crossed his features as he endeavored to discern for himself the qualities of character he had heard lavishly praised in the appearance of the staid and well-mannered manufacturer. “Congratulations on your recent marriage. I wish the both of you very happy.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Thornton answered, catching sight of Margaret’s timid smile.

“When did you arrive?” Margaret asked, in haste to know all.

“Just this past evening, in the dark of night. I believe I gave Dixon a fright rapping on the door at such an hour,” he answered, returning to his sister’s side as he gave the faithful servant a grin. “I would have come earlier, but Dolores – oh, but I should tell you of Dolores; you would love her – she had more sense than me. I would have sailed straight away, but she begged me not to arrive at the very time of your wedding, when so much attention might be trained upon my father’s house.”

“Indeed, she is wise. And how is mother?” Margaret inquired, assured in part by her brother’s smiles that there could be no dire news.

“She lies abed but she converses, if weakly,” her brother offered with that tone of youthful hope that refuses to heed the whispers of doom.

“She took to her bed after you left…and hasn’t risen since,” Dixon added, meeting Margaret’s gaze with a painful reluctance to convey a more somber account.

“Come, she has been awaiting you,” Frederick declared, inviting the returning bride into her own home.

Margaret turned to her husband. Beckoned by a mere glance, Mr. Thornton closely followed the pair upstairs.

Mr. Hale greeted his son-in-law with a handshake by the foot of the bed while Margaret leaned over to kiss the wan face of her mother, who appeared small and frail against the arrangement of pillows that carefully propped her up.

“He came!” Mrs. Hale chirped. Margaret saw the fleeting glimmer of light in her eyes as she spoke of her son.

“Yes,” her daughter replied, fighting back the tears that sprang up at her mother’s dim smile of satisfaction.

“You trip…” the feeble voice inquired.

“Scarborough was very lovely,” the young bride recounted softly, feeling a warm glow at the deeper implication of her words while her husband stood nearby.

Brother and sister sat by the bedside, speaking in turn to their mother for some time until Mr. Thornton leaned to whisper near his wife’s ear.

“The cab awaits…I must go….”

“Wait…I would speak to Mr. Thornton…alone,” Mrs. Hale called out with determined strength as she stretched out a hand toward him.

Surprised glances were shared about the room, but the occupants quietly filed out to obey the request.

When the door was shut, the strong manufacturer gently stepped forward to sit by his mother-in-law, curious as to her intentions.

“I know I am not long for this world,” she pronounced with wraith-like breath.

Mr. Thornton opened his mouth to speak, but closed it at the sight of the watery eyes that focused upon him with conviction, fear, and the desperation to be heard.

“You will take care of Margaret…”

“There is nothing more important to me than her happiness and well-being,” he answered truthfully.

Maria smiled wanly her approval and opened her limp hand for him to take, giving his a faint squeeze when he did so. “My son risked his life to come to me,” she continued.

Mr. Thornton drew his brows together in solemn resolve. “I will do all in my power to see he is returned safely. Do not trouble your thoughts.”

She nodded her head faintly and closed her eyes in silent thanks as a tear escaped one corner. She opened them a moment later with a look of penitence at her husband’s friend, her daughter’s husband, and her family’s own strong savior. “I have been thoughtless, seeing fit to complain all these years. What I would not give for those years again, in Helstone!” she confided, punctuating her anguish with a wracking sob.

Seeing his discomfort, she composed herself and, casting an unseeing stare upon the bedcovers, continued her whispered confession. “Richard will be devastated. His heart is tender and can bear no hurt.” She turned a pleading gaze to the man who understood her husband well. “Will you tell him…when I am gone….that I bore him no ill will? He was ever gentle and patient with me. I know it now…” The wavering voice lapsed into silence.

The Master swallowed, the crease of his brow deepening at the reflection of the charge she placed upon him.  “I will tell him,” he promised gravely. He pressed her hand gently before retracting his own.

She closed her eyes and nodded her grateful thanks, her energy visibly spent.

Mr. Thornton studied the pale, unmoving figure of this southern woman with compassion. The careworn lines of her face appeared more relaxed, now that she had unburdened herself of the twining clasp of accumulated resentment.

Reverently, he raised himself up from his seat and left the slumberer at peace.

He detained his wife in the hall, scanning the innocent hope of her bright features with a heavy weight of sorrow in his breast. “She is asleep at present. Stay here with your family. I must go; I will return for you later this evening,” he dictated, holding her hand firmly in his.

She assented with a grateful nod, receiving a brush of his lips against her cheek in response before reluctantly allowing him to depart.