by Nancy Klein
Feeling his eyes upon her, she looked up and met his smoldering gaze. Unnerved by his regard, she rose and carried the baby to a small bed in the corner of the room. She settled the baby carefully on his back and arranged the covers over him before moving through the door to the stoop outside, so that they might speak privately.
As he joined her, she said in a shy voice, “Thank you for the flowers—they were lovely.” He inclined his head, obviously pleased that she had appreciated his gift. Steeling herself, she continued. “The roses were beautiful—yellow roses are my favorite. Dixon informed me that yellow roses indicate true love. Did someone select the flowers for you?” she asked.
He looked at her steadily, and what she saw in his face made her drop her eyes in confusion. “No, Miss Hale, I selected the flowers. They were my choice, and you may read into them what you wish.”
Confused and flustered, she searched for a safer topic of conversation. “Have you offered Nicholas a job?”
“I have,” he responded promptly.
“Thank you.” Her eyes shone with gratitude. “No one deserves it more than he does, and you will find no better worker.”
He stared down at her. She was so beautiful; it was hard to reconcile this guileless girl with the woman at the train station. He searched about for some topic of conversation. “Fanny tells me that she met you at the drapers the other day.”
“Yes, she seemed quite happy with her engagement. Will the wedding be soon?”
He smiled wryly. “Not soon enough for Fanny.” Some impulse made him add, “My mother would like to make the ceremony a double wedding. She feels that Miss Laurence would make me an admirable wife.”
It may have been a trick of light, but he could have sworn that Miss Hale grew pale. “Should I wish you happy, Mr. Thornton?” she asked in a constrained voice.
“My mother would have me marry Miss Laurence. But, like you, I cannot marry where I do not love.” A silence stretched between them, filled with treacherous impulses and unspoken desire. “Will you not tell me the truth about that night, Miss Hale?” he asked in a cajoling voice. “Who was the young man you were with?”
She ducked her head, unable to meet his gaze for a long moment. When she raised her face at last, he saw tears glittering in her eyes. His disappointment was overcome by pity for her; something was amiss, and she could not—or would not—tell him. As a tear ran down her cheek, he reached out without thinking and wiped the teardrop away with his thumb. She gasped at his touch, and he withdrew his hand immediately. “Do not cry, Miss Hale. I will not importune you with unwanted questions.”
She said in low, urgent tone, “I want to tell you, truly I do—but I cannot. It is not my secret. Please believe me when I say that what you saw is not what you think. I am not wanton, and I have no lover.”
Something flashed in his eyes and he stepped toward her before checking himself. “I want to believe you, Miss Hale. God knows I do.”
The impulse to touch him overwhelmed her and she grasped both his hands in hers. “Then, believe me. I swear to you I tell the truth about that.”
He slid one hand from her grasp and raised it to cradle her face. “I do believe you.” He watched her with a sense of wonder, gazing at her with mingled surprise and ardor. She gasped at the cool touch of his hand against her hot, hot cheek, and turned her face into his palm, torn between wishing to step away and remaining where she was. She closed her eyes and allowed him to cup her face in his hands as he brushed his thumbs over her cheeks in a slow caress. He leaned toward her, and his lips hovered above hers for a brief instant before Higgins called out cheerfully that tea was ready.
Meg took a shuddering breath. “I must go.” Her father would have been expecting her this past hour. She hurried into the house to gather her shawl and basket. “I must go,” she explained breathlessly, “but I shall return tomorrow to check on the baby. He should sleep comfortably through the night.” As she moved to leave, Mr. Thornton blocked the doorway.
“Miss Hale,” he said quietly, “Please allow me to accompany you home.”
She shook her head. “I will be fine—I come through this area at all hours, and have never been accosted.”
“Nevertheless, I would feel better if I saw you home,” he insisted. She was too exhausted to argue, and her treacherous heart craved a few more moments in his company. She preceded him out into the night as he called out his good-byes to Higgins, reminding him he would see him at the mill on the morrow. Matching her pace, he walked briskly up the alleyway.
