by Nancy Klein
Meg opened her mouth, but the fortune teller silenced her with a glance, and peered once again at her palm. “You cannot escape your destiny, much as you may wish. You will recognize your heart’s desire only when you embrace your destiny.” Meeting Meg’s gaze, she added, “Follow your heart, not your head. The dark man will show you the way.” She released Meg’s hand and stood abruptly.
Meg stared open-mouthed at the woman. “What do you mean, ‘it is on my head to prevent his death’? Whose death?”
Clothilde left her seat and urged Meg from her own chair. She firmly escorted the sputtering girl out of the shop door and into the street. Clothilde refused to respond to Meg’s questions, but pointed toward the older industrial area of town. “If you seek answers, you had best begin at Marlborough Mills.”
With these brief words, she returned inside and shut the door in Meg’s face, pulling the shade. Meg heard the distinct snick of a lock being turned.
Meg stared at the door in disbelief. Marlborough Mills was where the master had been killed in that tragic story Gran had told her. Was that the death of which the fortune teller spoke?
Meg shook her head as if to dispel the woman’s words. She stubbornly determined that she would ignore Clothilde’s direction, and would instead return to the hotel to see how Gran fared.
An hour later, after making numerous wrong turns and backtracking several times, Meg realized that she was lost. Stopping a moment to get her bearings, she set off in the direction from which she believed that she had come. The cobblestones of the street were ill-kempt, and many were loose so that walking was difficult, especially in the fashionable high-heeled half boots that Meg wore.
She nearly turned her ankle twice by the time she reached the end of the street. Stopping once more to rest, Meg spotted the dilapidated gates of what appeared to be a factory. Moving closer to the gates, she was able to decipher the lettering on a tarnished sign. It read Marlborough Mills.
A chill shook her as she gazed at the gates of the mill where that long-ago riot had occurred, and where the fortune teller had told her to go to find answers. Meg had the fleeting thought that it was getting late and she should return to the hotel, but her curiosity overcame her caution and she moved closer to the mill yard entrance.
As she attempted to peer into the courtyard, she leaned upon one of the gates that hung askew from its rusted hinges. It tottered and crashed to the ground. Meg stepped around the fallen gate and entered the mill yard. She walked along the uneven cobblestones until she stood at the center of an empty space choked with weeds and filled with rubbish. What had once been a thriving, prosperous mill was now an eerie wasteland. The only sounds to be heard were Meg’s echoing footsteps and the wind that whistled about the corners of the buildings.
A large, gloomy house loomed in front of her, and off to the side, several factory buildings sat, dark and silent. Meg walked slowly toward the factory, and pushed a large door open. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she spied what appeared to be an office tucked away at the end of a corridor. Frosted glass panes were grimed with dirt, but some light shone from the interior windows. She moved toward the office and pushed the door open.
A large desk scattered with papers covered in dust stood in the center of the room. A smaller scribe’s desk was pushed against a wall, and an empty coat rack stood in the corner. The walls were lined with book shelves overflowing with ledgers and large, musty books. Meg moved about the desk and examined a stack of yellowing papers that appeared to consist of letters and notes containing columns of numbers. Several receipts were neatly stacked, and a pen lay across a sheet of paper, as if the writer had been called away but a moment before. The ink pot was crusted dry.
Meg leafed through several stacks of paper, hoping to find some clue to help her determine why the fortuneteller had sent her here. Opening the drawers of the desk, she discovered a pair of men’s leather gloves. She extracted them from the drawer and noted that the leather was supple, as if they were recently purchased. They were of good quality, though not the best she had seen. Meg wondered how they had come to be in the deserted office. Because the office was cold, she slipped the gloves upon her hands. They were much too big for her, but warmed her skin against the chill of the November morning.
This mill was a sad and lonely place, Meg mused, touched by tragedy from which it had never recovered. Moving away from the desk, she spotted a large, ornate looking glass hanging on the wall. Stepping to the mirror, she peered at her reflection. What she saw gave her pause.
Her face peered back at her, but the context was totally different. The Meg in the mirror was dressed in a drab brown coat and a patterned shawl. She wore an unfashionable and astonishingly ugly broad-brimmed hat upon her head, and delicate gold hoops in her ears. Her hair was twisted and pinned up, and her face held an expression of irritation and discontent.
Meg lifted a gloved hand to her face and saw with disquiet that her reflection was gloveless. Moving closer, she noticed a small crack running horizontally across the bottom of the glass, as though the mirror had been dropped or sustained a blow that marred but did not shatter it.
Meg felt compelled to touch the crack; the impulse was remarkably strong. She placed her finger along the crack and was shocked to feel her finger move through the mirror’s surface as if it were shallow water. She tried to snatch her finger back, but it was held in a viselike grip. She heard a rushing noise like a ferocious wind, and closed her eyes against the blinding light that shone through the crack in the looking glass, which continued to split and widen.
To her amazement, she felt herself being pulled toward and then through the mirror. She felt squeezed and compacted as she struggled through the crack in the glass, and felt the rough edges of the glass rip at her skin and clothing. The pain was exquisite.
