How Far the World Will Bend

by Nancy Klein

  Bessy had told her that Higgins had warned all of the men against violence, claiming that they must act like thinking men. Masters would expect them to act like animals, and they must not do so. Meg found this information comforting, but was concerned about how Boucher was handling the strike. Bessy believed he was not well; he constantly complained that his children were starving and his wife dying. Higgins had given the man money from his own pocket, but was worried whether Boucher would hold up under the strain. Meg resolved to take food to Mrs. Boucher on the morrow, having asked Dr. Donaldson to examine her as soon as he was able.

  She reached home and entered the foyer, pausing to remove her bonnet and shawl. Cocking her head, she heard a man’s voice, and prayed that Mr. Thornton was not paying another visit. When she ascended the stairs and entered the parlor, she saw a dapper stranger seated with her mother and father.

  The stranger stood at once and with a smiling countenance declared, “This must be Margaret—no, I believe your father said you preferred to be called Meg? When I last saw you, you were eight years old, running about Helstone with your brother. How beautiful you have grown!”

  Meg blushed, and felt a moment of panic, for she had no idea who this gentleman could be. She looked inquiringly at her father, who declared, “Now, Adam, Meg will not understand your humor. Meg, you remember my groom’s man and good friend, Mr. Bell?”

  Meg felt a rush of relief. She vaguely recalled Mr. Hale speaking of a friend from his Oxford days, and remembered that this was the man who had recommended the family to Mr. Thornton’s care when they moved to Milton.

  She studied her father’s guest. Although he would have to be the same age as her father, Mr. Bell appeared much younger than and not as care-worn as Mr. Hale. He dressed with flair, and carried himself with a self-deprecating air that Meg found attractive. She liked him at once despite his nonsensical speech about her appearance, and she moved forward to shake his hand.

  “Mr. Bell has come to Milton to visit his tenant, Mr. Thornton,” Mr. Hale stated, and Meg looked inquiringly at Mr. Bell.

  Mr. Bell smiled and explained, “Although Thornton is the Master of Marlborough Mills, I am his landlord. Every so often, I visit Milton to see how the mill fares and assess my investment.”

  “I had supposed Mr. Thornton to be wealthy,” Meg said, as she seated herself next to her mother.

  “Oh, he does well enough,” Mr. Bell exclaimed airily, “Mind you, the Thornton family has not always been as well off as they are now.”

  “So I understand,” replied Mr. Hale with a heavy sigh.

  “What do you mean, my dear?” asked Mrs. Hale.

  Mr. Hale glanced at Mr. Bell, who took up the thread of the story. “Mr. Thornton’s father speculated most of the family’s money a number of years ago, when Mr. Thornton was but a boy. He lost everything, and could not pay his debts. I am sorry to say he killed himself.”

  Meg felt her heart lurch. How horrible to lose your parent in such a way, and be left with such sorrow and troubles at a young age.

  Mr. Bell continued, “Although he was still young, Mr. Thornton left school and began working in a draper’s shop to support his mother and sister, and pay off the family’s debts. He repaid all of that debt, and you can see for yourself what he has made of himself. He is an extraordinary fellow.”

  Mrs. Hale looked distressed, and asked that they speak no more of such a lowering topic. Mr. Bell apologized, and inquired how Mr. Hale was enjoying his tutoring sessions with Mr. Thornton. While the two men chattered about Oxford and mutual acquaintances, Meg sat in stunned silence. How she had misjudged Mr. Thornton! She had supposed that he had grown up in privilege and comfort. In actuality, he had been closer to Higgins and the other families in Princeton, one step from poverty and destitution. She did not find it repugnant that he had worked in a draper’s shop or struggled to pay off his family’s debts. She felt a warm tenderness for him, and honored him in her heart as a true gentleman, not of words or manners, but of accomplishments and intent.

  “Meg, have you selected a gown for tomorrow night?” Her mother’s voice penetrated her thoughts, and Meg turned toward her.

