by Nancy Klein
Mr. Thornton watched her cry with a rising sense of joy. She cares for me, he thought exultantly. He returned the pressure of her hands and his face was incandescent with happiness. “Miss Hale—” he began in a low, husky voice, but at that moment his mother entered the parlor with Doctor Donaldson, and he was forced to move aside.
Doctor Donaldson walked over to the sofa where Meg was struggling to sit up and pushed her back against the cushions. “Stay where you are until I have had a chance to examine you.” His sharp admonition made her sink back. “I thought you might be here. Your mother sent me to retrieve you—she became alarmed when you had been gone so long. Mrs. Thornton tells me you have taken quite a blow. What were you doing down in the mill yard with all this rough business going on?”
Meg reddened, stung by the tone of Doctor Donaldson’s voice. “I was trying to stop the militia from beating a woman.”
His face softened. “You are a good girl, and I should not upbraid you, foolish though you may be.” He took her face between his hands, examined the lump on the side of her head, and gazed at her pupils for several moments before he smiled in relief. “You have taken a blow, but I believe you will be fine. Let me clean the blood from this wound. We would not want to worry your mother.”
Mr. Thornton stood to the side, chafed and aggravated. He had so much he wanted to say to Miss Hale—would that he had the privilege to call her Meg, as the doctor did! He longed to escort her home, but Doctor Donaldson had affairs well in hand, and before he could frame the request, the doctor helped Miss Hale to her feet and had her hand settled in the crook of his arm. Mrs. Thornton reassured Meg that she would have a servant bring the water mattress later that day, and Meg thanked her with a wan smile. As Doctor Donaldson assisted her out of the door, Meg looked back at Mr. Thornton. “I am very happy you were not hurt,” she said quietly, and left.
Mrs. Thornton looked sharply at her son. “What did she mean? Were you ever in any danger?”
He shook his head. “No, Mother, I was not, thanks to Miss Hale. She shouted down the crowd and quieted their blood lust. But for her, who knows what might have happened? The rioters came here with ill intent.”
Mrs. Thornton pressed her lips together, a stony expression on her face. “She is such an obstinate, headstrong girl! Why did she to rush into the crowd? She is lucky she was not killed!”
Mr. Thornton longed to defend her, but knew better than to tell his mother of Miss Hale’s initial flight down the stairs to address the mob. He merely explained that he owed a great debt to Miss Hale, and would call on her later that evening to see how she recovered. His mother would have argued against his intent, but he still had to speak to his migrant workforce, and left the room abruptly for the warehouse.
His Irish were in such a state of fear that it took most of the afternoon to calm them. He called for the priest and ordered a hot meal, eating with them and answering their questions and concerns. The entire time, he kept remembering the smile upon Meg’s face as she had cried out with gladness that he was unharmed. He could still feel the warmth of her body in his arms as he carried her into his home. However, it was late in the evening when he was finally able to slip away from the warehouse, far too late to pay a social call to Crampton. He resolved that he would go to her the following day.
In Crampton, Dixon met Meg in the hallway with the news that her mother was sleeping, thanks to the medicine prescribed by the doctor. “Mary had to leave early. Her sister was taken ill this afternoon, and she wanted me to tell you Bessy was asking for you.”
Meg’s head throbbed, but she resolutely gathered up several small bottles and packets from her supply, threw her shawl about her shoulders, and left for Princeton. As she walked along the dirty streets, she recalled the events of the riot in dream-like detail. She would never forget the sickening sense of fear she had felt when she saw the crowd press through the gates. A sudden memory returned to her, forgotten in the ensuing confusion and chaos: she had seen Clothilde in the crowd. What was the fortune teller doing among the strikers? Had she come to give Meg a sign that it was time to act? Obviously, Clothilde was able to travel through time at will. But where had she come from, and why did she care so deeply about setting events to right? Meg felt like an actor in a play where every player had a script except for her. What was her role?
