by Nancy Klein
But when would the time come when she was to intervene? Meg had heard no rumors to date of a strike. If she were forewarned of any union activity, she could perhaps take action to prevent the strike. She was determined to discover as much as she could, and in order to do so would have to frequent Marlborough Mills when the opportunity arose. She smiled wryly, as she thought that the Master of Marlborough Mills would probably not be very happy to have her show her face again at his mill. His thoughts appeared to her to be totally preoccupied with his business.
Meg would have been surprised to learn that, rather than the cotton industry, she was the main focus of Mr. Thornton’s thoughts as he walked back to his mill. What a strange girl Miss Hale is, he mused. She was outspoken and headstrong, as she proved in the carding room the first day he saw her. He had initially suspected her of trying to steal his gloves, but she was so forthright in her explanation that he could not believe she was guilty of subterfuge. She could be haughty, yet she admitted when she was wrong and apologized. He could see that she was moved by his story about the fire in Yorkshire; her expression had become grave and regretful, as if she, too, had experienced a similar situation. But where would such a gently bred young woman see the ravages caused by fire?
He shook his head. She was a puzzling young woman and too well educated for her own good—he believed that a young woman’s place was to prepare for marriage and, once married, to keep a home for her family. He had no time for young ladies in any event, he reminded himself briskly. The mill and business came first. When he next met her, he would be polite to her only out of courtesy to his newfound friend, Mr. Hale.
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The graveyard above Milton quickly became one of Meg’s favorite walks. It was situated high above the town, and offered some modicum of fresh air in contrast to the ever-present smoke and fog. She enjoyed strolling among the gravestones and studying the epitaphs and dates, and spent many moments wondering about the lives of those whose remains rested beneath the stones. Many were in the prime of life when they died, probably worn out by hard labor, while others had been carried away by disease.
Thoughts of mortality turned Meg’s thoughts to Mrs. Hale and her continuing poor health. Meg had heard her father speak of low spirits, but she believed her mother’s flushed cheeks were the result of pain and fever. Listening to her constant coughing and wheezing, Meg feared she suffered from some serious respiratory ailment. As she idly wondered what she could do to ease her mother’s discomfort, Meg stumbled over a stone and fell against a young woman walking along the path, knocking both of them to their knees.
“Oh, I do beg your pardon,” Meg cried out, struggling to her feet and offering the fallen woman her hand. “I lost my balance—are you all right?” She asked in concern, noting the woman’s pallor and difficulty regaining her feet.
“Yes, miss, I’m fine, just a bit winded.” The woman gazed up at Meg and gave her a sharp look. “Weren’t you the lady at Marlborough Mills last week who gave Thornton such a tongue lashing?”
Meg blushed. “Yes, that was me. Do you work there?”
The woman nodded. “I do. My name is Bessy Higgins.” She was overcome by a fit of coughing, and had to stop speaking to regain her breath.
Meg smiled. “My name is Meg Hale.” Just that morning, Meg had asked Mr. and Mrs. Hale and Dixon to call her Meg, as that was how her friends in London referred to her. It will be a relief to respond to my own name, she thought, and I am called that by my London friends, so I am not telling a lie.
“How long have you been coughing?” Meg asked, gazing at Bessy with her critical nurse’s eye. Not only was the woman pale, but she had dark circles under her eyes as if she had trouble sleeping, and the skin across her cheekbones was pulled taut.
Bessy shrugged. “Don’t remember when I started. Got a bit of fluff in me lungs, I’m afraid. That’s why father found me the job at Marlborough Mills. He didn’t want me at Hamper’s, breathing in the fluff.”
Meg looked confused. “Fluff?” she asked uncertainly.
“Yes, miss, little bits that fly off from the cotton and fill the air with white dust. They say it winds about the lungs and tightens them up. Many a worker in the carding rooms falls into a waste, coughing and spitting up blood.”
“How awful,” exclaimed Meg, remembering the blizzard of fibers she had seen at the mill. “Why don’t the Masters do something to remedy the situation?”
Bessy shrugged. “Not much they can do, I reckon. Mr. Thornton had a wheel put into his mill to keep the fluff down.”
