How Far the World Will Bend

by Nancy Klein

  Meg shook her head at his praise, and laughed. “I was lucky in my instructor. He loved music, and passed that love along to me.”

  “It is evident in your playing. I cannot think when I have enjoyed a performance so much.” They stared at each other, each unsure what to say next.

  Mrs. Thornton had been watching their conversation closely, her alarm growing by the moment. She decided it was time to bring the evening to a close. Standing, she moved toward the door, making her intent clear to her guests—and her son.

  Seeing his mother’s actions, Mr. Thornton grimaced. “Please excuse me, Miss Hale,” he apologized as he rose with reluctance and joined his mother. Moments later, the guests began to disperse. Couples requested their coats and hats and conveyed their thanks to Mrs. Thornton and her son.

  Meg thanked Mrs. Thornton and Fanny, but did not wait to speak to Mr. Thornton. She was unsettled by her earlier discussion with him, brief as it had been, and by the expression in his eyes. She slipped out the door to await her escorts in the quiet darkness of the courtyard below, unwittingly disappointing her host, who had hoped to have one more opportunity to clasp her hand and gaze into her eyes before she left for the evening.

  Chapter 9. Shaking

  As she walked home from dinner, Meg found herself enjoying the cool air and the clear skies overhead. It was a wonderful change from the stifling, crowded rooms at the Thornton’s home, and she nearly danced down the street in her gratitude to be away, at last, from the glitter and confinement of the evening.

  She thought of Mr. Thornton and the pleasure he had taken in her playing. She had recognized before now that he was a good man, albeit a bit stern and aloof, and much too focused on business rather than people. However, tonight she had felt a tug of attraction for him that frightened her. She was not here to indulge in romance; she had a task to do, and once that task was completed, she had every intention of making her way back to her former life—if she could find her way back.

  As they entered their street, Meg saw the front door of her home open and close, and a figure descend the steps. The man turned his face to the gaslight, and Meg recognized Doctor Donaldson. Without thinking, she rushed forward, her arm outstretched to detain him. “Doctor, what are you doing here?”

  Doctor Donaldson gave her a grave look. “Your mother is not well, Meg,” he said in a low voice. “She has had a spell.” At the look of terror on her face, he continued, “She is resting comfortably now, but I cannot tell for how much longer.” His gaze encompassed Mr. Hale as he explained, “She has suffered several spasms tonight which wracked her body and caused enough physical distress that I had to dose her with a large measure of laudanum. She is sleeping peacefully now.”

  Mr. Hale exclaimed in a frightened voice, as if he did not understand what the doctor had said. Meg placed an arm about her father’s waist to support him, and he sagged against her. “Come inside with me, Father.” Gazing up at the doctor, she added, “Thank you, Doctor Donaldson.”

  “Miss Hale, a word,” Doctor Donaldson urged, and Meg relegated care of her father to Mr. Bell, who helped him enter the house. Once the front door closed, the doctor looked directly at her and said bluntly, “I do not know how much time your mother has left, Meg.”

  At Meg’s shocked expression, he continued, “It could be days or weeks, but she cannot sustain attacks such as these much longer.” He hesitated and appeared to struggle for words. “Tonight, she mentioned a son she has not seen in years. She related to me that she longs to see him again. I mention this to you because if your brother is to see his mother again in this world, it would be best to bring him to her now.” He squeezed her arm in sympathy and wished her a good night.

  If her mother had confided to Doctor Donaldson that she wished to see Frederick, given all the inherent danger of sharing such a confidence with a stranger, she must be desperate to be reunited with her son. After ascertaining that Mr. Bell had her father well in hand, Meg descended to the kitchen to inquire if Dixon had an address for Frederick to which she might direct a letter. At Dixon’s sharp glance, she hastened to explain what she was about to do.

  Dixon agreed with her plan of action. “Mind you, miss, if you weren’t going to write to him, I was of a mind to do so myself.” She promised to copy the address from Mrs. Hale’s notes in the morning, in time for Meg to mail it in that day’s post.