  “No, I have not. I will choose one tomorrow. I have plenty of gowns, so there is little fear of my not finding something that suits me,” Meg replied serenely. She had found many ornate formal dresses in her armoire, and had pushed them to the back of the closet in her search for plainer clothing, thinking she would have little use for fancy frocks in Milton.

  “Ah,” exclaimed Mr. Bell. “So you are invited to Mrs. Thornton’s annual dinner. I understand there is a strike underway at the mills in town. However, neither time nor tide prevents Mrs. Thornton from holding her dinners.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Hale replied. “Margaret may appear uninterested in this affair, but I recall from her letters from London that she enjoyed the many parties and dinners she attended during her stay with her aunt. You were not as nonchalant about an evening’s entertainment then, my dear.”

  “Perhaps I am not as fond of these events as I was before. In any case, I have been busy and have had little time to think about Mrs. Thornton’s dinner.”

  “Were you busy at the clinic today?” Mr. Hale asked solicitously, turning to Mr. Bell to explain. “Meg has been assisting Dr. Donaldson with his medical clinic, where he serves the poorer people of the town.”

  Mr. Bell gazed at her and smiled. “What an extraordinary girl,” he remarked softly, as he continued to study her. When Dixon announced that dinner was served, Mr. Bell offered Meg his arm to escort her to the table.

  The following morning, Meg rose early to pay a visit to Bessy. It had been several days since she had seen her friend, and she wanted to learn what she could of the strike. She brought a large basket of food which she left at the Boucher’s; Mrs. Boucher smiled weakly at the sight of beef tea, bread, cheese, and fruit. Meg informed Mrs. Boucher that the doctor would pay a call on her later that afternoon, to see what he could do to ease her suffering.

  When she entered the Higgins’ home, she was shocked to find a scene of chaos. Higgins and Boucher were loudly arguing about the strike, while Bessy and Mary huddled in a corner crying. Meg slipped around the men to join the two girls, who clasped her hands and pulled her down between them. Higgins, after one burning glance at Meg, turned his attention back to Boucher.

  “I said I would support you, and support you I will,” he said in a low, deadly tone. Reaching into his pocket, he threw several coins across the table. “There, that’s more for you. Take that and go feed your family. And stop your sniveling.”

  Boucher snatched up the coins, and wiped his running nose on his coat sleeve. Meg could see tears in his eyes. “I hate Union—and I hate you,” he declared, and rushed from the room.

  Higgins turned toward Meg and rubbed his forehead in vexation. “I am sorry you had to see that, miss. Boucher is weak when he needs to be strong.”

  “How much longer do you expect the strike to run?” Meg asked pointedly. “With so much suffering going on, do you really think all of the workers will hold up? What if they riot or perform acts of violence—what will the union leadership do?”

  “There will be no violence,” Higgins replied heatedly. “They have been warned of the consequences of such acts.”

  “But if their children are starving, and they see no end to the strike—” Meg began, but Higgins cut her off.

  “You don’t understand, you’re not from here and know nothing of our ways.” He stopped speaking abruptly and sighed. “I’ll not argue with you, miss.” Snatching up his cap, he stomped out the door.

  Meg looked inquiringly at Bessy, who shrugged and said, “He’s gone to Goulden Dragon, to have a pint and calm himself. He will be home soon enough. What do you have draped over your arm?”

  Meg unfurled two warm shawls for Bessy and Mary that her mother had set aside; their home was chilly, and Meg was adamant that Bessy must keep warm. Both girls were delighted, and Mary stroked the
fringe of her shawl with shy delight.

  “Oh, miss, you shouldn’t have,” said Bessy, her admonition belied by her satisfaction. She glanced at Meg critically and asked, “What are you going to wear to the Thornton’s dinner this evening?”

  Meg waved her hand. “I don’t know. I have several gowns, and I’ll decide when I get home.”

  Bessy was shocked by this nonchalant attitude. “You had best dress up grand for such grand company,” she scolded.

  Meg laughed. “I would hardly call the masters and their families grand, Bessy. If you could see the royalty and peers of London, you would understand the difference.”

  “I will never see the royalty or peers of London,” said Bessy wistfully. “I would be happy enough to see you in your dress tonight, with your hair done up.”