Meg was impressed that Mr. Thornton cared for his workers to the extent he would install such a device. He probably recognizes that healthy workers are more dependable and productive, she thought shrewdly.
Meg fell in beside Bessy as they walked and asked her several questions about the mill and Mr. Thornton. The young girl was happy to talk about the mill, but did not know much about Mr. Thornton. Meg asked her if she had heard any rumors of an impending strike, and Bessy shifted her eyes away. “My father is a union man, and he has mentioned a few times that a strike might happen, but nothing has been done yet.”
Meg’s heart quickened. “Who is your father,” she asked eagerly.
Bessy nodded to a spot behind Meg. “Here he comes.”
Meg swung around and was surprised to see the man who had previously assisted her on the stairs the day she dropped her purse. He raised his eyebrows in turn at seeing her, and sauntered up, taking his daughter by the arm.
“Father, this is the young woman I was telling you about, gave Thornton what-for about beating that man who were smoking in the mill. Her name is Meg Hale.”
Margaret thrust out her hand, and the man looked amused. A moment later he took her hand and shook it. “My name is Higgins, Nicholas Higgins. Thornton was right to give that scoundrel a thrashing. Damn fool could have burned the mill down and killed everyone.”
Meg smiled. “So I have learned,” she responded brusquely. Turning to Bessy, Meg asked, “Where do you live?”
Higgins responded for her. “We put up at nine Francis Street, second turn to the left after you’ve passed Goulden Dragon. Why do you want to know?”
Meg replied, “I thought I might come to visit you.”
He looked her over. “You’re not from these parts, are you? Up here, we wait to be asked into someone’s home before we go chargin’ in.”
Rather than being taken aback, as he expected, Meg smiled. She liked this man’s plainspoken way. “Why don’t you ask me then?” she asked pertly, and saw a responsive gleam come into his eye.
“I reckon you can come if you want,” he replied complacently. “But you’ll not remember us, I’d bet on that.” He drew Bessy’s arm through his and the two continued on their way.
Meg watched their receding figures. You are wrong, Mr. Higgins, she thought with rising excitement. I will visit you very soon so I may learn something about this strike.
Chapter 5. A Caucus Race and a Long Tale
Several days after her encounter with Bessy, Meg stood in the kitchen, arranging flowers in a vase. She had helped Dixon clean and dust the family’s living spaces, and was putting the finishing touches on a lovely arrangement of yellow roses, lavender, and ivy, filling one of the large vases she had found in the kitchen pantry. Stepping back to admire her creation, she was startled by her mother’s cry from the parlor above.
“Meg!” Mrs. Hale called out again. Lifting the vase and carrying it carefully in front of her, Meg ascended the steps. Placing the vase on a side table, she moved to stand by her mother at the window overlooking the street.
“We have company,” exclaimed Mrs. Hale.
Meg watched an austere-looking woman descend from a carriage. She was dressed in black from her old fashioned bonnet to the half boots on her feet, and she looked about frowningly, as if she were sorry that she had come to such a place.
“It must be Mr. Thornton’s mother,” Mrs. Hale said in wonderment.
“There is no mistaking that stern brow,” Meg remarked. “The son truly favors his mother, especially when he is displeased.”
“And that must be the sister,” her mother exclaimed as a young girl in huge plaid skirts that splayed out stiffly from her frame attempted to squeeze out of the carriage door. She struggled and squirmed much like a butterfly attempting to escape its chrysalis, and when she stood on the pavement at last, freed from the confines of the carriage, she shook her skirts about her much as a dog would shake his wet fur.
“What a silly dress,” Meg said in exasperation. “Do you think it will fit into our parlor?”
Mrs. Hale looked at Meg in surprise and began to laugh, the first true laugh Meg had heard from her. Meg giggled in turn, and felt a stirring of warmth and kinship for this lovely, fragile woman. She had never had a mother with whom she could laugh or share silly moments, and was beginning to realize how much she had missed.
“Meg, your apron,” whispered Mrs. Hale, and Meg turned about so Mrs. Hale could undo the laces.