  Meg retired to her room and wrote Frederick a short letter explaining his mother’s condition, providing him the direction to their home in Crampton. She urged him to come with all speed, and conveyed in a few short sentences his mother’s longing to see him.

  Upon sealing this missive, Meg was so tired that she barely had the strength to remove her petticoats. After struggling with her corset, she merely loosened the strings and left it on. When she slipped into bed, her mind revisited the events of the day, and she found herself recalling the look on Mr. Thornton’s face as he watched her play.

  She thought she had disgusted him with her talk of helping the poor and easing the suffering of the strikers. Not that she cared; these things were important to her and she had no intention of modifying her morals for Mr. Thornton. However, she felt sad that their points of view were worlds apart which made her surprise ever greater when he had stood by her at the piano. She acknowledged that he must feel an attraction toward her, much as she did toward him, despite her better judgment. If she spent much more time with him, she was afraid she might lose her heart, and while that might do for Margaret Hale, who belonged in this time, it would never do for Meg Armstrong, who did not. With these thoughts, she drifted off to sleep, and dreamed she played the piano for him alone, while he watched her with his piercing eyes.

  As the days unfolded, Mrs. Hale’s condition showed no sign of improvement. Although she had no recurrence of spasms, she complained of weakness in her lower limbs and pain in her back. No matter how she reclined or sat, she could not find a comfortable position. Remembering Fanny’s offer, Meg mentioned the water mattress, but her mother waved it off irritably, saying she had no use for such new-fangled inventions.

  However, the following morning as Meg prepared to set off for the clinic, her mother had a change of heart. As Meg opened the door to depart, Mary came up from the kitchen, calling her name.

  “Miss Dixon says your mother has been thinking that lying on a bed of water would bring her comfort. She would like you to go to Marlborough Mills and ask Mrs. Thornton to please send the mattress.”

  “Thank you, Mary. I shall go to Marlborough Mills first thing.” Meg tossed a shawl about her shoulders and, picking up her reticule, stepped lightly down the steps into the street.

  The shops of Milton were open as usual, but as she neared the mill, she realized how deserted the town appeared. The streets were thin of people, and the few folk who had ventured out scurried along and did not return her greeting. Instead, they averted their eyes and hurried on their way. A sense of unease hung over the town, as if everyone were holding their breath waiting for what was about to unfold.

  As she approached Marlborough Mills, Meg was surprised to find the gates closed and barred. She rang the bell and waited several minutes until Williams peered out at her. She explained that she had come to see Mrs. Thornton, and he opened the gate just wide enough to admit her.

  “Come inside quickly, Miss, and I’ll bolt the gates behind you,” he ordered, and closed and secured the gate once more. Meg walked swiftly across the courtyard, and knocked loudly on the door of the Thornton home. After an interminable time, a frightened-looking housemaid opened the door and bade her enter. Meg followed the girl up the stairs into the parlor, and was told to wait there until the maid fetched Mrs. Thornton.

  Overcome with curiosity, Meg moved to the window in time to see Mr. Thornton unlock and enter the warehouse. From the windows above him, a number of pale faces peered down. Who were those people?

  The sound of footsteps entering the room caused her to turn. “Forgive me, Mrs. Thornton, for
intruding like this, but Fanny said you had a water mattress that we might use?”

  Mrs. Thornton did not respond, but appeared transfixed by the din outside that grew steadily in intensity. Meg fell silent, and both women were able to discern angry voices and fists pounding on the gate, demanding entrance.

  “They are coming! They are coming!” Fanny entered the parlor, her eyes wide with panic. “They are going to break down the doors and kill us all!”

  “Fanny, calm yourself,” demanded Mrs. Thornton, but the young woman was hysterical. The mother ushered her daughter into the hall and spoke in quiet, measured tones in an attempt to calm her.

  Meg turned back to the window in time to see Mr. Thornton emerge from the warehouse and lock the door. Pocketing the key, he raced across the mill yard and disappeared into the house. She could hear his footsteps as he rushed up the stairs, and heard him speaking in a low tone to his mother in the hallway.

