by Nancy Klein
After several moments, Meg explained that her father and his friend were waiting, and she must go. Bessy and Mary hugged her affectionately, and wished her a wonderful evening. Higgins walked her to the door, remarking in a low voice, “There has been some talk of Thornton bringing in Irish workers to break the strike. Have you heard naught of that, miss?” Meg felt a cold knot form in her stomach and replied that she had not.
Higgins shook his head grimly. “I hope there’s no truth in it. There will be hell to pay if our workers hear of such a thing.” He wished her a good evening, and Meg rejoined her father and Mr. Bell, more troubled than ever.
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After days of preparations, Mrs. Thornton was satisfied that all was in order for her annual fete. The finest foods and delicacies had been ordered and prepared for each course. She had restocked their wine cellar, and bottles of port and brandy stood ready for the men. The table was set to perfection, glittering with her plate and crystal. All was at last ready for their guests.
Mr. Hale and his party were among the first arrivals, as he had a morbid fear of being late and giving offense. Mrs. Thornton stared at Meg’s hair, but other than offering her an icy greeting, said nothing else. While her father and Mr. Bell chatted with the matriarch, Meg carried on a desultory conversation with Fanny, who fidgeted and fussed with her sleeves and gloves. “I am sorry your mother is not well,” Fanny said at length. “Do you suppose she might be in need of our water mattress?” At Meg’s blank expression, she continued, “It is a mattress that fills with water, and gives great comfort.”
“Thank you, that is very kind.” Meg thought such a device might indeed give comfort to her mother, who was having difficulty sleeping. Fanny smiled and walked away to greet a gentleman and young lady who had just arrived, leaving Meg to her own devices until Mr. Bell joined her.
The room was nearly full when Mr. Thornton made his entrance. He had been delayed by business at the mill; the imported workers of whom Higgins had inquired were indeed due to arrive by train late that night. He felt he could no longer tolerate the strike, and since the men of Milton refused to work, he was determined to find those who would take up the work of the mill. He and Williams planned to meet the trainload of Irishmen and escort the workers to lodgings they had set up temporarily in the mill until more permanent arrangements could be made.
As he moved into the room, he was greeted by his banker, Mr. Laurence, and his banker’s daughter. Mr. Thornton extended his hand politely to her, and Miss Laurence placed hers in his and curtseyed gracefully. Miss Laurence had been to boarding school these past several years, and was considered finished, although Mr. Thornton was uncertain what that meant. He supposed she was ready for marriage and in pursuit of a husband, as most young ladies her age were.
He knew that his mother considered Miss Laurence a superior young woman who would make him a superior wife. She was soft spoken and had no opinions of her own that he could discern, unlike some other unnamed woman of his acquaintance. She would make a perfectly unexceptional bride, but he was beginning to realize that perhaps he did not want unexceptional; perhaps he preferred exceptional and maddening.
Mr. Thornton surreptitiously scanned the room as Hamper caught at his elbow and began droning on about his fears concerning the strike. From what he could tell, Miss Hale had not yet arrived. A sense of disappointment descended upon him; she must have remained home to care for her ailing mother.
He spotted a young woman across the room with her back turned toward him. She was deep in conversation with Mr. Bell, and wore a lovely gown the color of spring leaves that revealed her shoulders and accentuated her waist. What caught his attention, however, was the fact that she wore her hair down—and it was short. It fell just past her shoulders in shining waves. Most of the women of his acquaintance wore their hair long, binding it up in braids or twists or curls; even his mother plaited her long hair and wound it about her head. Yet this fashionable miss wore her hair short. He wondered if she had suffered a fever where doctors often recommended cutting the hair to help the patient feel cooler and more comfortable. Who could she be? The question had no sooner passed through his mind when Mr. Bell gestured toward him, and the woman turned. It was Margaret Hale.
