How Far the World Will Bend

by Nancy Klein

  Meg denied being at the station, coldly civil in her responses. She despised herself for lying, but had no intention of incriminating her family or herself. If only this investigation had waited until Frederick was in Cadiz! She chafed under her lies, and guilt threatened to consume her. Inspector Watson informed her in no uncertain terms that she might be summoned to a formal inquest into the cause of Leonards’ death; when he departed, she was in a frenzy of anxiety. Unable to contain herself, she threw a shawl about her shoulders and struck out for the clinic.

  As she entered the door of his office, Doctor Donaldson looked up from his paperwork. Seeing the expression of misery and fear on her face, he set his work aside, and strode around the desk to settle her into a chair. “Meg, you are not well. What is it?”

  Meg responded through bloodless lips. “Doctor Donaldson, I have done something very wrong, and have compounded that wrong by lying.”

  He shushed her. “Wait here.” She heard him stride into an adjoining room and speak sharply to Nicholas Higgins, who was sweeping. She heard the front door open and close, and Doctor Donaldson returned.

  “I have asked Higgins to run several errands for me, which should take him most of the afternoon. I told him you did not feel well, and I was going to examine and prescribe to you. Remember that if he asks.” He looked steadily at her. “What do you think you have done wrong?”

  She raised her eyes to his. “I am responsible for that man Leonards’ death.”

  Doctor Donaldson sat down opposite her, and pulled his chair closer so that he could hold her hands in his own. “Why do you say that?”

  With a shuddering breath, Meg told him all of the events of that night. “If I had not pushed him, he would not have fallen and struck his head,” she concluded. “It is my fault that he died.”

  Doctor Donaldson shook his head. “You might have helped to hasten his end, Meg, but not by much. I did an autopsy on him, and he was quite ill. He drank to the point that there was severe damage to his bodily organs. He might have lived another few months, but would have died eventually from internal bleeding. It was an accident that he struck his head—you shoved him to enable your brother to escape from him, not to do him harm.”

  Seeing her obstinate expression, he continued, “You must not admit to this—he would have died anyway. His disease was too far gone, and he showed no inclination to give up gin, from what I have been told. If you admit to being at the station, you will have to say why you were there, perhaps endangering your brother. I would advise you to remain silent and live with your guilt.”

  She burst into overwrought tears. “This was not supposed to happen,” she sobbed, feeling the control that had held her tightly in check ever since she had come to Milton slip away. “I was supposed to save Mr. Thornton’s life and go back to my own time, not be involved in a murder!” The words were out before she could stop them. She clapped her hand over her mouth, as if by doing so she could make the words unspoken.

  Doctor Donaldson looked at her. “What do you mean?”

  She sighed and closed her eyes. She had longed to tell someone, anyone, about her strange trip into the past. She wanted a confidant so desperately. It appeared the time had come to share her story. She took a deep breath. “I am not Margaret Hale, Doctor. I am an imposter. My name is Meg Armstrong, and I was born in 1898. I came back through time to save Mr. Thornton’s life by preventing a riot at Marlborough Mills.”

  Without taking his eyes from hers, Doctor Donaldson reached down and opened a lower cabinet. He extracted a bottle of whiskey and two glasses, and poured a finger’s length into each glass, handing one to Meg. “I believe you will need a drink to tell this story, and I will need one to listen to it. Go back to the beginning and tell me everything.”

  An hour later, Meg had sipped half of her glass of whiskey and felt much better about the situation—or maybe she just didn’t care anymore. She had never drunk hard liquor before, and it gave her a dreamy sense of wellbeing. Doctor Donaldson sat and pondered all that she had told him before he drained his glass. “Meg, I have suspected for some time that you were not who you appeared to be. No gently born young lady learns to sew a wound as well as you did by following a country doctor’s advice. No young woman I have ever met has your knowledge of allopathic and homeopathic medicine, or your knack with diagnosis. I must confess, however, that I did not expect to hear you were from the future.”