After what seemed an eternity, she stood in the mill office once more, dizzy and disoriented. Fighting the blackness that threatened to overcome her, she staggered toward the desk. Her legs felt like water, and her head was on fire. Before she slumped to the floor, she saw an open ledger on the desk. It was dated November 15, 1855.
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Meg blinked and opened her eyes, gazing up at the rough timbers of the ceiling. It took a moment before the memory of what had happened rushed back to her. She had no idea how much time had passed. Sitting up, she felt the room settle about her. As she took several deep breaths, it dawned upon her that the office was no longer dusty or forsaken. Remembering the pain she had experienced as she came through the mirror, she examined her hands and face, and was surprised to find she had sustained no visible cuts or scratches. She staggered to her feet and examined the office with care.
While it was still messy, the desk showed signs of organization. Piles of ledgers and paperwork were stacked on the desk’s surface, and the cobwebs and debris were gone. The last thing she remembered was—the date! She pulled the open ledger toward her, and saw with cold disbelief that it was indeed dated November 15, 1855.
Was she dreaming? She shook her head to clear her befuddlement—it had to be a ledger from years before. However, if that were the case, why did the writing look so recent and why were the pages so crisp?
She turned to glance out the window, and saw with astonishment that the previously deserted courtyard now teemed with activity. It was filled with carts piled with large, unwieldy bundles. Men rushed back and forth, helter-skelter, jostling each other as they tugged at horses’ bridles or pushed wheelbarrows. Meg noted that everyone wore a style of clothing long out of date, and the men looked rough and hard bitten. Formerly quiet smokestacks sent up great clouds of smoke and soot; where silence had previously reigned, she heard the clatter of machinery.
She looked down and noticed that she no longer wore her fashionable navy coat and walking suit. She raised a hand to her head and found her pert hat with the veil was gone. Instead, she wore a drab brown serge gown with hoop skirts and stacks of petticoats that frothed about her ankles
.
Meg approached the mirror, fearful of what she might see. She gazed into the looking glass…and saw herself in the old-fashioned garments she had seen reflected earlier. Her features were the same, but her hair appeared much longer, and was pinned up on the back of her head. She wore the hat, the pelisse, the shawl, all of the garments that she had seen in the reflection. The only item remaining from her earlier outfit was her net bag. She swiftly checked it and was relieved to find that the medicinal items she had purchased earlier were there, as were a few coins. Glancing into the mirror once more, she noted that her face was pinched and white with fear.
An unnatural calm fell over her, and the sense that she must be dreaming steadied her. I have not gone back in time, she told herself. It is not possible.
With sudden resolve, she left the confines of the office and walked along the long, wide corridor. As she moved slowly along, the noise of machinery grew louder.
Following the din, Meg continued down the hall, trying not to trip over her long skirts. Workers pushed past her, paying little attention to the stranger in their midst. She approached a large door and pressed her ear to it. The sound within was deafening, a mechanical concerto. Grasping the handle of a large door, she swung it aside and gaped in amazement.
Machines covered every inch of floor space in the long room, and workers raced among them, checking the progress of what appeared to be carding of fabric. Fibers drifted through the air like snowflakes, scuttling about the floor only to be lifted once again by draughts caused by scurrying workers rushing among the machinery.
Venturing into the room, Meg noted the intricate dance between workers and machines as men and women kept careful eyes on work in progress, and children scrabbled about the floor, picking up scraps. The noise was overwhelming.
In the midst of this cacophony and the blizzard of white, Meg caught a glimpse of black. A tall, striking man strode up stairs onto a dais, and turned to survey the workroom, much as a captain would look down on sailors toiling away on the deck of his ship.
Meg moved closer to the dais until the machinery no longer obstructed her view. Gazing up, her eyes met his blazing blue stare, and her mouth dropped open in disbelief.
It was the man from her dreams.
Chapter 3. Pig and Pepper
Meg could not believe her eyes. The handsome, austere man standing before her was the same one who had appeared in her dreams. The details and surroundings had always appeared fuzzy and remote to her, but his face was etched in her memory in startling clarity.
It was him.
He pinned her with his startling blue gaze for one brief moment. His eyes were curious and searching. He made a move toward her, but his attention was diverted. She watched as his face contorted with fury, and he shouted, “You there! Put that pipe out!”
Racing down the small flight of steps, he sped after a man, crying, “I saw you—you’ll not get off easily this time!” Catching the miscreant by the collar, he slammed him to the ground.
“Smoking again,” the man in black ground out, “I warned you!”
“Please, sir,” the unfortunate man mewled, but the man in black was relentless. Drawing back his large fist, he began pummeling the man unmercifully. When the wretched man moved away from his fists, his furious persecutor drew back his leg to give him a vicious kick.
At the sight of the altercation, something inside Meg snapped. After the damage she had witnessed at the hospital during the war, men bleeding and maimed in what she considered to be senseless conflict, she could not tolerate violence of any form. Without thought, she rushed over to the angry man and grasped his arm to stop him from doing any further damage to the wretched victim of his rage.
“Stop it! Stop it at once! What are you doing?” she demanded.
The man in black turned to her in furious astonishment and spat out, “Who are you and what are you doing back in here again?”