When she arrived at Francis Street, she found Bessy in great distress. She was struggling for every breath, wheezing and gasping for air. Meg raised her up in her bed, and placed every pillow and folded blanket she could commandeer to elevate the sick girl’s chest so that she could breathe easier. Once this was accomplished, she sat next to her friend and clasped her hand for comfort, wishing there was more that she could do for her.
At last the fit eased and Bessy was able to rest. Meg made her a cup of tea and urged her to drink the hot liquid to calm her throat. By cajoling and bullying, she was able to get most of the tea into Bessy, after which she administered a small dose of laudanum to help her sleep. When her friend finally drifted off, Meg instructed Mary to let her sleep as long as she could, and to give her a light meal when she awoke.
As she turned to go, Mary touched her arm. “Are you hurt?” At Meg’s blank look, Mary gestured toward her own forehead. “You’re bleeding.”
Meg raised her hand to her temple and found that she was, indeed, bleeding. “It is only a scratch. I am fine.” Pressing her handkerchief to the side of her head, she wiped the blood away.
“That is more than a scratch. You have a nasty bruise. How did it happen, Miss?”
Meg felt a lump form in her throat. Mary’s concern over her wound reminded her of Gran’s solicitous care of her childish scratches and scrapes. She missed Gran so much yet here she was, beside her. Smiling wryly, Meg quipped, “You might say my head was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Seeing Mary’s confused expression, Meg continued, “Never mind my silliness. I have had a very long day. Take care of your sister, and please send for me if her condition worsens, no matter what the hour.
Chapter 10. Humpty Dumpty
The morning following the riot, Mrs. Thornton sat in the dining room mending a large tablecloth. In preparing the linen for her annual dinner, she had noted that a monogram was unraveling from the corner of the cloth, and was determined to pick out the stitches and replace them before packing the linen away for another year.
The light in the room was not good, so she moved her chair closer to the window to take advantage of the natural light. She had just begun to carefully snip at the knots on the underside of the cloth when her son entered the room, dressed as if to pay a call. With a mother’s jealous eye, she noted at once that he was wearing his good black suit, and a dark red waistcoat and tie, not his usual attire for working in the mill. She saw in a glance that his face was soft and hopeful, and her heart sank in her chest as she realized what he was about.
“John.” Her tone was sharper than usual. “What are you doing here at this hour? Why are you not at the mill?”
He looked at her steadily. “I have a call to make in Crampton, Mother, and I believe you know what I am going to say.”
She sighed heavily. “Yes, I do. What could you do otherwise?”
“What do you mean?” He stared at her in curiosity.
“The servants were watching from the windows yesterday. They saw Miss Hale rush onto the landing. They heard her tell the crowd to stop what they were doing. They saw her embrace you.”
His heart beat rapidly, but he replied in a steady voice, “She did not embrace me, mother, she was attempting to thwart my attempts to force her to return to the house.”
She waved his comment away. “It makes no difference. She was deeply concerned for your life. A girl in love will act in such a way.”
“In love!” Mr. Thornton exclaimed, and took a hurried step forward, his chest heaving with passion. “I never thought that such a woman could be in love with me!”
Mrs. Thornton grimaced. “Of course she is in lov
e with you! I could almost think better of her in that she let her love for you overcome her reticence!”
He turned from her, highly impatient to be off to Crampton, and did not see Mrs. Thornton’s hand lift to clasp his own. She heard the door below slam, and watched as a solitary tear fell upon the linen in her hands. “He is no longer mine,” she remarked to the empty room, and continued with her mending.
While Mr. Thornton discussed his errand with his mother, Meg was once more engrossed in the homey task of ironing. The smoke and dirt of Milton necessitated washing their curtains and household linens once a week. Mary had sent word earlier that she intended to remain at home for the day to tend to her sister, so the ironing fell to Meg. She did not mind; she had been relieved to hear that Bessy was feeling better, albeit weak after her turn. It was best that Mary stay at home and care for her sister.
Meg attempted to arrange her hair so that it fell over her temple in order to hide the bruise she had sustained the day before. She considered herself lucky that her mother and father were so absorbed in their own concerns that they were fairly unobservant when it came to her own. Only Dixon had noticed, and although Meg doubted the sharp-eyed servant believed her story of walking into a door, she held her tongue.
