by Nancy Klein
“Please, who are you? What is your name?” she whispered, overcome by all that had happened.
“I am your father, Richard Hale,” he responded, eyeing her with growing concern.
My father, she thought shakily. I have no father. Or I did, but never knew who he was. She looked once more at the horses and quaint vehicles and oddly dated clothing, and began to tremble. “What year is it?”
He stared at her. “What game is this? You are well aware that it is 1855, as it was this morning when you set out on your rambles.”
Meg nearly staggered. So the ledger was accurate! She had gone back in time some sixty-odd years. She could not fathom how she had come to be here, but it must be to fulfill the fortuneteller’s prediction: You must make right what went awry. It is your destiny to alter the outcome.
It is not a dream, she thought desolately. She had been sent here to change the future. Meg shivered and allowed the gentleman who claimed he was her father to place her hand in the crook of his proffered arm and lead her away.
As they moved out of the mill yard and into the streets of the town, Meg was astounded to see that the small shops that had been abandoned and boarded up just a brief time ago were now full of wares and bustling with patrons. Horses and carriages moved up and down the street, and laundry hung from many second-story windows. She stepped carefully to avoid the horse droppings in the street, and was assaulted on every side by noises and odors and the ever-present fog and smoke.
After wending their way through large avenues and small alleys, they reached a small hotel at the intersection of two busy streets. Margaret was amazed to see that these roadways were filled with peddlers’ carts offering parts of pigs, potatoes, roasted chestnuts, and vegetables. Along both sides of the streets, men constructed coffins and shone shoes. Women industriously plucked the feathers from dead chickens, and the street was strewn with feathers. It was pure cacophony and unlike anything Meg had ever observed before.
The man who claimed to be her father urged her up a short flight of steps and through the ornate front door of the hotel. They stepped into a small entryway and walked up two additional flights of stairs. As they reached the top of the staircase, a short, stout woman stepped out of a doorway and moved toward them.
“Heavens, Miss Margaret, where have you been?” she exclaimed in a broad accent. “Your mother has been worried to death, you running off without a word!”
Meg stared at her stupidly, while the man responded, “Now, Dixon, do not scold Margaret. I believe she is ill.” He observed Meg’s face with great concern. “She should rest now.”
The woman he called Dixon was instantly solicitous. “Poor lamb, it has to be this bad air—so much smoke! Come with me, and I will get you into bed. You need to rest—you do look peaked.” She addressed the man pointedly. “Missus would like to see you.”
“Thank you, Dixon,” Mr. Hale replied. He gave Meg one last troubled look and proceeded to enter the room from whence the servant had come.
Meg allowed the woman to guide her down the hall and into a small bedroom.
“Here, Miss Margaret, sit down upon the bed, so I can remove your shoes,” Dixon offered solicitously. She undid the laces of Meg’s boots and slipped them from her feet, then helped her stand to remove her dress and petticoats.
Meg was daunted by the sheer number of garments she had on, and was grateful that Dixon was here to assist her. She carefully observed how Dixon undid the tapes of her petticoats, thinking she would have to dress herself later. When Meg stood in her corset and pantaloons, Dixon folded back the covers and helped her into bed. “Now, you close your eyes and sleep. I don’t need you to become ill like your poor mother,” Dixon clucked, hanging her dress in the cupboard.
“Thank you, Miss Dixon,” Meg whispered, struggling against the exhaustion that threatened to set her to tears.
“Lord, Miss Margaret, since when have you called me ‘Miss Dixon?’” the servant chuckled. “And since when have you thanked me for helping you undress? There is no need for such formality. Haven’t I cared for you since you were a babe?” she asked. “You rest now, and ring for me when you wake up. I’ll help you dress for dinner.” Smiling comfortingly, Dixon whisked herself out of the room and closed the door with a quiet click.
Meg knew she should search about the room for clues about Margaret Hale and why she was mistaken for her, but the events of the day and the oddness her body felt from moving through the mirror overcame her. She felt utterly exhausted. I will close my eyes for a few moments, she thought drowsily, and then decide what to do. As soon as her head settled upon the pillow, she fell asleep.
