“Write to no one!” Margaret pleaded. “Dixon, this is a private matter. Please, just go. I only require a bit of rest.”
Grumbling and fiercely reluctant, Margaret heard Dixon’s lumbering steps leave the chamber. She held her breath until the latch clicked, and then she permitted herself to give way. She tried pressing into the counterpane again, so she might only see blackness, but he would not cease tormenting her. John, with his roughly groomed face, his cravat loosed, and his eyes warming gently for her, beckoned.
She could almost feel his hands, cupping her waist, his breath tender and welcoming against her neck, and her heart reached for him… but the moment she pleaded his name, his face hardened, his arms crossed over his chest, and his figure dissolved as so much smoke. And then she heard the words that shattered her heart.
“I never knew you.”
May 1852
“A mill fire, Thornton, is the most horrific thing a man can see, short of eternal damnation. Pray it is never your lot to count the dead.”
Kramer’s words, uttered long ago in his early days at the mill, had plagued John’s thoughts all this dreary morning. He peered steadily out the window of his carriage at the spring deluge from the heavens and could only mourn that the rain had come a day too late.
An accidental flame, that was the suspicion, but none were certain. Though young, he was already a respected magistrate—and a mill owner himself—therefore, he had been summoned to investigate. A man from the Milton Examiner paper, Mr Smythe, had ridden in his carriage with him to take his own part. Their eyes met now, across the darkened space, in soundless dread for the sight that was about to greet them.
John stepped down first. If the acrid pungency of the ruined building, the mouldering ash of incinerated cotton, and the sickening aroma of scorched hair had not been dreadful enough before the door opened, it was a hundredfold worse when accompanied by the spectacle that met his eyes. A green hillside sloped away from the river, standing sentry between what was once a bustling cotton mill and the pristine country fields beyond. In better days, it would have been decked with May flowers, but today….
“Good God!” Smythe exhaled. “How many were employed here?”
John sucked the breath between his teeth, trying not to smell the scorched air. “Over four hundred. Most of them did not make it out.”
“But how? Surely they must have seen and heard the blaze.”
“Of course.” John cast his gaze over the neat lines of bodies, all arrayed face-down in the trampled and sodden grass. “That only makes it the more hideous. Doom was upon them, and they were helpless to do anything but watch it come. There is nothing like cotton for a hot, instant inferno.”
“Instant? How long had they?”
“Two or three minutes, at most. Those who did not burn at once would have been trampled or smothered by the smoke. This mill was built in the old style, too few doors and no way down from the upper floors but wooden stairs that pass through the worst of the blaze… or the windows.”
Smythe uttered another cry of dismay and began jotting down his notes. “I would never have thought of it! Thornton, if you do not mind, I should like to stay close during your investigation.”
John nodded heavily and moved towards the inspector who came to greet them. “Mason. What have you learned?”
Mason touched his cap. “Mr Thornton, sir. Sorry to take you from your work today. We were hoping you could hear testimony from a few of the survivors and see for yourself the place where they say the flame began.”
John cast his eye again over that morbid hill, the rain cascading from his hat brim and already soaking through his shoes. Even in the downpour, he could still smell the smoke. “How many, Mason?”
“Three hundred and sixteen, sir. Not all the bodies could be recovered, but we counted the missing as deceased. Two hundred thirty-two men, thirty-eight women, and forty-four children.”
He huffed an astonished breath. “They got most of their women and children out first. They must have been working on the lower levels.”
“In part, Mr Thornton,” Mason agreed, “but some of the survivors are wives of the deceased men. Many of them have testified that the men stayed to help them escape. They had only moments, but I understand the men barred the doors for them, and a few even dropped ropes from the upper windows for their women to climb down while they stayed above to help.”
“Good Lord!” Smythe exclaimed. “Can you be in earnest, sir?” He looked quickly to John. “Why, such a thing… it is inconceivable!”
John thinned his lips, but it was Mason answered. “Not so, sir. I have seen it time and again in my work. You would not credit, had you not witnessed as I have, but it seems there is nothing a man will not do to save a woman. Be it throwing himself before a train or bearing the punishment for her crime, he will sell himself cheap to save her life or honour.”
Smythe raised his brows, then wrote furiously. “Well said, sir,” was his distracted praise. “Very pretty—yes, that will read well in the papers.”
John was still staring at that stricken hill—a charred bit of cloth here, a child’s blackened cheek there…. One man lay, his arm stretched out as if agonising in his last burning breaths, his blistered hand reaching towards the limp form of a woman nearby.
Tears formed in his eyes… what man could not weep? So much death and waste, so many futures stolen, yet in the moment that mattered most—when death raged before them, a handful of brave souls had taken that horror upon themselves rather than let it fall to another. He could only pray that if ever he were so blessed to call a woman his own, he would do no less for her, if given the choice.
Mason was beckoning now, and John cleared his throat, steeling himself for his grisly task. “If you will follow me, Mr Thornton, we have gathered a few witnesses in the old shed. It’s the only building still standing.”