Thank heavens the parlor is clean and tidy, Meg thought, and that she had had time to change her dress from an earlier ramble. Smoothing her hair down, she stepped to her mother’s side as Dixon ushered their visitors into the room.
Mrs. Thornton introduced herself and her daughter Fanny to Mrs. Hale and Meg, and Mrs. Hale requested Dixon to prepare a tea tray.
Meg stood to help Dixon, but her mother frowned and gave her a fleeting shake of the head. She recognized that her mother was trying to convey to her that it was not her place to prepare the tea tray, but to remain and entertain their company.
Conversation was desultory until the tray arrived. Meg served their guests and her mother, and had just settled herself in a chair with her own cup when Fanny Thornton addressed her.
“I see you are not musical, as there is no piano,” Fanny commented.
Meg opened her mouth to respond, but her mother’s voice cut across her. “We had to sell our piano when we moved from Helstone. As you can see, this parlor would not accommodate a grand instrument.”
Meg added, “But I do love music. I understand you have concerts here in Milton.”
“Oh, yes,” Fanny trilled airily. “We have everything London has, only later.” She smoothed down her skirts and studied the tray of cakes, wrinkling her nose in distaste at the selection available.
This tepid conversation continued, with sparse comments and long pauses between topics. Mrs. Thornton spoke grudgingly, as if it cost her by the word to converse. Fanny offered several topics, but it became apparent within minutes that she was a very silly girl. Several of Fanny’s pronouncements concerning the Hale’s small rooms and homely furnishings caused her mother some degree of embarrassment, judging from her pained expressions.
Meg wished fervently that they would leave so that she might continue with her chores. She was mentally creating a shopping list when a comment from Mrs. Thornton caught her attention.
“Rather than study the Classics, my son would better use his time to pursue his main objective,” she said in measured tones. At the blank gazes from Mrs. Hale and Meg, she continued, “Which is to hold his place, master and magistrate, as a leader of industry in Milton.” Her face took on an aspect of deep pride. “Go where you will, speak to whomever you may, the name of John Thornton is known and respected by all men of business—and sought after by all the young ladies.”
Meg found this statement on Mr. Thornton’s overwhelming attractions so ludicrous that she burst into merry laughter. “Surely some of the young ladies can resist him,” she asserted, and caught her mother’s smiling eye.
Her smile quickly faded when she recognized that she had offended and hurt Mrs. Thornton, who glared at her. That such a chit of a girl could find her son an object of base amusement irritated the proud mother to no end.
Rising suddenly from her chair, Mrs. Thornton looked down at Mrs. Hale and retorted, “If you had a son like mine, Mrs. Hale, you would not be ashamed to sing his praises.”
Meg started to apologize when she caught a look of such sorrow and hurt on her mother’s face that it drove all thought of apology from her head. What had Mrs. Thornton said to cause her mother to have tears in her eyes?
Meg stood with Mrs. Hale and watched silently as the Thornton women swept from the room and down the stairs. At that moment, a memory stirred. Gran had told her that the family members of the master who had been killed in the riot had left town after his death and were never heard from again. What sorrows Mrs. Thornton must have suffered with the death of her beloved son, Meg thought; he was clearly her source of pride and hope for the future.
Turning her attention to her mother, Meg asked gently, “Why are you so grieved, Mother?”
“Oh, Meg,” Mrs. Hale sighed, “Hearing her speak with such pride of her son made me think of Frederick and the fact that we shall never see him again.”
Meg frowned. Who was Frederick? She had heard no discussion over the past weeks of any brothers or sisters.
“Why do you say we shall never see Frederick again?” Meg asked cautiously.
“I cannot bring myself to speak of your brother’s situation now,” Mrs. Hale said with a small sob. “Please forgive me. I must lie down for a while. My head is hurting dreadfully.”
Meg grasped her about the waist and assisted her to her feet. “Let me help you to your room, Mother. I will prepare a cup of chamomile tea to ease your headache.”
Mrs. Hale smiled wanly. “Thank you, my dear.”
Here is a mystery, Meg thought glumly as she supported her mother to her room and tried to make her comfortable. I have a brother of whom we do not speak.