Mr. Thornton was shocked. Why had she cut her hair? It was not what young gentlewomen did. Yet, somehow, it suited her; it framed her face and fell in casual disarray to her shoulders, held back at her temples with shining silver combs. All the other women in the room had their hair carefully controlled and subdued, but Miss Hale had left her hair to its own devices. He had a sudden image of her beautiful hair spread upon a pillow, and his fingers curled into fists as he imagined running his hands through its cool silkiness. His eyes met hers and she arched an eyebrow as if to ask why he was regarding her so steadily. His face darkened to be caught out staring at her.
Meg had felt as if she were being observed as she spoke with Mr. Bell, and had not been surprised to find it was Mr. Thornton staring at her, his forehead crinkled in consternation. Her hair, she thought in exasperation. Everyone had been looking at her askance all evening. With a strike going on with its pending threat of starvation and violence, Meg thought in disgust, you would think these Masters and their wives would have bigger issues to concern themselves with than the length of a young nobody’s hair. Meg returned his gaze coolly, and was surprised to see him move across room toward her. Mr. Bell was the first to extend his hand to the approaching Master. “Ah, Thornton, I hope you don’t mind me inviting myself to your dinner party. Mrs. Thornton throws the finest dinner parties in Milton,” he informed Meg with suave civility.
“You are always welcome, Mr. Bell. I hope you are not worried about the strike. It is nothing we cannot ride out.” Mr. Thornton shook Mr. Bell’s hand briefly before turning his full attention to Meg. “Good evening, Miss Hale.” He bowed toward her.
Meg offered her hand to him to shake. “Good evening, Mr. Thornton.”
His pleased expression transformed his usually stern countenance, and Meg found herself thinking once again that he was quite attractive when he smiled. He clasped her hand in his, holding it for a fraction longer than politeness required. She gently extracted her hand, and as her fingers slid over his, she felt the same indescribable thrill at the contact as she had before. Glancing up, she saw his eyes darken, and knew that he was not immune to her touch, either.
Taking a small step back, Meg explained, “My mother could not attend tonight. She is tired of late and resting at home.”
“I am sorry she could not come.” Mr. Thornton’s expression was one of genuine regret. Meg inclined her head in acknowledgment of his sentiment.
He stood gazing at her, and Meg was on the point of asking him how the strike was affecting him when another Master approached and asked to speak with him. An expression of irritation crossed Mr. Thornton’s face, and Margaret could see the stern mien he wore as Master settle over his features once more.
Begging her pardon, he stepped away. Mr. Bell watched him in amusement, “Imagine Thornton leaving the loveliest woman in the room for that snake Slickson. My dear, you must allow me to introduce you to several acquaintances of mine.”
Meg cast a glance at Mr. Thornton and Mr. Slickson, and wondered if they were speaking about the Irish workers rumored to be bound for Marlborough Mills. She fervently hoped that Higgins was wrong; such an action would inflame the angry passions of the strikers to move against the masters, no matter how much the union leadership cautioned their members against such action. She thought of fabricating some excuse to approach Mr. Thornton, but could devise nothing that was believable, given that both men had retreated to the farthest corner of the room.
As Mr. Bell placed Meg’s hand in the crook of his elbow to escort her toward his friends, Meg turned to him. “Would it be possible to step outside for a moment? It is stifling in here.”
“Certainly,” he agreed with alacrity, and escorted her down the steps and out onto the
landing overlooking the mill yard. In the still darkness, they gazed at the clouded sky and breathed in the bracing night air.
After a few moments, Mr. Bell said in a light tone, “Mrs. Thornton usually keeps this monstrosity of a house as cold as the grave, but on nights such as this it takes on the properties of a hothouse. Are you feeling better, Meg?”
“Much better; I think I may be strong enough to make it through the ordeal of dinner.”
Mr. Bell smiled and tucked her arm into his once more as they made their way back inside.
Engrossed as he was in his conversation with Slickson, Mr. Thornton nonetheless noticed when Margaret left the room and when she returned. He was irritated to see her on the arm of Adam Bell, his landlord. Mr. Bell’s little jokes often pricked and annoyed him, but he held his tongue because he needed the man’s patronage and support, especially now that the strike had cast a pall over not only Marlborough Mills but all of Milton. Still, he felt an inexplicable resentment that she could unbend herself enough to chat easily with Mr. Bell, something she never seemed capable of doing with him.