  “Do you believe me?” Meg asked fearfully, “or do you think I am crazy?”

  “You are one of the sanest people I have ever met—how could I not believe you? Your story is too nuanced to be a fabrication. I don’t understand how you came here, and I certainly don’t understand what could have become of the real Margaret Hale, but I do believe you.” He hesitated, and looked at her with a gleam in his eye. “I know you have much to figure out about your situation, and I will help you in any way that I can. But just for an hour, please tell me about advances in medicine over the past—did you say sixty years?”

  So they sat together for a quiet hour, and Meg told him of vaccines and procedures and medicines, of anesthetics and advanced diagnoses, and of morphine and opiates. He asked many questions and probed for numerous details.

  At last he sat quietly before exclaiming, “If only I could go through that mirror with you into the future! How I would love to see it all. But, alas, this is my time.” He shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. “But tell me, how I shall get on without the best assistant I have ever had, when it is your time to return?”

  “To tell the truth, Doctor, I’m not so certain that I can go back. My father—I mean, Mr. Hale—is lost without my mother. He relies on me. And until Nicholas Higgins finds a job that enables him to adequately support his expanded family, how can I leave?”

  Doctor Donaldson smiled. “You have grown attached to Milton and its inhabitants, haven’t you?” He lifted the glass of whiskey from her hand. “And unless I’m much mistaken, you are close to being tipsy. I had best walk you home.”

  Meg waved him off, struggling to her feet. “Nonsense, I’m fine. I only had a few sips of your demon whiskey.” The room spun about her, a kaleidoscope of light and color, and she widened her eyes at how woozy she felt. Ruing her predicament, she smiled at Doctor Donaldson; however, he did not return her smile. She saw his gaze sharpen on something behind her.

  She turned about and found Mr. Thornton standing in the doorway, a look of disapproval on his face. His darkening glance took in the bottle on the table and the empty glasses in the doctor’s hands.

  “Doctor Donaldson, have you been plying Miss Hale with spirits?” he asked in a grave voice.

  “Yes, Mr. Thornton, I have,” the doctor replied in a dignified tone. “Miss Hale was in hysterics when she reached my office, a delayed reaction to her mother’s death. Rather than administer a sedative, I gave her a medicinal shot of whiskey.” He ruined this somber speech by winking at Meg, which set her off into a fit of giggles.

  “Medicinal shot of whiskey, was it?” Mr. Thornton asked grimly. “I believe you both are drunk.” He turned his disapproving gaze upon Meg. “Miss Hale, I have just come from your house. Your father is worried—you have been gone several hours and left him no word of where you were going. I guessed that you might be here, or in Princeton, and told him I would fetch you home.”

  Instantly repentant, Meg gathered her shawl around her and turned to Doctor Donaldson. “Thank you for the whiskey and for listening to me.”

  He chucked her under the chin with a careless finger. “You are a good girl, Meg,” he said gruffly. “If I had a daughter, I would want her to be just like you.” He leaned forward, and whispered in her ear, “Remain silent about what we spoke of earlier. Say not a word to anyone—especially Mr. Thornton.”

  As she moved toward the door, she stumbled and Mr. Thornton caught her by the arms. Without thinking, he steadied her against his chest. She rested her head against him for a brief moment, relishing the contact, before
she remembered that she had vowed to keep her distance from him. With exaggerated dignity, she pulled herself upright, and looked up at him with her luminous eyes. “I am sorry,” she said, enunciating each word with painful precision. “I seem to be a bit off balance. If I walk in the fresh air, I shall feel right soon enough.”

  Mr. Thornton grimaced. “Miss Hale, please hold my arm and let me walk you home. You are in no shape to go alone.”

  Meg protested, but he would listen to no argument. Before she quite realized how it came about, she was strolling down the streets of Milton with her hand firmly ensconced in the crook of Mr. Thornton’s arm. They did not speak at first, but walked along in companionable silence, lost in their thoughts. Meg feared that Mr. Thornton was disgusted with her—since her refusal of his proposal, every encounter appeared to give him a deeper dislike of her, with the crowning moment of her fall from grace being what he had observed at the train station. What he had witnessed in the doctor’s office would no doubt sink her even lower in his estimation.