Meg prayed Dixon might be a source of enlightenment, and was not disappointed. When Meg raised the topic later that afternoon as she was ironing, Dixon shook her head sadly. “It is not something of which the family speaks. Master and Mistress were so proud when Master Fred joined the Navy; they thought it would be the making of him. Instead, it has led him to a life of exile. It is such a shame that you were in London when the mutiny took place; your mother could have used your support. She was deeply distraught, and your father wasn’t much better.”
Meg stared. Her brother had been involved in a mutiny? “Dixon, why can’t Frederick return home?”
Dixon sighed. “He would be hanged on sight if he were to set foot in England again. The other sailors involved in the mutiny stood trial, and went to the gallows for their efforts. No, Master Frederick is better off in Spain, where the law cannot get to him. He lives under an assumed name, but I am not sure what that name is.” She nodded at the curtains Meg was pressing. “Miss Meg, you will scorch that fabric if you don’t move the iron soon.” Meg started, and turned her attention back to her task. The conversation about Frederick was over, at least for the time being.
When Mr. Hale entered his wife’s bedroom that evening, he was startled by the sight of his wife with a towel draped over her head, bending over a basin of steaming water. She was supported about her waist by her daughter.
“What are you doing?” he asked incredulously.
Without taking her eyes from her task, Meg calmly replied, “I am trying to ease Mother’s breathing. Steam from hot water often helps open the breathing passages, and the eucalyptus oil I have added should ease her congestion.” She helped her mother stand and led her to a chair. “I think that is enough for now, but I would like you to try a teaspoon of cod liver oil after our evening meal, if you can tolerate it.”
Mr. Hale shook his head in wonder. “I must change my clothes. I dine with Mr. Thornton this evening.” He stepped out of the room.
Meg said a silent prayer of thanks once again that her father was too preoccupied and her mother too immersed in her own thoughts to question her sudden medical acumen. She guided her mother gently to the bed and settled her among the pillows and bolsters.
“Thank you, my dear,” Mrs. Hale murmured weakly. “I do believe I feel better. Well e
nough, I think, to try your cod liver oil.”
“Good,” Meg responded. “We shall do this again tomorrow morning, and I hope to see some improvement in your cough.” Once her mother was settled, Meg gathered the bowl of water, towel, and kettle, and left the room.
“Meg!” Mr. Hale’s voice stopped her in mid-descent on the staircase. He moved closer to her and said in a low voice, “How ill is your mother?” His voice was anxious and his expression worried.
Meg hesitated; she suspected that Mrs. Hale was quite ill, but did not wish to alarm him. From the symptoms she had noted, and discussions with Dixon, she believed her mother was suffering from consumption. Meg had seen the disease in various stages of progression, and her mother was exhibiting key symptoms. The patient was weak and had lost both weight and strength, according to Dixon. Her cough was persistent and rasping, and she complained of pain in her chest. Worst of all, Meg had seen small, bright spots of blood on her mother’s handkerchiefs after extended bouts of coughing. All of these signs pointed to consumption, a dreadful disease for which there was no cure.
Meg knew she could not share this insight with Mr. Hale. She knew that she must find a doctor in Milton to examine her mother. Perhaps Mrs. Thornton would be willing to recommend a medical practitioner. Meg was willing to visit Marlborough Mills and brave Mrs. Thornton’s ire for her mother’s sake.
Catching her father’s worried look, Meg smiled at him comfortingly. “She is complaining of a cold, Father. She needs nourishing food and rest to recover, and I will make sure she gets both.” It would be good for her to have a change of climate if I am right, Meg thought, but I will wait until my diagnosis is verified by the physician before I broach that topic.
Mr. Hale smiled in relief. “You are a good girl. You have been a Godsend since we arrived in Milton. Do what you must to help her get well. I must dress for dinner, but I will not be home late. Will you wait up for me and let me know how she is?”
“Of course,” Meg said soothingly. “Enjoy your evening with the great Masters of Milton,” she added cheekily, and he laughed. I do not think I would enjoy eating with Mr. Thornton glowering at me, she thought as she headed toward the kitchen to help Dixon with the evening meal.