“Miss Meg,” Dixon exclaimed in a voice of mounting excitement as she entered the kitchen, “you have a guest!”
Meg looked up from her ironing, a surprised expression on her face. “Who is calling at this hour of the morning?”
Dixon smiled and crossed her arms over her ample breast. “You’ll not guess who—Mr. Henry Lennox.”
Meg’s heart dropped. She had no idea who Henry Lennox was, or why he would visit her. She had received a letter from her cousin Edith, and vaguely remembered that Edith’s husband was Captain Lennox—could this be a relative who had come to bring her news of Edith?
“What does he want, Dixon? What did he say?” She attempted to solicit more information about this visitor before she was forced to speak with him.
Dixon shrugged. “He didn’t say. He asked to speak with you. Take off your apron and see what he is about, and I’ll finish the ironing.”
Meg reluctantly removed her apron and ascended the stairs to the parlor. As she crossed the threshold, a handsome young man turned from the window. A broad smile crossed his face and with two strides he was before her, clasping both her hands in his own. “My dearest Margaret, I came as soon as I received your letter. It was misdirected to my previous address—I moved several months ago, did Edith not tell you? By the time it reached me, I was on holiday in Europe. Pray forgive my delay! The moment I received it, you may be certain I made all haste to Milton.” He stood smiling down at her.
Dear God, what was in that letter? Meg wondered with mounting anxiety. Smiling politely, she removed her hands from his clasp. “Mr. Lennox, how good it is to see you again. To what do I owe this visit?”
His smile slipped, and he stared at her. “Surely you remember your letter? It has not been that long ago you sent it. And why are you being so formal? You have called me Henry many times before now.”
“Forgive me, Henry, but it has been months since I wrote that letter and many more since I last set eyes upon you. To which part of my letter do you refer?”
He stared at her. “To the part where you told me you had a change of heart concerning my proposal of marriage.”
She gaped at him. “Did I say yes or no?”
Henry frowned. Reaching into the breast pocket of his morning coat, he withdrew the missive in question and held it out to her. “Is this some sort of game?” he asked in a chilly voice. “Very well, I will play along. When I asked for your hand in marriage at Helstone, you told me that you had no desire to marry. However, in your letter, you told me that you had changed your mind and would welcome my offer. Therefore, I have made all haste to Milton to renew my suit. I cannot believe that you would trifle with me again. I desire nothing so much as to marry you, and was hopeful that you felt the same.”
Meg took a step toward him, and plucked the letter from his grasp. Unfolding the paper, she quickly scanned the lines and nearly groaned aloud. Margaret had written that she hated Milton and could not bear to remain in such a dismal town, though she had been there but a day. She was willing to leave her mother and father and come to London if only Henry would renew his suit. She realized she had made a mistake and now wanted to become his wife. Meg remembered the half-written letter to Edith that she had read, but could not believe that Margaret would agree to marry this man, no matter how pleasant or polished he was, just to escape from Milton. She made no mention of love or affection in this letter or in the one she had begun to Edith.
Meg felt a stab of pity for Henry Lennox. Returning the letter to him, she said gently, “Believe me, Henry, I am not trifling with you. I—”
Before she could finish, he stepped forward and clasped her in his arms. “I knew you were too good to trifle with me. You have made me the happiest of men, Margaret.” He sank down on one knee in front of her, and took her hands in his own. “Will you do me the honor—”
“Henry—” Meg wondered how she could possibly explain that she could not marry him despite what she had written, when she heard her father’s voice in the hallway.
“She is in here. Meg,” Mr. Hale called out, “Mr. Thornton is here to see you….” His voice died away as he saw the lover-like tableaux before him. “Mr. Lennox, I did not know you were visiting.” Mr. Hale stared in astonishment from Meg to Henry. Meg tugged Henry to his feet and pulled her hands from his clasp, irritated to be caught in such a ridiculous position by her father and his guest. Glancing quickly at Mr. Thornton, she noted his thunderstruck expression and felt her heart plummet. She turned to Henry to ask him to go, but he anticipated her words.