Dinner was soon served, and the guests took their places around the massive table. Meg was somewhat oppressed by the extensive place settings, glasses, and plate—surely that many forks were not needed at a single meal! However, her careful observation of Fanny showed her how to proceed. The conversation flowed pleasantly, and Mr. Thornton showed himself to be a charming host, introducing topics that demonstrated his interest in numerous pursuits beyond manufacture.
Meg was silent, content to let him speak. He had a deep and resonant voice that was quite pleasant to the ear, and she continually stole swift glances at his face. He had never looked so relaxed or unguarded. She was beginning to feel quite in charity with him, when Fanny looked up from her soup with a sly smile. “One of our servants saw you deliver a basket to one of the striking families the other day, Miss Hale.”
An icy silence settled over the table, and numerous pairs of accusing and shocked eyes swung toward her. Meg lowered her soup spoon. “I have left food for any number of families who no longer have the wherewithal to feed themselves.”
Fanny tittered. “Our maid also saw your servant at the wigmakers this afternoon, selling hair. I presume it was yours, since your hair is so unfashionably short now. Is your family desperate for funds? I would have thought the wages that Dr. Donaldson pays you would be sufficient.”
Meg heard a disapproving murmur from several of the guests, and put her spoon down with a decided clink. “No, my family’s funds are more than sufficient.” Her tone clearly implied ‘not that it is any of your business.’ “I intend to use the money from my hair to buy food and fuel for the striking families.” She turned a defiant face toward Mr. Thornton as if to say, think as ill of me as you wish.
“You do no one any favors, Miss Hale, with your intervention,” Mr. Thornton responded sharply, his face cold and disapproving. “You are only prolonging the strike and, by association, the misery of the hands.” Several of his peers muttered, “Here, here.”
“Tell that to the mothers of starving infants and their dying children.” Her eyes flashed with indignation at his callous words. “The poor and indentured understand little of the ways of the masters of this world. If by my actions I save the life of even one child, then my ‘interference,’ as you call it, will be well worth it. And I would sell my hair again, or my jewels, or my gowns to help them.” She sat back, her chest heaving in anger, and met his offended gaze unflinchingly.
Mr. Thornton was astonished. No woman had ever spoken to him in such a manner. Before he could reply, Mr. Bell laid a comforting hand on her arm. “Our Meg is new to the ways of Milton, but her heart is in the right place. You are a credit to your father, my dear.” Mr. Bell nodded across the table at Mr. Hale, who avoided conflict of any kind and sat looking worriedly at Mr. Thornton.
Meg smiled at Mr. Bell, a dazzling smile of breathtaking warmth that transformed her from an angry girl to a strikingly beautiful woman. Mr. Thornton was staggered by that smile, and experienced a brief pang that she had never directed such a smile at him. Mr. Bell called her Meg—was he on such terms of intimacy with her? He felt a queer weight settle on his chest. What was it about this infuriating and brash young woman that captivated him so, in spite of his better judgment?
Fearing that he had already paid Miss Hale more attention that she deserved, Mr. Thornton picked up his wine glass and, turning to Miss Laurence, inquired about her year abroad. For the remainder of the dinner, he did not speak to Meg and she made no attempt to capture his attention.
When the meal was finished and the table cleared, Mrs. Thornton rose from the table, signaling that it was time for the women to retire to the parlor. Once all were settled, Fanny seated herself at the piano and proceeded to play several off-key and off-kilter pieces. The wives of the masters sat in a small group, discussing various topics such as children and the price of goods.
Meg sat by herself, apart from the larger group. Coming from the south of England, she was already branded an alien; her youth and beauty combined with her work at the clinic and sympathy for the striking workers to solidify her role as persona non gratis among the women in the group. No refined lady would be so outspoken as to contradict one of the leaders of industry in Milton—let alone cut her hair. Meg did not mind; she had no desire to take part in the superficial chatter she heard, and her father and Mr. Bell would join her soon enough, hopefully bringing this interminable evening to an end. She sat off to the side from the others, next to the fire, and was content to stare at the flames and listen to Fanny’s mediocre performance.