“How did you know that baby had colic?” he asked abruptly.
“I have helped out at the clinic with any number of colicky babies. It is important to keep them upright to allow the gas to pass from their stomachs.”
He shook his head and smiled. “With your medical knowledge, you might have been burned at the stake in another century.”
“Nonsense; women have been healers since the beginning of time, collecting herbs and flowers to make potions and poultices. We have acted as midwifes and assisted in bringing babies into this world for hundreds of years. Who knows better about children and their ailments than a mother?”
“But you are not a mother, Miss Hale,” he reminded her.
“No, but I have been around many, asked questions, and learned,” Meg retorted. “Besides, so much is feminine intuition—I believe women are born knowing how to care for babies.”
The image flashed through his mind of her cradling the baby, and once again he found himself longing that the child was his, hers, theirs. He gazed at her with wonder. “You really do love medicine, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do. There is no better feeling than to have one of your patients get well as the result of your diagnosis. You feel as if you have conquered the world, but in reality you have helped make a difference in one person’s life by easing their pain or bringing them back to good health.”
He smiled. “You have a passion and talent for this work, Miss Hale. Milton is lucky to have you, as is Doctor Donaldson.”
“No, I am the lucky one to work with a skilled physician like Doctor Donaldson. I have learned so much from him. Milton should build a statue in his honor.”
Mr. Thornton laughed. “Heaven knows, my sister Fanny sees him as her savior. He helps her through every ailment, real and imaginary, with the utmost patience.”
Without thinking, Meg retorted, “What your sister needs is some avocation to keep her mind and hands busy. She has too much idle time, and hence believes she is ill when she is not.” She caught herself and had the grace to blush under his frank gaze. “I am sorry, that was not my place to say.”
Mr. Thornton chuckled at her accurate assessment of his sister. “It is the truth, and no more than she deserves.” They walked along in a companionable silence until a sudden thought occurred to him. “What would you prescribe for me, Miss Hale?” he asked, his eyes searching her face.
She looked at him, her head cocked to one side, as if she were examining a patient. “Leisure time, Mr. Thornton—I prescribe time for you to relax and rest your body and mind. I understand you are under enormous pressure to make up the losses you suffered during the strike, but you will be no good to yourself or your family if you become sick. You must eat properly and get enough sleep at night.” And you need someone to love and care for you, Mr. Thornton, she thought fiercely. You need someone to hold you at the end of the day—to help shoulder your burdens and to share your dreams.
He found himself moved by her concern. “I will take your prescription under consideration, Miss Hale.”
He saw with regret that they had reached her home. Not knowing how to part from her, he stood awkwardly until she offered him her hand. “Thank you for escorting me home,” she said. “I am sorry I was churlish when you first offered. I suppose I am tired.”
Clasping her smaller hand in both of his, he impulsively raised it to his lips and kissed it. “You must follow your own prescription for leisure, then. Good night.�
� As his tall frame was swallowed by the shadows at the end of the street, he did not look back to see her cradle the hand he kissed. If he had, he would never have left.
Chapter 17. The Queen’s Croquet Ground
Mr. Thornton had been reluctant to hire Nicholas Higgins, regardless of any tender regard for Miss Hale. However, Higgins gave him no cause to regret his decision. The man worked hard, kept to his hours, and, according to Williams, was attentive and clever in his approach to his job. However, the master remained suspicious of him, and kept an eye on him whenever the opportunity arose. One evening as he worked late, Mr. Thornton espied Tommy sitting on the wall outside his office, puzzling over a small book. The lad was obviously awaiting Higgins. Tired of trying to make the numbers in his ledgers balance—an impossible task!—he decided to join Tommy and find out why Higgins was so late in retrieving his young charge.
Walking around to the ledge where Tommy labored over his primer, he sat down next to the lad. Tommy was busy sounding out words. Mr. Thornton smiled at the boy who concentrated so mightily upon the story he read.
