A MOTHER'S FINAL GIFT

CHAPTER 6: A TONGUE-TIED TRYST

Hi, sorry I have not updated in agggess! I am not very confident with Wattpad, so hadn't updated since first posting. But since then, I have actually written a further 25 chapters for this story  and have another 7 planned, so will update on this site.

Also, for anyone interested, you can follow my writing, including my series, The Thornton Tales, which follows John and Margaret's marriage, you can do so on Facebook at: TheScribbler_CMB

Please note that this chapter contains examples of bad langauge which some readers may not feel meets their personal tastes and expectations. However, this is not a thread which runs throughout the story.

CHAPTER 6:

A TONGUE-TIED TRYST

John Thornton's teeth ripped ravenously at the hunk of bread in his hand, crunching at the stale loaf with hassled haste. He stole another careworn glimpse at the clock, it was now twenty-three minutes until the investors were due to descend upon his already fraught day. Begrudgingly, he decreed that he would permit himself the briefest of lunches, then swiftly get his office in some degree of poise and presentability, and then lastly, dash back to the house to hurriedly wash and change, outfitted and braced to perform the role of respected businessman. Jadedly, he admitted that he may not look or feel much like the imposing and influential master today, but he could at least bluff his way through the afternoon's charade. He huffed, protesting at the impending idea of so much draining effort. But gripe as he may, he had work to do.

If truth be told, Mr Thornton was not especially enthusiastic about the forthcoming meeting with the prospective financiers. With a jeering blow to his already faltering self-respect, he consented that the mill sorely needed the security of venture capital. Certainly, the influx of funds would serve to stabilise the increasingly precarious operational and commercial anxieties that had emerged after the insufferable walkout from and shutdown of Milton's principal factories. Nevertheless, he had a sinking inkling that the potential backers would not be of the earnest variety. After a few established years in his field of trade, Mr Thornton had built up a shrewd awareness for differentiating between those who intended to take the cotton industry seriously and those who merely wished to dabble.

Then, without warning, at the mention of this last phrase, his mind recoiled to recall a recent and acutely nauseating conversation. His pride prickled and with a scowl that would scare milk sour, he tried to push that thought from his mind – no time to dwell on such things now.

No, disappointingly, he hoped, but did not trust that the sponsors would turn out to be genuine and almost wished he could put them off. For a start, Mr Thornton had never been one to entertain fickle individuals who were impotent in both direction of purpose and the application of their time and resources. He found such people galling and pointless and had no reservation in disclosing that he refused to humour them.

However, secondly, and more critically, John Thornton was downright exhausted. For in the past few weeks, he had not been his usual stoic self. He had succumbed to sleep but rarely, turning instead into a nocturnal ghost that haunted the mill. Sitting up night after night, he would toil ceaselessly, as a solitary candle faithfully kept vigil, flickering until it devoured itself and snuffed the room into obscurity. Still, John Thornton would scratch away at his ledgers or tinker with his machines, as the rosy hue of the dusty city dawn awakened and yawned, stretching its glow across the factory grounds.

On the rare nights that he did turn in, he would startle in the small hours, and lie immobile upon his coverings, his alert mind racing feverishly along numerous fruitless paths. He had also barely eaten a morsel and could feel the weight falling off his already lean frame. In light of all this, he had discerned that his energy levels had dwindled, his cognitive faculties had grown sluggish, and his mood and temper had rotted into something wicked, scheming to infect each inch of him. Even his mother had begun to pester him about it, fussing and cooing around her son. All of this combined, had left John Thornton feeling in drastic need of some vital rest and restoration.