In Consequence: A Retelling of North and South by Trudy Brasure Page A

his very own and press her firmly to him.
    He whipped around to stride to his desk, sweeping his fingers through his hair. What strange force had come over him that he could no longer concentrate on matters of business at such an urgent time? What power was it that she held over him, that his whole body should fairly shake with palpitating energy when he considered how tenderly she had ministered to him?
    Could she truly care for him? How long he had yearned to receive from her a look or a word of kindness that might belie some kindling regard or affection! He had been captivated by her bold spirit and uncommon beauty from the moment he had laid eyes upon her months ago. He had guarded his attraction well, knowing that she walked in higher spheres to which he could only aspire. He had never known such a woman, who by her very disdain for his upbringing and position sparked within him a furious desire to prove his worthiness.
    He saw well now his plight, although he had valiantly refrained from admitting it. He wanted her in his life. It would no longer do to pretend it would be enough to see her on occasion, to be satisfied with the knowledge that such a wondrous creature existed within his realm. He wanted her to fill his days with her exalted presence, to enliven the dreary world in which he lived and banish the solitude that confined him — tortured him — now that he had glimpsed what life could be. The thought of her consumed him.
    In his restlessness, he snatched the lantern and strode through the corridor to the vast weaving shed, where rows of silent machinery slumbered in the darkness.
    He had never loved any woman before: his life had been too busy, his thoughts absorbed in other things. Now he loved and would love — to the end of his days. He burned to know if she could love him in return. The promise of the possibility drove him half mad with the desire to have all his dreams of happiness fulfilled. To be loved by her would throw his life into dazzling light.
    As his eyes took in the scene around him — the dark, heavy looms and stilled atmosphere of industry — he recalled her distaste for all that he represented. Time and again, she had made it clear that she found Milton a repugnant place of suffering and struggle, and the cotton mills the very center of all that bode ill. He let out his breath as a deadening of hope descended over him.
    She did not understand him. She did not know of his trials and struggles, the inner yearnings that she had instilled in him to be a better man. Instead, she threw all her thought and care to those who toiled beneath him in the factories.
    It pained him that she would disdainfully dismiss the position which he had so assiduously earned, thinking him a hardened taskmaster and perpetrator of disparity. He had sought with all diligence and resolve to establish a worthy name and home for his mother and sister. This he had accomplished. It was all he could offer her.
    He felt the paucity of his worth in her eyes. Would she deign to become a manufacturer’s wife in this rough-hewn northern city, far from the refined circles of London or the pastoral scenes of her childhood home? The taut muscles of his body slackened and his eyes dropped to the cotton waste that stirred in the shadows as he strode past with heavy footfall.
    Wearied and distraught, he headed for home. He was not good enough for her. He had known it from their first meeting, but he could not suppress the fierce desire that ached in his chest. The vision was now clear before him — without her, his life would fade into meaningless routine, void of the warmth and purpose which only she could bestow. Was it too much to hope, that a woman as glorious as she could find it in her heart to love him?
    As he walked through the house, the remembrance of what had happened that day swept through his mind with exhilarating force. She had sat close to him, gently caring for the wound near his temple. He had been transfixed by