by Nancy Klein
From that day forward, Meg had been determined to show Gran that her trust was not misplaced. No one worked harder or accomplished more than Meg. She helped Lily with the heavy chores, and willingly assisted Amelia, a small shy girl, with her studies. She read Bible passages, novels from the circulating library, and newspaper articles to the women as they sewed or mended, ran errands for the family and boarders, and performed numerous small, thoughtful services for anyone with whom she came into contact. Gran often told her affectionately that adopting the girl was a better bargain for the family than for Meg.
Meg never forgot her early life in the orphanage. She was determined to make something of herself, refusing to become an idle, decorative woman. So many other nurses with whom she worked gave up their profession as soon as they married, choosing to become appendages to their husbands. Meg valued her independence too much to think of marriage, and knew she would never marry unless she found a true partner who would accept her as she was, not as she should be. Gazing out of the train window, she idly wondered if she would remain a spinster for the remainder of her life; she had not yet found anyone to whom she was remotely attracted or attached.
When Gran woke after an hour’s nap, declaring she felt quite refreshed, she and Meg shared their lunch of sandwiches, fruit, and cider. They spent the afternoon reading and discussing the novels and newspapers they had read, and in desultory conversation about the various boarders who resided in Lily’s home.
The train arrived at the Outwood Station in Milton at dusk, just as the gloom of night shrouded the town in shadows and mist. Meg shivered as they left the railcar and collected their baggage, and hailed a carriage to their hotel as quickly as possible. It seemed to her that some malignant aura hung about the station, and she was eager to leave as soon as they could manage.
The hotel where they were staying proved to be plain but clean and comfortable. Meg and Gran unpacked their belongings in their room, and treated themselves to tea, sandwiches, and cakes in the dining room. Before they ate, Gran expressed a desire to stroll about town after their meal, but before they could complete their repast, the journey caught up with her. Her eyelids drooped and she was close to dozing in her seat by the time they drained the teapot.
When Meg suggested that they retire to their room, Gran protested. “I can’t imagine that you are ready for bed after being cooped up in that train compartment. Why don’t you go explore? I will be fine by myself.”
“It is dark and foggy out, Gran. Besides, I doubt there is much to see, or that I should be out wandering the streets by myself at night. Most of the shops that we passed on our way to the hotel appeared to be closed or boarded up. We will have time enough tomorrow to explore. Unlike you, I had no nap today, and am ready to fall asleep in this chair.”
Gran laughed. “By all means, let us return to our room. You are too big for me to carry you up to bed.”
The two women proceeded to their room, and prepared for bed. As Meg leaned over to kiss Gran good-night, the older woman clasped her hand and pulled her down to the edge of the bed. She hesitated a moment before explaining. “Meg, I have a story to tell you. It may help explain why I have waited so long to return to Milton. You see, Milton has a tragic history, and my family was part of that history.” Gran gazed down at the small, strong hand she held, as if to gather her thoughts before she continued.
“When I was a young woman, the mill workers decided to go on strike. The workers felt that their wages were too low, and that the Masters of the mills were becoming wealthy while the workers languished. My father was a Union leader, and he urged the hands to go on strike. He thought that if the looms went silent and the cotton production stopped, the Masters would agree to increase wages just to get the mills working again.”
She paused. “But he didn’t count on the stubbornness of the Masters, or the fact that it would be difficult to raise wages when the price of cotton was not increasing. The Masters held fast, and the strike went on for many weeks. It was a terrible time for all of us—many of the families went hungry, and babies would cry on their mothers’ breasts because there was no food.”
Meg returned the pressure of Gran’s hand. “That must have been terrible for you to live through. Did your family starve?”
Gran shook her head. “No, my father was able to provide for us, and I had work elsewhere, so we did not go without. But families with four, five, or even more children were desperate. The Union told its men to hold fast, and the Masters did the same. After a week or so, the Master of Marlborough Mills decided to bring over Irish to work at his mill. Some of the striking workers heard of this plan, and stormed the gates of his mill, threatening the Irish who had recently arrived and were hiding in the warehouse.”