  At that moment, the gates to the mill yard broke free. A wave of furious hands trampled them under foot and flooded into the yard. The frenzied workers filled every corner and space below; some ran to the warehouse doors in an attempt to wrench them open, while others swarmed to the steps of Mr. Thornton’s house. Their faces were inhuman in their animal frenzy. Each man looked as if he would easily murder anyone who stood in his path. This is it, Meg thought as her heart thundered. This is the riot!

  In the background, she could hear Fanny screaming once more, followed by sudden silence. Turning, she saw Mrs. Thornton lift the girl into her strong arms and carry her to the back of the house. Meg looked out upon the crowd once more and spotted Boucher, livid with fury, shouting at the upper windows of the mill where the terrified Irish workers peered through the dirty window panes.

  “Have heart, Miss Hale, the militia will be here soon.”

  Meg started at the voice so near her ear. Mr. Thornton had moved to her side and peered down into the yard, his face dark with anger.

  “The militia,” Meg gasped. “Why has the militia been called?”

  “To dispatch this mob,” he retorted. His voice was crisp, but his face betrayed the anxiety he felt.

  Meg was aghast. “What will they do to this poor starving crowd, driven mad by their hunger?” She felt a strong charge of energy run through her. The shouting mob, the angry man - she knew what was about to happen; she could almost see it unfolding before her. He must not go down there, she thought intently. At the same time, she knew that someone must speak to that crowd and stop them from attacking the Irish. She gazed out over the upturned faces and gasped. There, among the milling bodies, was Clothilde!

  The fortune teller stood apart from the others, her face upturned and her mouth quirked in a slight smile. She looked directly at Meg and with a slim, upturned hand, beckoned to her. Now is the time to act, Meg thought. Turning abruptly from Mr. Thornton, she raced down the stairs, ignoring his alarmed exclamation.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Meg managed to lift the heavy bar barricading the door and toss it aside. Throwing the door open, she stepped out onto the landing and searched the crowd for Clothilde, but the fortune teller had vanished. The crowd quieted, mesmerized by the sight of the woman in white above them.

  Meg realized that the throng was waiting for her to speak, so she cried in a cold, high voice, “Stop! Think of what you are doing!”

  The crowd shifted uneasily, and she continued, “Would you do violence to men like you, men and women driven from their homes by hunger to find work elsewhere? Mr. Thornton may have been wrong to bring them here, but what you would do is far worse. The soldiers are coming. You must go home.”

  She finished on a breathless note, and cast her eyes about the upturned faces that gazed uncertainly at her, as if she dared them to counter her directive. She heard footsteps behind her, and saw with dismay that Mr. Thornton had joined her on the landing.

  “Will you send the Irish home?” bellowed one man.

  “Never, by your bidding!” shouted Mr. Thornton.

  Damn the man! He had moved beside her, his face set and defiant. Folding his arms across his broad chest, he stared at the crowd while the men and women below howled their anger and flung invectives at him.

  Turning to Meg, he ordered her to go inside.

  “No, I shall never leave you. It is my place to save you.” Meg hardly knew what she was saying, so intent was her gaze upon the crowd.

  Fury leapt into his eyes. “Go inside or I will take you.” He grasped her shoulders to force her into the house, but Meg pulled away from him, intently searching the rioters. She saw Boucher bend down and pick up a good-sized stone; he hefted it in his hand as if to test its weight and looked furtively at Mr. Thornton. He was going to hurl it at the master, Meg realized.

  Her one clear thought was to prevent Mr. Thornton’s injury. If the injury could be stopped, then the entire malignant chain of events might be averted. She stepped in front of Mr. Thornton and, raising her arm and pointing, cried out in an imperious tone, “John Boucher, put that stone down.”

  Startled at hearing his name, Boucher dropped the stone at once and stood looking like a guilty schoolboy. Others who held stones froze in place, undecided as to what to do. Mr. Thornton attempted to step beside her, but she resolutely moved to stand in front of him, pushing against him with her body to keep him behind her.

  Her voice rang out over the mill yard again. “Do no violence here if you value your lives and your livelihoods. You must settle this strike like men. I entreat you to go home. There is nothing for you to gain here!”