  Mr. Thornton, however, was not thinking of what he had witnessed in the doctor’s office. He was deeply troubled by information recently imparted to him by Inspector Watson concerning the death of a man at the train station. Mr. Thornton knew that Miss Hale had been at the Outwood Station that night, but according to the inspector, she had denied her presence when questioned. Mr. Thornton did not suspect her of taking part in the unfortunate incident, but he was concerned that she had not told the truth; it implied that she had something to hide. He had told the inspector that he would look into the case, but had no idea how to proceed. He did not want to ask her outright what she had been doing at the station that night, and why she had lied. In truth, he was afraid of what she might reveal. He did not think he could bear to have her confess that she had been with the man she loved, and that she was doing all that she could to shelter that man from exposure. Yet, as magistrate, he felt he had to ask.

  “Miss Hale,” he began in a determined tone, “I must ask you—”

  “Please, Mr. Thornton. I am not up to answering questions at this time. I am tired and I don’t feel well.” She was growing sober and felt more than a little sick. Please don’t ask me questions that I cannot answer truthfully, she thought in panic. She was terrified that if he questioned her too closely, she would pour out the whole story to him, and he would have to act in the capacity of magistrate rather than acquaintance.

  His heart fell at her refusal to even entertain his queries, and he despaired of her character. It was impossible, he thought, given all that had happened that he should love her still. Yet – he did love her still. He impatiently pushed the thought away. Given her actions with that unknown man, he could not allow himself the weakness of loving her, he thought resolutely. However, he could save her as she had saved him. The silence stretched between them, and he searched for a topic of conversation to lessen the tension. “Miss Hale,” he said suddenly, “I noticed the other day that that union man, Higgins, was visiting your home. Are you friends with him?”

  She looked up at him in surprise. “Yes, he is my friend. He recently lost his daughter, who was a very good friend of mine. He works at the clinic, sweeping and helping with the patients.”

  “Do you think it is a good idea to concern yourself with the lives of men such as Higgins?” he asked.

  She stopped walking and removed her hand from his arm. “What do you mean by ‘men such as Higgins’? He is a man, like you. He may not be a master, but he has a dignity and purpose in life just as you do.”

  Mr. Thornton was aggravated at the turn the conversation had taken, “I know that. However, I believe it may not be a good idea for you to involve yourself in his life, or the lives of the people in Princeton.”

  “Why? Don’t you, as a master, concern yourself in the lives of your workers?” Her curiosity was piqued by what she considered his strange attitude.

  “No, I do not,” he replied promptly. “If they do their work and keep to their hours, I am satisfied. I am neither their father nor their brother, to concern myself with what they do away from work.”

  “But surely you are interested in how they live, how they get on?” she asked, pleading with him to show some spark of human kindness to those beneath him.

  “As long as they work their hours, they may do as they please in their leisure time.” He smiled grimly at her. “I know you would like to think of me as the overbearing master, but I will not interfere in their lives. However, I’ll answer your questions as honestly as I can.” He paused before he added, “I only wish you would show me the same honesty and tell me why you were at the train station the night I saw you.”

  To Mr. Thornton’s deep disappointment, Meg set her lips tightly together and did not respond. Before the awkward silence grew insupportable, they found themselves standing in front of her home. Meg was feeling unwell; the exuberant effects of the drink had worn off and she was sad and anxious once more. She longed for nothing so much as her bed, yet she did not want him to leave, not while they were on such poor terms. She held out her hand to him and said quietly, “Thank you for accompanying me home, Mr. Thornton.” Please take my hand and shake it, to show you have no ill will toward me, she pleaded silently.