  Meg made a face. “My hair takes entirely too long to dress. I wish I could cut it all off.”

  “Oh, you wouldn’t!” exclaimed Bessy in a scandalized voice.

  Meg thought about her hair for a moment. “I just might,” she said with a rebellious smile. “In any event, I will try to come before the dinner tonight, so that you may see my gown.”

  As Meg had confided to Bessy, she was indeed tired of dealing with her hair. When unbound, it fell below her waist and took hours to wash, dry, brush, braid, and coil upon her head. The thought of having to spend an hour this evening dressing for dinner at the Thornton’s, followed by an hour of arranging her hair filled her with determination.

  Looking at her reflection in the mirror above her dresser, she snatched up a pair of sheers that Dixon had used earlier to cut a dress pattern. Grasping a long hank of hair, she lopped it off, letting the severed locks fall from her head. The remaining hair fell just below her shoulders.

  Nodding with satisfaction at her work, Meg continued to carefully cut her hair as she had done many times at the boarding house for herself and at hospital for other nurses. When she finished, she was surrounded by clouds of hair on the floor, and she felt stones lighter. She shook her head, and marveled at the lightness and ease. She had just placed the sheers back on the dresser when she heard a scandalized gasp behind her.

  “Miss Meg,” Dixon cried, aghast at the sight before her. “What have you done? Your beautiful hair! It was your glory.” Dixon ran her hands over the shorn head of her young mistress. “Why would you do such a thing?” she asked in a sorrowful voice.

  Meg was about to respond impatiently when she noticed the tears in Dixon’s eyes. Taking one of Dixon’s hands into her own, she replied gently, “I am no longer the grand Miss Hale of London, Dixon, but plain Meg Hale with chores to do and a mother and father to whom I must attend. I do not have time to fuss over hairstyles. My short hair will give me the time I so dearly need to do other things.”

  Dixon was somewhat mollified, and turned a critical eye to Meg. The shorter hair sprung in curling waves about her face and shoulders, and glimmered with gold and red threads. It made her look younger and more carefree than she had appeared since they arrived in Milton. Giving a quick nod, Dixon pronounced, “It is not what I would have wanted for you, but I must say it does suit you and it will be easier to care for.”

  A thought entered Meg’s head. “Do you think we might sell my hair to a wigmaker, Dixon? I could use the money to help the families brought so low by the strike.”

  Dixon looked at her with a thoughtful air. “I can try the wigmaker’s shop this afternoon while I’m on my errands,” she responded, and she and Meg carefully gathered up the long silken tresses and tied them together with a loop of dress trim. “Lord, what will your Mother say when she sees you with that short hair? I only hope it don’t set her back.”

  Meg felt a pang at the thought, for she had not taken into account how her mother would react. “I did not think of that, Dixon. I would hate to worry her.” Meg began to regret her impulsive action.

  Dixon smiled in reassurance. “Don’t you worry, I’ll think up something to tell her. And I believe your hair is still long enough for me to pin up this evening, should you want to do so.”

  Chapter 8. The Lobster Quadrille

  After Dixon returned from the wigmaker’s shop with a surprising sum of money from the sale of Meg’s hair, she helped her young mistress dress for the Thornton dinner.

  Meg did not care what she wore, but Dixon insisted she select a gown befitting her status as a young lady who had resided for some time in London, and would no doubt be the belle of Milton, given what Dixon had seen of the hard-featured, slovenly dressed young women thereabouts. Meg asked Dixon to select a garment for her, and Dixon chose a gown the color of green sage, with knots of ribbon about the low cut neckline that showed its wearer’s shoulders and arms to great advantage.

  Once her young mistress was dress, Dixon brushed Meg’s hair until it shone and had to admit that the shorter hair suited her. She produced a thin gold shawl, several bracelets to adorn Meg’s arms, and a pair of diamond drop earrings that she had borrowed from Mrs. Hale’s jewel case. As she finished, she stood back to admire the effect with a broad smile. “Miss Meg, go show your mother how well you look,” she urged, and Meg complied.