A light tap on the door woke her. Feeling groggy and disoriented, Meg rolled over, looked about the strange room, and wondered where she was. Her eyes snapped open as memory flooded back, and she took in the tiny bedroom and the fact that the light from the window was nearly gone, obscured by fog.
The tap on the door sounded again, a bit more insistent. Clearing her throat, she bade whomever knocked to enter. The door swung open, and Dixon entered the room bearing a pitcher and tray.
“I thought you might want some hot water and soap to wash up, Miss Margaret,” Dixon explained, placing the tray carefully on a small washstand. “The streets are so dirty in this nasty, smoky town.”
Meg, who had grown up on the much dirtier streets of London, replied, “Thank you, Dixon. How thoughtful of you.” She hesitated a moment. “How long have I slept?”
“Nearly three hours. It’s nigh on dinner time, that’s why I’ve come to wake you,” Dixon replied briskly. “Now, if you go ahead and wash, I will be back in a thrice to help you dress for dinner. Your mother and father are waiting for you downstairs.”
“Dress for dinner,” Meg repeated. “Do you mean formal attire?”
Dixon laughed. “Formal attire is not required at this hotel. No, I will retighten your corset and help you into your petticoats and dress. You must be half asleep yet, miss.” Smiling fondly, she left the room.
Meg threw back the covers and sat up. The corset stays poked into the tender undersides of her breasts, and she silently cursed the person—a man, no doubt—who had come up with such a fiendish device to make women’s waists tiny. She wondered if she could dispense with the corset entirely, but feared the gown might not fit unless she wore the constrictive undergarment.
Walking over to the wash stand, she poured the steaming water into a china bowl and lathered up the washcloth with the fresh cake of lavender soap. The water felt wonderful on her face and arms, and she pressed the heated cloth against the nape of her neck. She inhaled the fragrance and felt a bit of her tension ease, although the knot in her stomach showed no sign of abating.
She dreaded going downstairs to continue the charade of being Margaret Hale, but did not know what else to do. Until she could figure out why she was here and how to get back to her own time, she must play the role of this young woman and gather as many clues about her situation as possible. She thought back to what had happened in the office when she had come through the mirror, just like Alice through the looking glass. Instead of white rabbits and mad hatters, however, she had encountered an irate Master and a worried father. And what would she do if the real Margaret should show up this evening?
Meg shook her head—this was no time to figure out this conundrum. She needed to eat and get a proper night’s sleep. Only then could she start to work out what she must do.
Another tap on the door heralded Dixon’s return. In quick order, she retightened Meg’s corset, remarking that Meg’s waist seemed smaller overnight. Was she eating properly, Dixon fretted, and no wonder if she had no appetite given the trouble and sorrow all of them had been through with this ill-begotten move to this horrible town.
Meg remained silent throughout Dixon’s tirade, unsure what she could say in response to this bitter assessment of her newfound family’s situation.
Dixon helped Meg into her petticoats and gown, and forced her to sit i
n front of a small vanity so that Dixon could dress her hair.
Meg watched as Dixon unpinned her hair and it fell to her waist. Meg was surprised at the length—no wonder she felt as if she were carrying a five-pound weight upon her head. As Dixon began to brush the thick tresses, Meg asked, “Might we just braid it and leave it down tonight, Dixon? My head is pounding.”
Dixon frowned, but concern for Meg’s health won out over propriety. “I should pin it up, but I suppose it would not hurt to braid it for one night, since it will just be the master and mistress in a private dining room. Very well,” Dixon conceded, and braided Meg’s hair in a neat plait down her back.
“You look like a young girl again, Miss Margaret,” Dixon commented fondly. “Now, you’d best hurry along or your dinner will be cold.”
“Thank you, Dixon, for all of your help,” Meg said sweetly, and Dixon looked surprised, as if she were not used to being thanked for doing such mundane services.