“I was just leaving, Mr. Hale. I beg your pardon.” Turning to Meg, he said softly, “I will return tomorrow, when we may be private. I will hope to have a chance to speak with your father tomorrow, as well.” His eyes danced with anticipation, and he raised her hands to his lips, kissing each in turn. He shook hands with Mr. Hale and nodded politely to Mr. Thornton before leaving the room. She could hear him whistling as he descended the steps, leaving no doubt that he believed his suit would be accepted.
Meg blushed with vexation to be caught in such a situation and to have Mr. Thornton of all people witness it. She had no intention of marrying Henry Lennox, but feared that the real Margaret obviously did. What if Henry was the man the real Margaret loved? She could not stand the idea of ruining Margaret’s life, but did she really intend to marry Mr. Lennox just to escape from Milton? If I met you at this moment, Margaret Hale, I would be hard pressed not to slap your face, Meg thought angrily.
“I—I believe I will see how your mother is faring,” Mr. Hale stuttered, and departed the parlor as quickly as his legs would take him. Meg stood in a defensive posture, silent and angry, arms crossed on her chest. Mr. Thornton slowly removed his hat and gloves and set them upon a table.
“Forgive my intrusion, Miss Hale.” His cold voice belied the seething jealousy roiling through him. When he entered the house, his heart had quickened at the thought that he would see her again. He was in an agony of half-hope and half-fear, uncertain of how she might respond to his proposal. Would she place her soft arms about his neck, and shed a few tears of happiness? Would she lay her head upon his chest and nestle in his arms? Or would she refuse his suit? He was aquiver with hope, but, upon seeing Mr. Lennox holding her hands, these emotions were forgotten in his overwhelming desire to knock that strange man to the ground. “I suppose I am to wish you happy,” he added stiffly.
“You are to do nothing of the kind. I have no intention of marrying Mr. Lennox, despite what you may have witnessed when you entered the room.”
Mr. Thornton’s scowl faded. “He obviously believes otherwise.”
“Well, he is wrong. I will not marry a man I do not love.” She turned to face him. “What can I do for you, Mr. Thorn
ton?”
He recollected his purpose. “I owe you a debt of gratitude, Miss Hale, for your actions yesterday. I must have seemed quite ungrateful to you at the time.” His features were earnest, but his eyes shone with so much emotion that Meg glanced away.
“Nonsense, you owe me nothing. I did what I would have done for anyone in a similar situation.” She was burning with embarrassment at Henry’s actions; her cheeks were afire and she felt decidedly off balance. She had no desire to prolong Mr. Thornton’s effusions of gratitude. “You are under no obligation to me.”
“Nevertheless, I choose to believe that I owe my very life to you. I am in your debt,” he reiterated, “and it is my intent to repay that debt.”
“What do you mean?” She was surprised to see a flush of embarrassment darken his complexion. He turned from her and toyed with a pawn on a nearby chessboard.
“Our household servants saw you rush outside and confront the crowd,” he said in a constrained voice. “They say you have as much as declared your intent towards me.”
Meg gazed at him, incredulous at his words. “You are concerned about the gossip of a few servants?”
“It is not just a few servants, Miss Hale.” He placed the pawn back on the board. “The mill workers witnessed your intercession as well.”
“I interceded to prevent violence. That does not mean that I love you.”
A slight smile crossed Mr. Thornton’s face. “I did not say that you loved me,” he replied gently, and she in turn blushed.
“That is what you were implying. In any event, I am not worried about idle chatter. God knows the people in this town have enough to say about my comings and goings from Doctor Donaldson’s house, and the visits that I pay in the Princeton district.”
“I have heard talk of that, too, Miss Hale, and it disturbs me greatly to hear the daughter of my friend discussed in such a lowering manner. My intent today was to offer you the protection of my name.” He paused for a moment to collect his thoughts, awkward in his desire to describe exactly how he felt. “I claim the right to express my feelings.”