Ignoring his question, she demanded, “Stop beating this man! Who do you think you are, to inflict such injury upon another person?”
Without taking his eyes from hers, he snarled, “I thought I told you to get this woman out of here, Williams!”
“Yes, Mr. Thornton, I took her back to the office and asked her to stay,” Williams explained in an aggrieved tone as he attempted to grasp Meg by the elbow.
She slipped away from the man’s grasp and knelt on the floor by the injured man. Lifting his bloodied face in her hands, she cast a critical eye over his features. Touching gentle fingers to his nose in a careful examination, she finally heaved a relieved sigh. “Your nose is not broken, but you will have quite a bit of bruising,” she informed the bewildered victim. She glanced up at the dark man towering over her. “I need hot water and a clean cloth.”
“Where do you think you are,” he shouted, “an infirmary? Get this woman out of here,” he barked again to Williams. Turning his attention back to the unfortunate wretch cowering on the floor, he exclaimed, “Crawl away on your belly and don’t come back. You know the rules.”
“Master, please,” the man whined.
Meg’s head snapped up. “You are the Master of Marlborough Mills?” she asked abruptly.
He glared at her. “Yes, I am. This is my mill, and you are not welcome here.”
“Please, miss,” Mr. Williams urged, pulling her to her feet.
She turned to leave, but the angry master grasped her by her other forearm, detaining her. “Wait,” he exclaimed, staring at her hands. “Where did you get those gloves?” he asked in an odd voice.
Meg gazed stupidly at her hands. She had forgotten that she had put the gloves on before coming through the mirror. How had she kept them when her other clothes had changed? “I removed them from a desk…” she responded blankly.
“Those are my gloves that I misplaced weeks ago. Where did you find them?” he demanded.
Meg looked at him steadily. “They were in your office. I put them on because my hands were cold. I had no intention of taking your property. I merely wished to keep my hands warm while I waited. I forgot I had them on….” Her voice trailed off. She could not tell him that sixty years from now, she would be searching for clues about the riot at the mill, a riot which had not yet occurred. Mentally chastising herself to guard her speech, she quickly stripped the gloves from her hands and held them out to him. “I am very sorry. I was not trying to steal them. Please take them back.”
He made no attempt to take the gloves from her, but continued to look at her in curious appraisal. His eyes were alert, as if he were aware that something was amiss. At last, he accepted the gloves from her outstretched hand. Her fingers slid over his as she handed him the gloves, and Meg felt an astonishing frisson of energy flow up her arm. Glancing quickly at him, she could tell by his bemused expression that he had felt something as well.
He stared at her a moment longer, then reiterated brusquely to Williams, “Get her out of here.”
“At once, Mr. Thornton,” Williams replied and guided Meg from the workroom as Mr. Thornton turned his attention back to the man on the floor. “Come miss,” Mr. Williams repeated, dragging her along to the door.
Meg glanced back over her shoulder, and saw that Mr. Thornton was watching her. She called across to him in a clear voice, “I am sorry to have angered you, but you should not have beaten that man. Violence solves nothing.”
Mr. Thornton’s look of astonishment would have made her laugh any other time, but the current situation was far from amusing.
Meg was peremptorily escorted out of the mill by Mr. Williams, who fussed and fumed that she had not remained in the office where he had previously escorted her. “After the tongue-lashing you gave me for taking you into the mill with its dirt and fluff, I did not think you would come back into the work room again,” he complained bitterly. “You said you preferred to wait in the office and not soil your gown. Now, Mr. Thornton won’t see you at all.” When they reached the mill door, Williams thrust her outside and firmly shut the door be
hind her.
Standing on the cobblestones of the courtyard, Meg wondered where she should go. She had no money beyond a few coins in her purse—she had left most of it back at the hotel room with Gran, and what little she had brought with her had been spent in the fortune teller’s shop. She certainly would have no acquaintances, given that she had not yet been born. It hurt her head to think about her circumstances. She looked about, attempting to orient herself, when she noticed an older gentleman hurrying towards her.
His sparse sandy hair receded from his high forehead, and he held his hat upon the back of his head with his right hand, as if he were afraid a breeze might carry it away. Small spectacles were perched on the end of his nose. He had a kindly face, if a bit careworn, and was dressed modestly in the curiously old fashioned style Meg had noticed with the other men she had seen thus far.
“Margaret, where have you been? I have been looking for you for hours,” he called out to her.
She stared at him. How did he know her name?
“Where have you been,” the man repeated. “I have not seen you since this morning, and your mother and I have been frantic with worry. I have been looking for you all over town.” He gazed at her pale face and pinched features, and added, “Margaret, are you well? You look ill.”
“Who are you?” Meg asked in total bewilderment.
He stared at her as if she had lost her senses. Touching her cheek and examining her troubled expression, he said in a low tone, as if speaking to an invalid, “Let me escort you home. Have you suffered a blow to the head?”
“Home?” asked Meg. “This is not my home!”
He looked at her in evident irritation. “I realize that we have been here but a short while, Margaret. However, Milton is now your home. I have heard quite enough of your complaints and laments about Milton. You must accept that we are here and here we will stay.”