Meg followed Dixon down the curving stairs into a small parlor off the first floor hallway. Mr. Hale looked up from his book as she entered the room, and stood up, smiling fondly. Placing the book aside, he exclaimed, “Ah, Margaret, you look much refreshed. Are you feeling better?” He stretched his hands out to her.
After the briefest hesitation, she walked up to him and clasped his hands in hers. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, and she squeezed his hands and smiled into his warm eyes. “See, Maria, she is feeling better. I told you a bit of sleep would do her good.”
Meg turned around and met the lovely dark eyes of an older woman—her mother, she guessed. “Yes, I am feeling much better,” Meg said quietly, and sat down on the sofa next to the pretty woman.
“Margaret, where were you earlier today? Your father and I were very worried,” Mrs. Hale asked in a fretful tone. Her hands fluttered about her lap, and Meg had a strong impression of anxiety, sadness, and something deeper—illness, perhaps? Her features were pale except for flags of hectic color on her cheeks, and her lovely eyes were listless. She has a feverish look about her, Meg thought.
After a moment’s silence, Meg hesitantly replied. “I was lost, Mother. Milton is quite large, and I do not know my way around its streets yet. I walked for quite a while before I found myself at Marlborough Mills.” She glanced at Mr. Hale. “That was where Father found me.”
“You should not wander about town unattended, as you were wont to do in Helstone,” her mother admonished in a querulous voice.
“Yes, mother,” Meg replied meekly, unwilling to argue.
Her mother looked at her with a critical eye. “Margaret, why is your hair down?”
“My head aches,” Meg explained, dropping her eyes to her lap. “I thought I would leave it down for one evening since it will be just the three of us tonight.”
Her mother passed a caressing hand over her cheek. “Poor child, I know you miss the sweet air of our home in the country. No wonder you have a headache, with the smoke and unhealthy fogs we encounter here. If your father had not insisted we come to this God-forsaken place, your head might not hurt as it does, and I would no doubt feel in health.”
Meg did not know how to respond. A quick glance at her father showed a pained look upon his face, and she knew his wife’s words had wounded him. Not understanding the undercurrents swirling about her, Meg smiled at the woman and said, “The air is not so bad. I am young and healthy, and can withstand the air better than most, I daresay.”
“I wish I could say the same,” sighed Mrs. Hale. She leaned back against the sofa and closed her eyes. Without thinking, Margaret placed her fingers on her mother’s wrist and counted her heartbeats.
Mrs. Hale’s eyes blinked open. “What are you doing, Margaret?” she asked in a startled voice.
“Taking your pulse,” Meg responded without thinking, trying to count the heart beats and calculate the heart rate.
“Doing what?” her mother asked in astonishment.
Meg smiled at her. “I’m counting your heartbeats to see if your heart rate is normal. The pulse can tell us quite a lot about the health of the heart.”
“And how would you know if her heartbeat were normal?” her father asked.
Meg replied hastily, “I read about it in the newspaper—it is not that complicated, and is really quite fascinating.”
“And why did you…” Mr. Hale’s question was cut off by the appearance of a servant bearing a heavily laden tray.
Meg breathed a sigh of relief at the interruption. She must watch her use of her nursing skills carefully—it was second nature to her, but judging from the looks upon her parents’ faces, Margaret Hale would know nothing of medicine. Saying a silent prayer for guidance, Meg joined the Hales at the table for the evening meal.
During dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Hale discussed how they were to find a residence. Mr. Hale lamented that the town was so large, he did not know how he was to look at all of the properties suggested to him. Meg offered to help him, and suggested they divide the list to work through it more quickly. He stared at her in surprise. “When I asked you last night if you would help me, you told me you had no interest in looking for a house, and would rather not waste your time on such a matter. What has happened to make you change your mind?”
Meg paused before she replied, “I must have been tired and out of sorts, Father. Forgive me. I would be happy to help you find our new home.”
Mr. Hale nodded his approval. “Mr. Thornton has recommended any number of properties to us, but I definitely would like to have your opinion, my dear.”