The sound of her name caught her attention, and she glanced up. Fanny was gesturing to her from the piano. “Miss Hale, would you care to play for us?” A malicious smile played upon her face.
“I would much rather hear you play, Miss Thornton.” Meg did not wish to play before these strangers, many of whom were openly hostile toward her.
“Oh, but I insist.” Fanny rose from the bench. “Come, Miss Hale, let us have a bit of music from you.” Glancing at the distinctly unfriendly faces of the other women, Meg refused once more, but Fanny would not listen. Meg had no choice but to play or be seen as churlish. She stood and reluctantly made her way to the instrument. She guessed that Fanny intended to embarrass her, but Meg knew she had nothing to be ashamed of as far as her playing was concerned. Aunt Lily had insisted that Meg and Amelia take piano lessons when they were little girls, and went to unusual lengths to find piano teachers willing to board at a reduced rate in exchange for providing lessons to the girls. Whereas Amelia had studied for two years and was happy to leave the piano bench behind her, Meg had proven to be proficient and kept at her lessons, practicing as many hours as her schedule would allow. She played and sang for the injured men in the wards during the war, pounding out songs during Zeppelin raids to divert the attention and lessen the anxiety of patients and caregivers. She thought that a good, rousing dancehall song was a superior means of defying the Germans. She also performed at the piano for the musical evenings that Lily often held to amuse her boarders.
Meg sat with her fingers poised over the keys as she decided what to play. She quickly rejected a reel and a modern song that she knew had been composed later than 1850. She wondered if the works of Chopin were known at this time. Rifling through the sheet music atop the piano, Meg could find none of the pieces that she loved so well—no Brahms, no Beethoven, and sadly, no Chopin. She decided to chance playing Chopin, since she had several of his works nearly committed to memory. What she couldn’t remember, she would improvise.
She played the opening lines of Chopin’s Waltz No. 7 in C sharp minor, Opus 64, No. 2. The lovely melody enraptured her, as it always did. It was one of her favorite pieces, and she closed her eyes as she played, the better to concentrate. The Thornton’s piano was magnificent, of beautiful tone and in fine tune. Meg had never played a grand piano, and thought the sound was exquisite.
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sp; The buzz of conversation and noise in the room faded away; all that remained for Meg was the music. She was so focused upon her performance that she failed to notice that the men had finished their cigars and brandy, and had wandered in to hear her play. She did not see her father or Mr. Bell move closer to the piano, looks of surprised pleasure upon their faces. She did not realize that Fanny was frowning petulantly, or that an expression of irritation marred Miss Laurence’s usually placid face. And she missed the expression of incredulous pleasure on Mr. Thornton’s face as he leaned against the door jamb, arms crossed on his chest.
Meg played the last few notes, and was startled by the sound of applause, polite from the women, more enthusiastic from the men. She had no idea how lovely she appeared in the candlelight or how truly moving her performance had been, and she blushed.
Looking up, her eyes met those of Mr. Thornton and she felt a deep satisfaction that her playing had pleased him, as evidenced by the smile that transformed his normally austere face. She returned his smile and they gazed at each other in mutual admiration, to Miss Laurence’s deepening dismay and Mrs. Thornton’s rising alarm. Meg might not have seen Mr. Thornton’s expression while she played, but his mother had and she did not care for what it portended.
Her father was beaming with pride at her performance. “Meg, I had no idea you had progressed so with your music! Your aunt never said a word.”
Mr. Bell agreed. “That was extraordinary.”
“Indeed, that was quite extraordinary, Miss Hale.” Mr. Thornton stepped closer to the piano bench.
Meg flushed again, lowering her eyes from his intense scrutiny. “Thank you.” She was uncertain how to accept this effusion of compliments.
Mr. Thornton offered her his arm, and led her to a small cluster of chairs apart from the other guests. They sat close to each other, their knees nearly touching. “That was a magnificent performance, Miss Hale. You are quite talented.”