John drew out a small notepad of his own, prepared to take down his observations in as cool and detached a manner as if he were making a report about stolen vegetables. But his neck prickled as he walked, his throat grew tight, and he knew the truth of it. This day, as had so many before, marked him for some purpose, some impression of tragedy and heroism he was meant to remember.
John threw down his coat and hat upon entering his own chamber, then yanked at his cravat. Every day of late seemed to add fuel to the inferno devouring all he had built. Today, Williams had given notice that he had taken other employment. He had lost the last of his supporters, save Higgins—who was likely still too annoyed with him to speak a word in his favour.
John could not help but acknowledge Williams’ wisdom in leaving, but it had taken him four hours of bad temper and anger-induced mishaps to confess it. He growled down at the dark ink stain which had ruined his shirt sleeve, and the fresh bruise on his thumb from his own foolishness with the drawer of his desk.
A knock sounded at his door, and he heard, “Master Thornton, sir, did yo’ wish to take supper in yo’r room?”
He opened it more roughly than was warranted and felt a second’s remorse when the kitchen girl jumped in fear. She gestured hopefully to the tea cart the cook had loaded with good things to tempt him, but nothing roused his interest. He began to shake his head and close the door again, but decided better of it and took a bit of bread before he dismissed her. It held no flavour, but it would banish the hunger pains.
He sank down on the small couch by his own darkened fireplace, balancing the dish on his knees, and was reminded uncomfortably of those early days in Weston when they owned no table upon which to take their meals. But they had one another! Try as he might, he could not think himself worse off then, when misery was borne with companionship.
He choked down half the serving he had taken, then consigned the rest to the cold fire grate. There was little left to do but to retire for the night, so he moved to the dressing table and unbuttoned his waistcoat. As he did so, he noticed in the mirror that some letters had been placed on his side table
sometime earlier in the day. Turning in interest, he rushed towards them as if afraid they would disappear. Only personal letters would be brought here to his room, which could mean….
He covered the remaining two paces quickly, his heart thumping and fingers trembling, but when he took up the topmost and held it to his lantern, the pit in his stomach deepened. It was not Margaret’s elegant script which addressed him, but a hand he did not recognise. A woman’s hand, surely… he ripped it open and found it to be addressed by Mildred Wright. A dinner invitation, very prettily worded, for himself and for Margaret for tomorrow evening. He was welcome to come alone, the invitation assured him, if Mrs Thornton’s strength had not recovered. He snorted and cast it into the grate.
The next appeared no more hopeful. It was a tight, purposeful hand, one that reminded him a little of Mr Hale. It was certainly not from Margaret. He sighed in disappointment—what else could he have expected?—and almost tossed that letter aside as well, but some stubborn hope, some deep loneliness shook him. At least someone in this world cared enough for John Thornton to write to him personally, and it was better to read than to writhe sleepless on his bed.
Expecting little of interest, he tore the seal, and then his heart began to burn.
Dear Mr Thornton,
I confess how greatly surprised I was to receive your letter. The motive you professed was, you must imagine, of the most profound interest to me, for I had given over all hope of redemption. Is it truly possible that this Captain Fortin of whom you spoke is willing to testify against Reid? For he is correct, that Reid had been declared unfit, but that the Navy would not hear of his condemnation at the time. I have little hope they shall do so now, but I heartily endorse any efforts in seeking justice.
We had been told that cooperation with the prevailing narrative would improve our situations. As the only officer listed among the condemned, it fell to me to protect my men, and so I agreed. I said nothing of the captain’s betrayal, even in private letters, for that was to be our means of salvation and I wished to convince everyone—not least myself—of it. Admiral Trenton sent word pledging liberty and pardons for all, but alas, it was not to be. I have attached to this letter all the particulars of the incidents described, and I hope that the detailed testimony may be of assistance in the case.
I shall not bank all my hopes upon it, but sir, you have given me a gift you cannot comprehend, the nature of which is likely not as you would assume. To once again set foot on English soil with impunity would be the culmination of all my father’s wishes and my own desires, but even if it should never come to that, I am satisfied. To know that one in this world, whose face I have never seen, holds me blameless and worthy of a defence, is more than I can deserve. There was another who endeavoured to assist with the law, but his efforts were less sincere, I think, than those of this Captain Fortin.
Yet it is not even Fortin’s willingness to exonerate me, but your own goodness in bringing it about in such a way that gives me the greatest pleasure. I thank you for communicating openly with me while doing all with discretion to shield me from harm. Well do I know that no husband would wish to grieve his wife, but you, sir, have shown me your character in a manner that months of acquaintance could never have done.
I am assured now that you cherish my dear sister in your deepest affections, and that you number among the handful of men on this earth who could have deserved her in my eyes. You will forgive a sentimental brother who holds his young sister a paragon of every virtue, for perhaps I have been less aware of any faults she might possess. I am in no mind to learn of them either, and I am both privileged and pleased that I may now accord some of those fine qualities to yourself without reservation.
I enclose a letter in reply to Margaret’s last as well, but I wished most principally to address myself to you. Whatever the result of the testimony offered by Captain Fortin, you have my gratitude and my confidence. I shall hope that one day I may have the honour of greeting you in person.