Meg looked up in surprise. “Mr. Thornton—what does he have to do with us?”
Mr. Hale looked aggrieved. “Were you not listening when I explained that Mr. Bell, my friend from Oxford, recommended we apply to Mr. Thornton for assistance when we reached Milton? As Master of Marlborough Mills, Mr. Thornton has connections and standing within Milton. His word would go a long way toward securing a new home.”
The Master of Marlborough Mills.
Meg’s heart raced upon hearing that title once more. Mr. Thornton must be the master who had been killed in the riot. No, that’s not correct, she though dazedly, he is the master who will be killed in the riot if I am unsuccessful in my intervention. She decided that she must remain alert to any rumors of a strike so that she could determine what action to take.
The remainder of the meal passed uneventfully. Feeling like an actress in an interminable play, Meg perched upon her chair and applied herself to her meal, nodding or replying when expected. She was careful to guard her tongue, and contributed little to the conversation. It was obvious from their discussion of the type of house they must lease that the Hales lived in a sort of genteel poverty, much like Aunt Lily. Meg was deeply curious about the circumstances surrounding the family’s removal from their country parish in Helstone—spoken of with great affection by Mrs. Hale—to this industrial town. She sensed disagreement between husband and wife, and wondered if Dixon might be encouraged to explain what events had conspired to bring the Hales to Milton.
After dinner, Meg found she was expected to prepare the family’s tea. She did so with ease, as she had often served tea for Aunt Lily’s boarders. Meg hesitated when it came to how each of her parents preferred their cups, but a lucky guess of cream and sugar for her mother enabled her to concoct one cup without comment. She decided to be cautious with her father, and took the sugar bowl and creamer to him along with his cup.
He looked expectantly up at her, a twinkle in his eye, and she smiled in puzzlement at him. At last he sighed and said, “Are you so out of sorts with me, Margaret, that you will not even play our game tonight?”
“Of course not, Father,” she said in apprehension. “What would you have me do?”
“Give me your hand,” he said quietly, and for a moment she feared another palm reading. She placed her hand in his, but he merely manipulated her thumb and little finger. Reaching into the sugar bowl, he used her fingers as pincers to extract a cube an
d place it in his teacup. Glancing up at her, he winked mischievously.
Meg felt a lump form in her throat—imagine having a father who would play at such a charming pantomime with a daughter. Such a lucky girl, she thought, and on a quick impulse, she placed the sugar bowl on the table and dropped a light kiss on his forehead. Smoothing his hair with her palm, she met his well-satisfied gaze.
“Now, that is my Margaret,” he said in a quiet voice, and she felt a swelling of affection for this tender man.
“When shall we set off tomorrow to search for our new home, my dear?” Mr. Hale gazed at her expectantly. Meg suggested they set out after breakfast, and her father agreed. Mrs. Hale yawned and professed that she was ready for bed, and they parted for the night.
Once in her room, Meg knew she should think through what to do, but found she could not settle on any one thought. For the first time that day, she remembered Gran, probably fretting about her being gone for so long. What if she could not get back to her own time? What would Gran think—that she had disappeared, much as this Margaret Hale had disappeared? A memory tugged at the corner of her mind, and Meg suddenly recalled Gran’s story of the young woman who had disappeared from Milton. A young woman of gentle birth whose family had relocated from a village in the south of England … the young woman had stepped out to run errands and vanished into thin air. She was never seen or heard of again.
A sense of foreboding overcame her. “I believe I have stepped into that young woman’s place.”
Chapter 4. Looking Glass House
On the following morning, Meg and Mr. Hale set out in search of a house. They agreed to view the first few offerings located near their hotel together, and to separate so that they might view the more far-reaching properties separately. The third house they visited, although smaller than what Mr. Hale would have liked, met their needs and was within their budget. Meg thought the kitchen was dark and gloomy, the rooms were small, and the wall papers were unattractive, but she tempered her criticism with the idea that wall papers could be changed. She recognized that the family’s circumstances did not lend themselves to a larger house or rental.