In Consequence: A Retelling of North and South by Trudy Brasure Page B
Authors: Trudy Brasure
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the sight — her soft skin and full lips so tantalizingly near him. He had been unable to resist, grasping her wrist and slowly drawing closer to her cherub mouth. And, to his utter amazement, she had not shrunk from him! His heart pounded as he relived that moment. His hope once again soared to dangerous heights.
He shook his head to quell the swelling exhilaration. Had he been delirious? He thought he had sensed a willing compliance in her response. Perhaps he had frightened her with his approach. She had not resisted, but her eyes had been soft and wide as they locked with his, her body as still as a statue.
It was sweet torture to his soul to imagine that she would welcome his affectionate ministrations.
His thoughts continued to fluctuate from expectation to anxious despair as he prepared for bed and finally lay down to rest. The slight ache of his head warned him of his exhaustion and the blow he had sustained. He knew it would be difficult to find sleep. The utter darkness of the room induced him to close his eyes, yet his mind would not find solace. The clock on the mantle irreverently marked the passing hours as he writhed in a silent agony of hope.
Chapter Three
Mr. Thornton woke the next morning at the prescribed hour, stirring himself to life at dawn as was his habit. He opened his eyes, at once alert to the impending import of the day. Today his future would unfold with imperishable brightness or collapse beneath him with blighted hope.
The humid air seemed thick with an eager energy as he made his morning ablutions. He shaved with careful precision, staring blankly at his reflection in mute amazement at the hand that fate had played. Only yesterday morning, he had believed himself consigned to a life of solitude — a life in which he would be destined to bury himself in his work to evade the hollowness that would never be filled.
Now, there was hope that he might not live alone — that the woman who so beguiled him might become his wife.
He could scarcely believe that he should be standing here today, endeavoring to conjure the words that he would use in confessing his heart. His breath came quickly in anxious consternation of his inadequacy. He was neither eloquent of tongue nor practiced in speaking of love. He had no knowledge of the precise words that might be acceptable to a lady of her standing.
He let out an exasperated sigh as he crossed the room to fetch his shirt. With the end of the strike and the probable return of many of his workers, he would have scant time to allow his thoughts to wander. It would be a strain to his schedule at this time to leave the mill and go to see her, but see her he must. He could not wait another moment to know what she might make of him, and was resolved to go to Crampton by mid-morning.
He snatched his frock coat from the wardrobe and shrugged it on as he headed out. He stopped and glanced quickly around his room before stepping into the hallway and closing the door. His hopes were tremulous, but potent. He did not know what this momentous day would bring, he only knew that when he returned at nightfall, he would be a different man.
*****
Mrs. Thornton studied her son’s agitated demeanor with a furtive glance as he stepped into the breakfast room. He made no motion to partake of the simple breakfast that was laid out on the table. “Will you not eat, John? It is certain to be a strenuous day with the return of the strikers,” she remarked in an attempt to care for his health.
The Master glanced at the table before relenting to her motherly admonition and seating himself to quickly consume eggs, toast, and tea.
“What will you do with the Irish if all the hands wish to return?” she asked, wondering how much thought he had given to his current predicament.
“First we must see who will return,” he replied with easy logic. “It seems most of the Irish will be satisfied to return home. I will pay them for their troubles and they will be no
He shook his head to quell the swelling exhilaration. Had he been delirious? He thought he had sensed a willing compliance in her response. Perhaps he had frightened her with his approach. She had not resisted, but her eyes had been soft and wide as they locked with his, her body as still as a statue.
It was sweet torture to his soul to imagine that she would welcome his affectionate ministrations.
His thoughts continued to fluctuate from expectation to anxious despair as he prepared for bed and finally lay down to rest. The slight ache of his head warned him of his exhaustion and the blow he had sustained. He knew it would be difficult to find sleep. The utter darkness of the room induced him to close his eyes, yet his mind would not find solace. The clock on the mantle irreverently marked the passing hours as he writhed in a silent agony of hope.
Chapter Three
Mr. Thornton woke the next morning at the prescribed hour, stirring himself to life at dawn as was his habit. He opened his eyes, at once alert to the impending import of the day. Today his future would unfold with imperishable brightness or collapse beneath him with blighted hope.
The humid air seemed thick with an eager energy as he made his morning ablutions. He shaved with careful precision, staring blankly at his reflection in mute amazement at the hand that fate had played. Only yesterday morning, he had believed himself consigned to a life of solitude — a life in which he would be destined to bury himself in his work to evade the hollowness that would never be filled.
Now, there was hope that he might not live alone — that the woman who so beguiled him might become his wife.
He could scarcely believe that he should be standing here today, endeavoring to conjure the words that he would use in confessing his heart. His breath came quickly in anxious consternation of his inadequacy. He was neither eloquent of tongue nor practiced in speaking of love. He had no knowledge of the precise words that might be acceptable to a lady of her standing.
He let out an exasperated sigh as he crossed the room to fetch his shirt. With the end of the strike and the probable return of many of his workers, he would have scant time to allow his thoughts to wander. It would be a strain to his schedule at this time to leave the mill and go to see her, but see her he must. He could not wait another moment to know what she might make of him, and was resolved to go to Crampton by mid-morning.
He snatched his frock coat from the wardrobe and shrugged it on as he headed out. He stopped and glanced quickly around his room before stepping into the hallway and closing the door. His hopes were tremulous, but potent. He did not know what this momentous day would bring, he only knew that when he returned at nightfall, he would be a different man.
*****
Mrs. Thornton studied her son’s agitated demeanor with a furtive glance as he stepped into the breakfast room. He made no motion to partake of the simple breakfast that was laid out on the table. “Will you not eat, John? It is certain to be a strenuous day with the return of the strikers,” she remarked in an attempt to care for his health.
The Master glanced at the table before relenting to her motherly admonition and seating himself to quickly consume eggs, toast, and tea.
“What will you do with the Irish if all the hands wish to return?” she asked, wondering how much thought he had given to his current predicament.
“First we must see who will return,” he replied with easy logic. “It seems most of the Irish will be satisfied to return home. I will pay them for their troubles and they will be no
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