by Nancy Klein
She held them out to him until he was forced to take them from her. “If you look carefully,” she said, running a finger along the surface of one glove, “you can see traces of my tears. I pressed them against my cheek after you left. I was crying because I realized that I loved you and had lost you.”
He moved to speak, but she held up a hand to stop him. “Please, let me finish. Yes, I cared so little for you that I slept with your gloves under my pillow every night, to keep you close to me. And I have carried your handkerchief in my pocket to remind me of that night you comforted me in the clinic, after the fire. I have stolen these little pieces of you so that I might have something to remember you, since I cannot have you.”
Before he could gather his thoughts, she extracted a dried posy tied with red ribbon from her reticule. He saw that it was a yellow rosebud and a spray of larkspur, carefully preserved. She smiled shyly at him and recited, “The yellow roses mean true love, thorn-less roses mean love at first sight, and larkspur is for first love.” She looked at him with shining eyes. “Did you mean all of those things?”
“All of them and much, much more,” he replied in a voice husky with emotion. Not taking his eyes from hers, he turned in his chair and reached into the breast pocket of his jacket. He extracted a carefully folded paper and handed it to her. Unfolding it, she recognized the letter she had written him months before, thanking him for the gift of fruit to her mother. She gazed up at him in surprise. “You kept this?”
He smiled. “As you say, it was a small piece of you to keep near my heart. I believe in that letter you said you were blessed to have me as a friend, and you signed your deepest regard.”
“If I had been honest, I would have signed it my deepest love,” Meg admitted and bravely met his dawning expression of delight. “It would have been no more than what I felt for you then, but much less than what I feel for you now.”
“You love me?” he asked in a shaken voice, his face incandescent with joy.
“Yes.” She met his gaze fearlessly. “I love you.” Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. I will steal this moment, she thought defiantly.
He stood and moved purposefully around the desk, an unstoppable force. Grasping her shoulders, he pulled her from the chair. She rejoiced at the bite of his fingers as he held her away from him and studied her face. His hot gaze was so overwhelming that she lowered her lashes to shield herself from his passion, but he would not allow her to avoid him. “Look at me,” he rasped, giving her a gentle shake, and she obeyed, unable to fight the power of his eyes or hands.
“You do love me,” he breathed, searching her face with growing wonder. “Why have you been so cold? Why have you avoided me?”
“Because I cannot be with you,” Meg said abruptly, reality intruding once more. “I am not the right woman for you—I am not even the woman you think I am.” Seeing his puzzlement, she exhaled the breath she had been holding. “You proposed to Margaret Hale. I—am not Margaret Hale.”
Seeing his confounded expression, she hurried to explain. “I am an imposter. My name is Meg Armstrong, and my luck—or misfortune—is to resemble Margaret Hale. I know this sounds mad, but I came through a mirror—the mirror hanging on your office wall. I travelled from the future to this time; when I left, the year was 1920. When I stepped through the mirror, the year was 1855. I don’t know what has become of the real Margaret, but I have been living in her place since the day I arrived, when I met you in the mill and interfered with your dispensation of—discipline, shall we say, for want of a better word.” She smiled bravely, but her hands shook. Would he believe her, or consign her to Bedlam?
He stared at her. “You cannot be serious.”
“I came through that mirror and assumed Margaret Hale’s life. Mr. Hale found me in the courtyard when Williams escorted me from the mill. The date was November 15, 1855—I shall never forget it! Mr. Hale thought I was Margaret and escorted me home. Everyone I meet—Mr. and Mrs. Hale, Dixon, my brother, my aunt—believes that I am Margaret Hale. But I’m not, and I don’t belong here. The time has come for me to return to my proper time.” She had finished her tale and stood awaiting his judgment.
He moved away from her and sat down heavily at his desk. She saw with despair that the hairs on his arms were standing on end. He was afraid of her, as he had every right to be. She sank into a chair. “Please believe me,” she stammered. “I am not hallucinating.” He said nothing, and she added in desperation, “Ask Dr. Donaldson—he believes me!”
Mr. Thornton looked at her in astonishment. “You told Dr. Donaldson? How long has he known?”
“Since the afternoon you found us drinking whiskey in his clinic. When I let the truth slip, he told me he had suspected that I was not from this time.”
Mr. Thornton continued to stare at her. “Your knowledge of nursing—it is not something you picked up watching a doctor in Helstone.”
“No, I am a trained nurse. I worked in the wards during the war, and I studied at hospital in London.”
“War?” he repeated blankly.
Meg hesitated—how could she explain such a phenomenon to someone who had not experienced it? However, she knew that she owed him an explanation. “Yes—early in the next century, England will go to war. The war will be fought in the trenches of Europe, and we will suffer the loss of many lives, the flower of our youth, as the newspapers will say.”
“A war,” he said hollowly, still not believing what he heard. “And you worked in—what did you call them, wards?”
“Yes, mansions and public buildings were converted into makeshift hospitals to care for the countless soldiers who were injured. I nursed the wounded. Many lost limbs, or were severely burned or maimed by gunfire or bombs.”
He stared at her. “That was why you knew what to do during the fire.”