“Where is Higgins?” he asked gently, and the boy looked up.
“He’s finishing up,” he said and returned his attention to the book.
The Master frowned. Higgins may be a model employee at Marlborough Mills, but what could he be up to? If he is agitating for that union again, he thought grimly, and let the thought trail off. He pulled out his pocket watch and noted that it was past seven o’clock.
“Have you had your supper, lad?”
The boy shook his head dolefully. “Mary went to the butcher,” he lisped, “but there was nothing to buy.” Mr. Thornton felt a pang. He knew his own dinner awaited him at home, but what would this lad and his brothers and sisters eat? At that moment, several workers exited the mill, followed by Higgins. He strolled up and pulled on the bill of his cap. “Evening, Master,” he said calmly.
Mr. Thornton looked sternly at the workman. “What have you been doing?”
Higgins hitched at his belt, and sat on the other side of Tommy. “We were finishing up the order. It weren’t done on time, and we worked until it was completed.”
“I can’t pay you for working beyond your time,” Thornton stated.
Higgins shrugged. “I see you working beyond your time. If you go under, I lose my job, and who will take care of these children?”
“The boy told me he hasn’t had his dinner.”
Higgins sighed. “Some days, there’s nothing at the butcher to be had, beyond what is fit for dogs.”
“It’s a shame you can’t get up some sort of a scheme to buy food and cook for twenty instead of one. Then you could feed your young scholars like Tommy.”
Higgins snorted. “Better be careful, they’ll report you to Master’s Union.”
Thornton’s lips quirked. “Even Masters know that workers must be fed to work well, unless they’re idiots—which some of them are.”
Higgins jerked his head toward a corner of the mill yard. “There’s an old shed out back that might work as a cookhouse. We’d need someone to cook.”
Thornton looked at him, a half-smile on his face. “It looks like you did bring your brains to work with you.”
Higgins shrugged. “I can’t leave them at home all the time.”
Mr. Thornton stood. “I can’t promise you anything. Get up some numbers and bring them to me, and we’ll see. Good night, Higgins.”
Nicholas hefted Tommy up in his arms and headed home where he found Meg ladling out stew for the children. She looked up and smiled as he and Tommy walked through the door. “Good evening, Nicholas. You are just in time to eat.” She placed a bowl in front of one of the young Boucher children, and helped her pull her stool to the table. “Careful, it’s hot,” she said in a gentle voice, and the child nodded solemnly.
“I thought there was nothing at the butcher, Mary?” Nicholas asked.
Mary placed two more bowls on the table. “When I told Miss Dixon that the butcher said he had no meat today, she said she’d see about that. She brought soup beef back, and Meg brought it to us along with some leeks and onions and carrots, so we’ve made stew.”
“Mary has become a very good cook, Nicholas,” Meg said in approval. “Dixon has taught her to make quite a few dishes.”
Nicholas hummed in appreciation of the savory odor filling the room, and sat down at the table. “It smells very good. A cook, you say.” Meg saw a gleam in his eye. Before she could ask what he was about, Mary asked about the mill and Nicolas related that Mr. Thornton was keeping late hours at his office.
“I’m afraid the mill might not be doing well, given the hours he spends working at the ledgers. Rumor is he’s meeting with his banker to see what can be done to shore up his finances.”
Meg felt her heart sink. “Is Marlborough Mills in trouble?”
Nicholas shrugged. “I’m no master, Meg, and I don’t have knowledge of the inner workings. I just know that Thornton looks worried whenever I speak with him, and the light is burning in his office when I arrive in the morning and when I leave at night.”
Meg felt a queer pang. She had always thought of Mr. Thornton as a successful business man, with profits in the bank and a solid standing in the cotton industry. To think of him teetering on the edge of disaster made her heart ache. She remembered Mr. Bell’s story of his father’s suicide and his work at the draper’s shop to support Mrs. Thornton and Fanny. Such an episode must haunt him as much as it had shaped him, just as Meg’s being an orphan had helped form her character.