Gran released Meg’s hand in agitation. “The Master went down among the crowd to speak to the striking workers. To this day, I don’t know why he placed himself in such danger. Perhaps he was afraid the mob would attack his family or his Irish if he remained inside the house. Whatever his reason, the crowd became furious at the sight of the man they blamed for their troubles, and started hurling stones and other rubbish at him. He was struck in the head, and fell to the ground. It is believed that the men panicked when he fell, and tried to escape the courtyard. In so doing, they trampled over his body. By the time that the militia arrived, the Master was dead.”
“How horrible,” Meg gasped, her warm heart grieved. “What happened to his family? Did he have a wife or children?”
“He was not married, but had a mother and sister. They left Milton shortly after the riot, and no one is certain what happened to them.”
“And the men who rioted, what became of them?”
Tears filled Gran’s eyes. “The militia gathered up the ones that they believed were the ringleaders. They were tried and found guilty, and were hung in the mill yard.” She glanced up at Meg. “Since my father was a Union leader, the authorities were convinced he had urged the mob to riot, even though he was not present at Marlborough Mills and always spoke out against any violence. They hung him with the others.”
Meg closed her eyes, devastated at this revelation. “Oh, Gran, I am so sorry.”
“The shock of my father’s death killed my sister. She was far from well, and my father’s death was a final blow to her. After she died, I went to live with relatives in another town not far from here, and worked in one of their mills. I never returned to Milton.” She broke off, struggling to regain her composure.
After a moment of silence, Gran took up the thread of her story again. “Of course, that unfortunate mill closed soon afterward. Marlborough Mills remains empty to this day. No one wanted to take over such a cursed place. Other Masters were afraid of what had happened, and they relocated their mills to other towns. Many hands found themselves out of work and their families starved, along with most of the families of the men who were hung. I always ask myself what might have happened if that Master had lived rather than died.”
Meg felt a shudder of foreboding down her spine, as if a malevolent wind had entered the room. “Surely someone could have done something to prevent such a tragedy—spoken to the crowd, or urged the Master not to place himself in such danger. I cannot believe that no one acted to stop those men, to stem their violent tendencies.”
Gran smiled. “Knowing your strength of character, my dear, I am certain that, if you had been there, you would have found a way to stop the riot.” She yawned and slid down under the bedcovers. “I am quite worn out, and think it is time for sleep. Good night.” Yawning once more, she turned upon her side, away from the light.
Meg removed her robe and got into bed, relieved to find that it was comfortable and clean. However, sleep refused to come. She wondered again why the Master of Marlborough Mills had ventured down among the mob in the courtyard. Had he actually thought he could calm that raucous crowd, or had something happened to make him rush in among them? If you had been there, you would have found a way to stop the riot, Gran had said
. Meg doubted she could have made any difference, but she had to believe she would have tried to intervene.
What nonsense, she thought suddenly, all of this conjecture about an event that occurred so long ago. It is over and done.
Her rest that night was far from peaceful. Perhaps because her mind had so recently dwelt on the riot, she was engulfed in familiar dreams of smoke and machinery—and the man in black who fascinated and repelled her.
Her dreams tonight were clearer, however, so that she could see a wider expanse and more of the detail. He stood outside the door of a large, dark house. Leaning against a railing, he coolly surveyed the surging crowd below him as they milled about and hurled invectives at his head. He shouted back a response to the crowd’s demands which inflamed the rioters even more. Suddenly, he moved to descend the steps into the crowd, which in turn surged toward him in a menacing tide. A man in the crowd picked up a large stone, hefted it in his hand as if to test the weight, and hurled it at the dark man’s head.
With a jolt, Meg sat up in bed, her heart pounding. It was her dream again, but now she understood. She had dreamed about the Master of Marlborough Mills just minutes before the crowd trampled him to death.