  The crowd milled about, reluctant to leave but uncertain how to proceed. They were muttering among themselves when a shrill whistle shattered the quiet. Officers on horseback rode through the gates, wielding cudgels. Chaos erupted as men ran in every direction, pursued by soldiers. Meg saw with horror several workers fall to the ground insensate, in danger of being trampled beneath the horses’ prancing hooves.

  When she spied Jenny ducking blows, Meg did not stop to consider her own safety but rushed into the crowd to the girl’s side. Shoving Jenny out of the way, she managed to duck one blow, but not the one that followed as an officer struck her on the side of her head with his cudgel.

  Mr. Thornton had followed Meg into the crowd and watched in horror as she crumpled to the ground. He pushed through the throng in desperation to reach her.

  Jenny cried out and attempted to hold up Meg’s limp form, but she was not strong enough. Before both women slumped to the ground, Mr. Thornton reached them and swept Meg into his arms. Maneuvering through the fleeing crowd to his house, Mr. Thornton rushed upstairs and into the parlor, and gently lowered Meg upon a settee. Shouting for a servant to secure the front doors, he knelt beside her unconscious form and chafed her hands between his larger ones. It had been madness for her to rush downstairs, he thought angrily, but her concern for the working people seemed to trump any instinct for self-preservation that she had.

  What a foolish, headstrong young woman, Mr. Thornton thought, half in exasperation and half in tenderness. She had saved his life, of that he was certain. He had seen stones in many of the men’s hands, and knew that once the first stone was thrown, others would follow. In calling upon the men to stop, Miss Hale had prevented a hailstorm of objects from being hurled at his head. Her words had served much like a dash of icy water in the face of the mob, abruptly cooling its frenzy. Even the angriest man recognized the folly of injuring a woman, especially a woman as lovely as Miss Hale.

  She was lovely, he thought ardently. Her face in repose was soft, and her long lashes lay against her pale cheeks. Her soft hair framed her face, and her full lips were relaxed into a half smile. He smoothed a lock of hair from her injured temple and caught a faint hint of her scent - was it lilies? It was fresh and captivating, as she was.

  He felt a swelling of tenderness. Miss Hale had risked her life to save his. What had she said to him on the landing? I shall never leave you; it is my place to save you.

&
nbsp; A shiver of desire and longing passed through him. This girl is dangerous, he thought. She would upset his calm and deliberate life, and he would never be the same after knowing her. He still felt her body against his as she had attempted to shield him from the crowd, and his pulse quickened at the memory of her soft curves pressed against him. He had the strangest urge to lean forward and kiss her, as if he were a prince in a children’s story who could awaken her from a spell. He took her cold, lifeless hand in his own and bent closer toward her, his breath quickening, when his mother’s voice called him back to the present. He stood abruptly as she entered the room, his face flushed from his aborted impulse.

  “John, what happened?” Mrs. Thornton’s gaze shifted from the unconscious girl to her son.

  “Mother, Miss Hale has been injured.”

  “I can see that,” she responded in some alarm. “I could almost imagine she is dead. I shall send for the doctor directly.”

  “Send one of the servants,” her son urged. “I must go see to my Irish.”

  Mrs. Thornton left the room in search of a servant, as her son continued to gaze down at Meg’s pale face. He knew he should go reassure his workers, but he longed to remain by her side. She looked so defenseless and lovely that he had to fight the urge to pull her into his arms and cradle her in his embrace.

  He was about to leave when he saw Meg’s eyes flutter open. He swiftly knelt by her side again. “Miss Hale, can you hear me?” He gently chafed her hands.

  “What happened?” Meg blinked up at him. The light pained her and her vision was double - two of Mr. Thornton swam before her eyes, concerned expressions on both of their faces.

  “You took a blow to the head in the mill yard. Do you remember?”

  Meg thought for a moment as remembrance flooded back to her. Her eyes flew open, and she reached up to grasp his hands. “You are all right!” A brilliant smile lit her pale face. “You were not hurt by the crowd! Oh, I am so glad!” Falling back on the pillow, she burst into tears of relief. “It is done! I have accomplished what I was sent to do.”