  Staring at her guileless face, he considered her untruthfulness once more. Although he would do what he could to save her from the inquest, he could not forget, and he would not forgive. He hardly understood his feelings, and felt he must remove himself from her presence as quickly as possible. She clouded his judgment. Ignoring her hand, he stepped back, avoiding the pleading expression in her eyes. He bowed slightly, said, “Good day,” in clipped tones, and strode away. She watched his tall from move down the street, struggling against the tears that stung her eyes.

  ********&********

  When a week had passed after Mrs. Hale’s funeral, Meg decided it was time to pack away her clothing and belongings. Her father was out on his daily walk, so it was a fortuitous time to dispose of her belongings. She wrapped the evening gowns and dresses in silver paper and lavender, with the thought that if Margaret Hale ever returned, she might like to have some of her mother’s belongings. Meg planned to take the more worn articles to Princeton, to see if the women there might have use for them.

  “Miss Meg,” Dixon said hesitantly from the doorway of Mrs. Hale’s bedroom.

  Meg looked up from the dress she was carefully folding. “Yes, Dixon, what is it?”

  Dixon looked grim. “That inspector is back, the one what spoke to you before.”

  Meg’s heart began to pound wildly, but she maintained a calm mien. “Very well, I shall go down to him. Is he in the parlor?” She wiped damp hands on her apron.

  “Yes, I asked him to wait there. Miss Meg, what will you say to him?”

  “What I said before,” Meg replied resolutely.

  When she entered the parlor, Inspector Watson turned from the window where he had been watching the street, and removed his hat. “Miss Hale,” he greeted her politely.

  She nodded and said, “Good afternoon, Inspector. How may I assist you?” She was trembling from head to foot, but struggled to overcome it.

  “I wanted to let you know that there will be no inquest.”

  Meg stared at him, not quite able to take in what he had said. “Pardon me?”

  “I received a note from Mr. Thornton. As magistrate, he takes full responsibility for this case. In examining the evidence, he has determined that Leonards’ death was of natural causes; therefore, there is no need for further inquiries. The case is closed.”

  Meg continued to stare at him. “The case is closed?” She could do no more than parrot his words. Her heart pounded so, she was afraid the inspector would hear.

  “The case is closed,” he repeated. “I am sorry for any inconvenience, Miss.” He placed his hat upon his head, and moved toward the door.

  “Inspector,” Meg called out, and he turned. “Thank you for coming to tell me this.” He tipped his hat
in acknowledgement and left the house.

  Meg sank to her knees, too overcome to stand. Dixon, who had been attempting to eavesdrop at the end of the hall, came rushing in and helped her to her feet. “It is over, Dixon,” Meg stated quietly. “There will be no inquiry. It is over.” As Dixon closed her eyes and clasped her hands over her breast in thanksgiving, Meg felt a curious combination of relief and guilt. She was relieved that the episode was over, that she would not be forced to reveal why she had been at the train station that night. Fred was safe from any forced revelations.

  Her guilt sprang from the realization that, in closing this case, Mr. Thornton had compromised his position as magistrate. She was certain that he found his actions repugnant. He was a man of such sterling integrity that he would abhor falsehoods of any kind, of that she was certain. And he had concealed the truth—he knew she had been at the station that night, but he did not reveal that fact, but went so far as to take responsibility for the case and to close it. He must love me, she thought, her heart soaring in her breast. How could it be otherwise? A moment later, however, her spirits dropped—it was impossible that he could love her knowing of her lie, and not knowing the reason behind it. She burned with shame, and chafed over her role in this whole horrid affair.

  He may no longer love me, she thought, but oh, how I love him! I doubt I shall ever love another man, having known and loved him. She brushed tears from her face. She had often thought that she would never marry, but never imagined that it would be because she could not marry the man she loved.

  When Meg next met Mr. Thornton, she had worked up her courage to speak to him. He had come to the house to take lessons with her father, and at the appointed time, she lurked in the hallway so that she might answer the door. He came in briskly; he did not greet her, but nodded at her on his way toward the stairs to her father’s study. He had placed one foot upon the bottom step before Meg found the fortitude to say hurriedly, “Mr. Thornton, I must thank you—”