Meg dropped her forehead into her hands and damned Gran for placing such unsettling ideas in her head. Dragging a blanket from the bed, she wrapped herself in its scant warmth and settled herself in a chair where she gazed out of a window at the empty streets below. She sat through the late hours until drowsiness overcame her and she was certain she could return to bed and leave her dreams behind.
Chapter 2. Down the Rabbit Hole
The following morning dawned gray and cloudy. Meg thought Milton looked to little advantage in such weather as its structures and streets appeared leaden and lifeless outside the hotel room window. It was hard to reconcile the beloved town of Gran’s childhood with the unlovely reality outside.
Meg was dismayed to find that Gran was ill this morning; she complained of a sore throat and a hacking cough. Meg dressed and went down to the hotel dining room to order breakfast to be delivered to their room. She was able to cajole a pot of hot water from the maître d’hôtel, with which she made a tisane of herbs and honey to soothe Gran’s throat. She mixed in horehound and licorice to help Gran’s cough from the small store of medicinal herbs she always carried, and stood over her patient to make sure she drank it rather than dumped the contents into the potted plant on the dressing table. Gran called her a despot, but drank the concoction with little complaint.
After breakfast was delivered and eaten, Meg was alarmed to find that Gran was feverish and ordered the older woman back to bed. As she tucked the bed covers about her, Meg felt a twinge of anxiety. “Aunt Lily will have my head if you are ill when we return home. I wonder if we shouldn’t go home today and come back to Milton later.”
Gran disagreed so vigorously that she had a coughing spell. “We cannot go home yet—we have only just arrived. Besides, I am certain sitting in that drafty train car will do me more harm than good. Why don’t you explore the town this morning while I rest? In all probability, I will feel better by this afternoon, and you will have a chance to see if there is anything of interest we should visit, besides my old neighborhood.” When Meg protested, Gran insisted. “Perhaps the town apothecary might have something to help me?”
Meg pursed her lips. “Perhaps—oh, very well, I will take a walk, but mind you, you are to remain in bed and rest—and drink the rest of that tisane in an hour or so. I hope to be back by then, and it had best be gone.” Donning her smart new navy coat and her navy hat with the jaunty veil and cherry-colored ribbons, Meg blew Gran a kiss from the doorway and set off on her perambulation.
As Meg left the hotel and strolled down the quiet streets of Milton, she recalled Gran’s stories about this town when it was a bustling hub of industry. In addition to the mills, numerous other manufacturing endeavors had been in full employ in Milton, and the shops had done brisk business when Gran was a girl. Now, the factories were empty and still. Several shops remained open, but most were boarded up, as if the proprietors had slipped away to more prosperous locales, leaving the empty shells of drapers and milliners and dry goods stores behind them. She could find no evidence of an apothecary, and several of the locals informed her that the nearest apothecary was an hour’s journey from Milton.
An aura of melancholy lingered over the streets and alleyways, and Meg was sad to think that a town of such former enterprise and energy had been reduced to a shade of itself. The streets were so deserted that Meg’s footsteps echoed from the walls and structures, and she felt a sense of eeriness, as if she traveled about a ghost town. She stopped quite often during her walk to examine old bills tacked in dusty windows. She read tattered posters pasted to walls that advertised hair tonic, medicine, and other sundry items. She was so deep in thought that she failed to notice that she was being observed.
“Miss!” A sharp voice called out.
Startled, Meg turned and found herself pinned by the bright gaze of an older woman standing in a doorway. The woman was swathed in gauzy robes, and a bright shawl encircled her shoulders. Gold hoops dangled from her ears and her dark curls fell luxuriantly past her shoulders. Bright black eyes gazed curiously at Meg, who wondered if the woman was a gypsy. Gypsies were known to roam about the countryside, not reside in the city.
“Yes?” Meg replied hesitantly.
“Would you like to have your fortune told?” The woman indicated a sign above the doorway that read Spinning and Weaving, Clothilde M. The woman smiled at Meg expectantly.