  Mrs. Hale was resting in bed, having experienced a restless night. Dixon had administered several doses of laudanum to help ease the discomfort, and Meg suspected that her mother might be asleep. When she peered into the room, Meg was pleased to see her sitting up in a chair by her bed, reading a letter.

  When Mrs. Hale glanced up at her daughter, she looked critically at her hair but said nothing. Dixon had explained to her earlier that Meg would rather use the time it took to tend to her hair to tend to her mother instead. Mrs. Hale was touched by her daughter’s thoughtfulness. Meg had spent quite a lot of time of late preparing small meals to tempt her mother’s appetite, and ensured that she took her medication and drank the herbal teas that Dixon brewed. She had never known her daughter to show her so much care, and Mrs. Hale was deeply grateful.

  “Dixon,” she called out on a sudden impulse, “Please fetch my silver combs. They will look lovely in Meg’s hair. I daresay I should have given them to you ages ago, my dear. I wore them in my hair when I was your age.”

  Meg’s weak protest was brushed aside as Dixon hustled in behind her and removed a small case from the dresser, from which she extracted the ornately engraved combs. Meg exclaimed at their loveliness, pleasing her mother no end.

  “Do you remember where I first wore these combs?” her mother asked, and Meg felt a thrill of horror; she had no idea and feared her mother awaited a reply. But Mrs. Hale was lost in happy memories, and continued, “My father presented them to me on my wedding day. He was such a dear, generous man! Remember, Dixon?”

  “Indeed I do, Mistress! Miss Meg may be a sight, but she can’t hold a candle to you when you were her age!”

  Meg smiled at Dixon’s words as, with a few deft adjustments, she artfully inserted the combs into her young mistress’ hair.

  If truth be told, the hairstyle suited her, Mrs. Hale thought affectionately. She looked lovely, and her motherly heart swelled with pride as she held out her hands to her daughter.

  “Oh, Meg, how lucky I have been to have you! If only I could see your brother again, my happiness would be complete!”

  Meg sat down on the bed next to her mother, holding her thin hands. “Would it not be dangerous for him to come, Mama?”

  “Yes, but I do so long to see him.” Her gaze was plaintive. “Would you write to him and ask him to come home so that I might see him one last time?”

  Meg weighed the dangers in her head, and responded slowly. “Let me ask Father what he thinks.” She was unsure where to direct such a letter, but perhaps Mr. Hale would know. She rose from the bed. “I must go now, so we will not be late. Dixon will bring your dinner soon.” Bending down, she kissed her mother and wiped a tear from her cheek. “Do not fret, dear Mama. We will sort this out.”

  As she strolled between her father and Mr. Bell on their way to Marlborough Mil
ls via Princeton, Meg thought about her mother’s request. If she were to write to this brother and tell him how ill Mrs. Hale was, she knew he would hasten home, given how close-knit the Hale family was. Mrs. Hale’s bond with her son was exceptionally close, Dixon had confided.

  His appearance would act as a tonic to her mother, Meg was certain, but that joy would be laced with anxiety for Fred’s safety. There was a reward on his head, and he would be in danger the moment he set foot in England. She longed to ask her father, but did not wish to add to his worries—or heighten his concern for his wife’s health. As yet, he remained in a pleasant state of denial as to how ill his wife was, and Meg was reluctant to enlighten him.

  They arrived at Francis Street, and Meg excused herself, explaining to her tolerant companions that she would be but a moment. She walked quickly along the alleyway, holding her skirts up to avoid the dirt of the street, and felt many eyes follow her.

  Higgins’ eyes lit with appreciation when he opened the door. “Well, Miss Meg, don’t you look a sight?” He called over his shoulder for his daughter. “Bess, your friend has come to show you her finery.”

  Bessy and Mary exclaimed over how lovely Meg looked, and surreptitiously fingered the ribbons at her hem and neckline. “Meg, you have cut your hair,” Bessy exclaimed, and Meg thought with resignation that Bessy was the first but certainly not the last who would remark on her hair this evening. Her father and Mr. Bell had exclaimed over it already, but other than remarking that she looked well, had said little else and turned the conversation to other topics.