She nodded. “Yes. Please tell me you believe me.”
“I must believe you—why would you tell such a lie? I remember the day that I heard you say you were out of your time—is that what you meant, that you were from another time?”
She nodded, and he expelled a breath and rose from his seat. As he shut the office door and sat once more, he urged her to tell him her story. “I do not have any whiskey, but I promise to listen to whatever you wish to tell me.”
He sat motionless as she explained about her childhood, exclaiming with wonder as she told him about Mary adopting her as a young girl. He realized that her early years had been as difficult as his, if not more so—he at least had a mother, but she had had no parent to love or guide her. Her glowing description of her childhood once she was under Mary’s care made him warm with appreciation for Mary Higgins and the woman she would become.
Meg told him about her dreams before she met him, and of how he had been a central character in those dreams. Mr. Thornton told her about the dream he had had of her, and how it had sent him racing across town to see her. She thrilled to think that he had dreamed of her as his wife, but her heart sank like a stone as she realized yet again that it could only be a dream.
It was with difficulty that she explained that she had been sent through the mirror to prevent his death. He was astonished at the thought that, but for her intervention, he would have died, his mother and sister would have been cast out, men would have been senselessly hanged, and the mill would have closed. His eyes softened as he regarded her, and he wordlessly took her hands and lifted them to his lips for several minutes. He could think of no other way to express what she was to him.
“How can I tell you my regard? You saved my life—you travelled back in time to save my life, Meg. How do I find the words to tell you what you are to me?” I did not think it possible to love her more, he thought with wonder, yet I do.
Meg related the fortune teller’s prophecy, and her instructions to go to Marlborough Mills. She explained how she had found his gloves in his desk drawer, and how she put them on and touched the crack in the glass—and was transported through the mirror to 1855. He glanced
at the mirror in awe, and handed the gloves to her with something approaching reverence. “My gloves brought you here?” he asked.
She nodded solemnly. “I believe I must have the gloves in order to return to my own time.”
He sat quietly, mulling over all she had told him. At last, he pinned her with his gaze. “So you think you must go back.”
“I feel that is why the fortune teller appeared to me as I was preparing to leave for London—she was telling me that it is time for me to leave.”
“What if her appearance did not mean that at all? What if she appeared to signal that you were meant to stay?” he argued. “Might it not be possible she wants you to stay in Milton? To remain here—with me? Why else would she have sent you to save my life? How could she send you here and let me fall in love with you if you were only to leave me?”
“She told me that I was sent here to set things right. I have done that. She also told me that I couldn’t escape my destiny, no matter how much I might want to. My destiny is to return to London and become a doctor. It is something I have wanted to do as long as I can remember. When I started nursing, I knew I was on the right path. But I want more than that—I want to be a doctor.”
He glanced down at his hands, deep in thought. “You could be a doctor now, if you wanted to.” His eyes blazed up at her, full of purpose. “Stay with me, and I will help you be whatever you want. As long as we are together, what does it matter what we do?”
She shook her head. “No, don’t you see? How could a Master be married to a woman who works, who goes among the poor and indigent of Milton? I would make you a laughingstock—I would not mind the tittle-tattle for myself, I never have, but you, my love—oh, my modern, independent ways would be a detriment. No, you deserve better than that.”
His face contorted with fury. “Do you think I give a damn for the idle gossips of this town?”
“I know you don’t, but your mother does, as do your sister and the other Masters. You are part of a community—you are a leader of industry in Milton, a Master without peer. But you would not be so if you married me.” She stood and paced about the room. “I have no place here—I must return to my own time to sort things out.”
He gazed steadfastly at her. “Regardless of how your departure affects me?”
“I am not the right woman for you. I am not from the social circles in which you move. You need a wife who will make a home for you, who will help your advance in society.” You need Miss Laurence, not me.
He shook his head in vigorous denial, but she would not let him say nay. “I am not the right woman for you,” she repeated with conviction.
She does not wish to remain and be my wife, he thought, a bitter taste in his mouth. A range of emotions raged in his breast—anger at her hard-headedness, sorrow for what she felt she had to do, and grief at what he was about to lose. “And what of me? Do I have no choice in this? Am I not allowed to choose who will make me happy? If you leave, Meg, you will tear my soul asunder. You are part of me, now—and I am part of you, you cannot deny it. How can we live apart?”
She struggled against the tears that closed her throat. “A bird may love a fish, but where are they to live?” she quipped, although she felt far from humorous.
He stared at her. “How am I to live without you, now that I’ve loved you? I know you to the bottom of your soul—how can you turn your back on someone who knows you better than you know yourself?” He stood and strode over to the window, turning away from her to hide his bitter disappointment.
She walked up behind him and touched him gently on the shoulder, so that he was forced to look at her. “You will run your mill, as you have always done,” she said in a constrained voice, “and care for your workers. You will care for your mother and be the Master and magistrate who is revered by the citizens of Milton. And you will find a wife—yes, you will,” she insisted as she shook his head. “You do not realize it yet, but after a time, you will find that I am right, and you will forget all about me.” He laughed with bitter amusement, but said no more.