Watching the play of emotions on her face, Nicholas reached out and covered her hand with his. “It will all come out right, Meg. Thornton is an intelligent and hard-working man. If anyone can turn this situation around, it’s him.”
She patted his hand before extricating hers. “Eat your stew,” she said as she rose to see how the children fared.
********&********
When the lunchroom opened at Marlborough Mills, the hands were suspicious of what the Master was about, serving meals to them. However, Nicholas’ support and participation in the scheme made the men willing to give it a go, and within a week word was out that a good, hot meal could be had for shillings at the lunchroom. Mary was hired as cook, over her protest that she could not possibly take on such responsibilities. Meg and Dixon promised to help her shop for the first meals, and Dixon assisted in the mill kitchen until Mary felt comfortable on her own. The men loved watching the pretty young girl ladle up their soups and stews, and steered clear of the stout woman whose gimlet eye kept watch on everything that occurred during the lunch hour.
Mary had complained to Dixon one afternoon that there was no bread to be bought, so Meg arrived at noon the following day with several baskets of fresh loaves. Dixon and Meg had risen early that morning to bake bread, and Meg delivered them before the men and women of the mill came bustling in for their noonday meal. Mary gave a cry of gladness when she saw what Meg had brought her. “Where did you find them?” she asked in wonder.
Meg gave a sweet peal of laughter that made several men loitering near the door awaiting lunch turn their heads to look at her, smiles upon their faces. “Dixon and I made them—call it a gift for your new kitchen.”
Mary took the bread from her friend. “Oh, Meg, you are a wonder!”
“I am so happy I arrived in time for your noon meal.” Meg gazed about at the shining pots and utensils hanging from pegs on the wall. “You have worked wonders here, Mary!”
“Won’t you stay for lunch, miss?” Mary pleaded.
“I would love to, but I am already late for my work at the clinic. I have a job to keep myself, you know.” She turned to leave the lunchroom, and walked directly into Mr. Thornton as he stepped into the building.
He exclaimed in surprise, and his hands grasped her arms to steady her. Recovering quickly, he dropped his hands. “I see you have come to admire our lunchroom. It was all Higgins’ doing.” He gestured at Nicholas who stood directly
behind him.
“I think it is a wonderful idea. How good of you to offer a place where your workers can get a good meal! I honor you for it.” Her face glowed with admiration, and Mr. Thornton felt his spirits soar.
“What brings you here, Meg?” Nicholas asked cheekily.
Meg grinned at him. “I have brought Mary some bread for your meal today—the baker gave her a difficult time, so Dixon and I spent the morning baking.”
Mr. Thornton looked faintly surprised. “You made bread, Miss Hale?”
She gave him one of her direct glances. “Yes, I did. It is not difficult to make—in fact, it is quite therapeutic, and saves me from wanting to knock heads together.” She glanced idly down and noticed a trickle of blood on the back of Mr. Thornton’s hand. “Oh,” she exclaimed, “you have hurt yourself!”
He raised his hand and looked at it in surprise. “I must have cut myself on the machinery just now. I cleared out a jam.” He started in surprise when Meg grasped his hand and examined the wound. “It is only a scrape,” he protested.
“It is more than just a scrape—it is a fairly deep cut.” Releasing his hand, she stooped and pulled a brown bottle, a tube of ointment, and a scrap of clean cloth from her basket and placed them on the nearest table. “How fortunate it is that I have brought my supplies!” She glanced up at him with such warmth and mischief that his heart constricted. Wetting the cloth with fluid from the bottle, she cleaned the wound carefully. “You will not need stitches, but I will apply ointment on the cut and bandage it for you.” She quickly dabbed on ointment, and wrapped a short length of bandage about his hand.
“All done,” she declared with great satisfaction, and froze as she met his tender, heated gaze.
“Thank you for taking such good care of me,” he said quietly, and raised her hand lightly to his lips.