Sincerely,
Frederick Hale
John’s arms fell slack, and the letter dropped to his side as he stared at the empty wall before him. Frederick Hale was more generous in his estimation than was warranted. How to tell the exiled brother that the man in whom he had placed his faith was so far from worthy that the mere assumptions in his letter gave pain? He could not allow such warm opinions to persist when he was so undeserving.
Margaret would have known how to answer. It was a bitter thought, but one he could not banish. She would have strengthened him… perhaps persuaded him that her brother’s praise was not wholly unmerited… would she? Did she still see anything in him worthy of admiration? Worth encouraging?
He carelessly flipped the opened letter to the desk and snagged his fingers through his hair. Only she could answer that, and he had no expectation that she would still speak to him. No! Not after his scathing insults, his foul temper… not after the way he had attacked and reviled her, her family, and everything she was. Even had she any notion of being in the same room with him again, looking into his face and sparing words for him, that tender regard was a thing of the past. Whether it had been only imagined, had never been strong enough to survive, or had been destroyed by his own hands, this was the mystery which kept him from sleeping at night.
Not knowing what else to do, he found himself staring at the door to her room. The chamber had stood barred and cold for nearly three weeks, devoid of its mistress and a terror to its master. He could deny his craving no longer—his trembling fingers touched the latch, and then the door swung on silent hinges.
Her fragrance washed over him at once and nearly proved his undoing. It was no heavy floral perfume, but the simple, clean allure that was uniquely her own. Her clothing somehow always smelled to him of fresh rain and sunshine, of grassy meadows and musty books. Where the fragrance originated was a mystery to him—like enough, it was his own imagination—but it was as real and tangible now as Mrs Hale’s old quilt over the bed, or Mr Hale’s rustic settee by the fire.
He could not restrain the aching gasps escaping him when he looked on those furnishings, both so blessed and made sacred to him by the many hours he had loved her there… hours which had defined his life and reshaped his purpose as a man. He was formed to love her, and no other destiny would satisfy what the heavens had set before him.
If only she returned his passion, his depth of regard! They were bound for life, but he would not force her back to his side. What better way to destroy any generous feelings she might have left! He could beg… and raise her contempt for him. He could send tender letters and little gifts, but the mocking eyes and scornful words of her relations in response to his humble sentiments did not bear thinking of.
His hollow gaze swept the room, detecting here and there all the little changes wrought by her presence in his life. A jewelled hair comb left haphazardly on her dressing table; the new house slippers he had bought her tucked neatly beside the bed; a small worked rug that had belonged to her childhood bedroom in Helstone.
He closed his eyes against the stinging torment and nearly left the room, but the prospect of returning to his own empty chamber was too sickening. He shook his head in mute denial, holding an argument with himself, and swung heavily back to face her chair by the fireplace. Whether it was a magnetic attraction or his own weariness, that was the only place in the house that held any welcome for him.
He stopped before it and nearly dropped to its old comfort, but something was still wanting. He crouched and found enough coal and match for his purposes. His fingers were cold and the room dark, rendering the task far more difficult than it should have been. Stubborn and cold and dark… how very like his marriage!
The sandpaper was almost worn through, and only a few matches had remained in the box when he had begun. Most of those he had ruined, and he nearly gave up the deed as hopeless. One last attempt, he determined, and he would either be warmed this night or return to his own room defeated.
&
nbsp; He folded the sandpaper once more in a new place, struck the match with deliberation, and his squinted eyes were at once dazzled with the brilliance of the flame. He stared at it in disbelief and awe, nearly forgetting to kindle the rest of the fire until the heat licked near his fingers. Within a very few minutes, he had a comforting blaze crackling in the grate. He caught himself just before turning to share his triumph with the empty settee… and sighed.
He pushed up from his knees to sink into his side of the seat, feeling like a fool when his arm naturally fell over the back. As if she would come and nestle there! He gazed forlornly at the place that should be hers, remembering every sumptuous detail, every articulate look, every whispered affection. The realisation struck him with the crushing force of a blow; he could not live without her.
Oh, he would continue to breathe. His heart would function, and his limbs would carry him forth… for a while. But how long before even his spirit blackened and gave up this pitiful shell of his? To live, to thrive, he needed her. At least he must know that she could be won, that he was not beyond all hope as a man. But how to restore the flame once it had gone out?
The one answer which seemed to shine most brilliantly in his agonised mind was the letter lying on his desk. He still had his book of seaman’s regulations, the law of the Navy… he could fling himself wholeheartedly into the defence, organising the facts and sorting the details as only a man who knew the law could do.
Even if nothing could be done for Frederick Hale, it would do his heart good to try. It would honour the father who had believed in him, the kindly man cold in his grave these many months who had lost hope of ever seeing his son again. It would please her if she ever learned of it.
And perhaps that was something. Every act, every word, every motive must be sifted and weighed against her esteem. He might never prove to himself that he was worthy of her, but she would have no more cause within his power to be ashamed of him.
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