She resolved to remove herself as soon as possible from his presence. It was as if she heard the mirror calling to her. I am coming, Gran, she thought resolutely, pushing her heartache aside. “You will find a woman you will love,” she repeated with conviction, “and you will marry and have numerous children. And you will be happy,” she concluded in fierce certainty.
“I have found the only woman I will ever love,” Mr. Thornton replied quietly as he reached out and tenderly cradled her face in his hands, wiped the tears she was unaware she was shedding from her wet cheeks with his thumbs. “What of you, my dearest? Who will take care of you?”
“I will be wedded to my career, as I have planned.” She stepped away from him, but he caught one of her hands in his as if to keep her by his side.
“It is time for me to go,” she said, fighting the urge to cling to him and sob out how much she longed to stay. “I beg you to be happy, for my sake if not for your own. And know that wherever I am, you will be in my heart.”
Meg raised her palm and he placed his against it, palm to palm in holy palmer’s touch. Lost in each other’s eyes, they intertwined their fingers and he pulled their joined hands to his lips. She reached up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, but he turned his face so that their lips met, and clung. She rested her body against his, stunned by the power of his kiss, and he pulled her tightly against him. One of his hands nestled in the crook of her back to seal her against him while his other hand cradled her head. At first she stood motionless, lost in the wonder of his mouth upon hers, but as he deepened the kiss, she snaked her arms around his waist to pull him close to her. The kiss held and grew heated as he slanted his mouth over hers in a deep, wet communion that overwhelmed them both.
She clung to him, lost in the firmness of his lips, the scratch of his stubble over her tender cheeks, and the sliding rhythm of his tongue. Each touch of his mouth inflamed her further, and as she heard him groan with pleasure knew that he was inflamed as well.
He had never dreamed that a kiss would be this way, so perfect, so earth-shattering. He was intoxicated by her soft, sweet, damp mouth. This is my wife, he thought, I have found her at last.
The clock’s chime brought them both back to reality, and she pulled away first, resting her head against his chest where she could feel the deep erratic thud of his heartbeat. She realized that no other man would ever measure up to him, and that she would spend her life alone.
She tried to pull away, but he held her against him and, turning his lips to her ear, pleaded in a husky whisper, “No, don’t go. Please, do not leave—stay with me.” Meg sobbed as he kissed her again, and she abandoned herself to his beautiful mouth and the rhythmic stroking of his hands up and down her back. When he released her at last, she was crying in earnest, as if her heart would break.
She shook her head decisively. “If I stay, I will ruin your life... I could never forgive myself for that,” she cried, and he removed his hands from her waist in defeat.
As she moved toward the mirror, Mr. Thornton strode stiffly to the desk, picked up the gloves, and handed them to her. “I believe you will need these,” he said in a hollow tone.
She raised them to her lips and kissed them fervently. “Thank you,” she whispered, and pulled them onto her hands.
“I shall never forget you,” he said in a passionate cadence, and his voice caused a tremor to pass through her.
She faced him, and he could see the tears streaming down her face. “And you think that I shall? Good-bye, John. Be happy, and know that my love is with you.” Before he could respond, she touched the crack in the glass and felt the world narrow as it had so long ago.
“Meg!” She heard him call out to her in anguish and fear as she felt the familiar tug. It took all of her strength to turn her head and gaze into his eyes. “You are my first and last love,” she cried as the sickening pull swept her away, and darkness swallowed her. The last thing she heard was Mr.
Thornton’s impassioned voice calling out for her to stay with him.
Chapter 21. Looking Glass Insects
Meg hit the floor with a thump that shuddered up her spine. Oh, I remember this, she thought, struggling against the darkness that threatened to engulf her. She sat up gingerly and rubbed her head—it felt as if she had struck it upon something coming through the mirror. Glancing down, she saw that she was wearing the clothes she had worn in 1920—the expertly tailored navy suit and the pert hat. Mr. Thornton’s gloves were nowhere to be seen. She looked frantically about, but she was unable to find them.
Gazing about the room, she was surprised to find she was in the same office, but it was greatly changed. The desk was cleared of the clutter she remembered. Where books and ledgers had lined the bookshelves, boxes and parcels now sat on the shelves, and the floors were lined with stacks of cartons of goods. She stood up carefully, pleased to find she felt neither nauseous nor dizzy.
A sudden thought occurred to her and she hurried to the mirror, thinking that perhaps she might see Mr. Thornton on the other side. To her disappointment, she found only her own reflection looking back. Saddened, she turned and walked over to the desk. She spotted a ledger, and pulled it toward her. It was dated November 15, 1920. Meg snatched her hand away, as if she had been burned. How could it be? She had been in Milton for two years. How could she have returned the same day she had originally departed? She was back in her time, but things were not the same. Where the mill had previously been abandoned and ghostly, it was decidedly in use.
“What are you doing in here, Miss?” A man stood in the doorway, dressed in the clothes from her time. The waistcoat stretched across his ample belly and the cut of his clothes proclaimed him to be no common hand.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was looking for the owner and wandered in here by mistake.”
The man laughed and ruffled the sparse hair on the back of his head. “The owner lives in London, miss. He never comes here.”