Meg shook her head. “No, thank you.”
“Come, miss, let me read your palm.” The woman coaxed. “I will do it for nothing.”
Meg shook her head once more, but the woman persisted. “You look as if you are searching for something. Perhaps I may be of assistance. My shop contains many interesting and useful objects. Come in and look. Come, come!” She headed back into the store from whence she had emerged, beckoning for Meg to follow.
Meg stared at the woman’s retreating back. Against her better judgment, she crossed the street and entered the shop. As she moved through the doorway into the dim interior, Meg allowed her eyes to adjust to the darkness and studied the contents of the shop.
The walls were lined with shelves containing all lengths of wool and flax. Some skeins were dyed bright colors, while others were a natural hue. Herbs and flowers hung from numerous drying racks, and glass vials and bottles containing colorful liquids lined a counter. Several large looms stood along the walls, each with tapestries in progress. In the center of the room stood a small, round table upon which sat a crystal ball, a deck of Tarot cards, and a candle. Ornate chairs were positioned about the table in expectation of customers desiring to have their fortunes told.
Meg strolled about the store. She felt as if she had stepped into some outlandish fairy story. “Are you Clothilde?”
“I am.”
“And you tell fortunes as well as spin and weave?”
Clothilde smiled. “Spinning is my main employment. You could say it is my life’s work. However, I also make healing salves and potions, and tell fortunes when the opportunity arises.”
At first glance, Meg had believed that Clothilde was quite old. Now, as she studied her at close range, Meg saw that the woman’s face was smooth and unlined, like a young girl’s. Her hair was dark and lustrous, with no gray or white streaks. Only her eyes appeared old and very knowing.
Meg’s curiosity overcame her reticence. “What sorts of potions do you sell?”
“All sorts; my potions can calm a colicky baby, bring a sweet night’s sleep, or take away pain.” Clothilde glanced at Meg with a sly smile. “If you are interested, I could make you a love philter.”
Meg shook her head emphatically. “No, thank you, I have no interest in love.”
Clothilde arched one eyebrow. “You will.”
Meg snorted and gazed about the shelves at the herbs and oils. R
ecalling Gran’s illness, she asked, “Do you have eucalyptus oil and horehound?”
“Certainly.” Clothilde moved behind the counter to pull out several vials.
Gazing intently at the objects arranged along the countertop, Meg cried out in delight. “Oh, you have homeopathic remedies!”
Clothilde smiled at her. “Are you a practitioner?”
Meg nodded. “I have used them a time or two.” She requested arnica, arsenicum album, belladonna, phosphorus, and several others that she frequently used.
Clothilde opened various phials and filled several small flasks with the concoctions. Once filled, she shook the bottles, and labeled and sealed them. “Will that be all, miss?”
“Yes, thank you.” Meg handed her several pound notes, and Clothilde gave Meg her change and purchases, which Meg put into her net purse.
She turned to go, but Clothilde laid a soft hand upon her arm. “Your fortune, miss? Please let me read your palm.” She settled herself in the largest chair at the table, and beckoned Meg to take a seat opposite her own.
Sighing resignedly, Meg settled herself in the chair indicated. The fortune teller held out her hand, and Meg proffered her own. “Give me your left palm, please. That tells the fortune with which you are born.”
Meg held out her left palm, and Clothilde grasped it firmly, pulling it toward the candlelight. After a brief glance, she smiled with satisfaction. “As I suspected, you are not where you belong. That will soon change.” She moved her forefinger over Meg’s palm and studied its contours, tracing the lines with a light touch.
When she finished her perusal, Clothilde pinned Meg with her gaze. All levity was gone from her expression. “You face a journey of danger and importance. You must make right what went awry. It is your destiny to alter the outcome.” She pointed to a particular line around the pad of Meg’s thumb. “It is on your head to prevent his death—you must intervene before the first stone is thrown. Remember that more than one life depends upon your actions.”