Chapter 27
Chapter twenty-seven
Mr. Thornton stared out the window, past the policeman whose words flowed over him.
Had it all really happened? Mere minutes ago, the yard had been a scene of deadly peril and commotion.
In that dusty spot over there—she had broken free from those half-crazed men and rushed into his arms. She had clung to him, her arms wrapped around him tightly.
In the pulsing fear of those moments, he had not wholly recognized the enormity of her embrace. He felt it now—relived it constantly—could think of nothing else. Her soft form had pressed willingly against him. His whole body now ached to feel her in his arms again.
“Mr. Thornton?” the police officer prompted, aware that the mill owner was distracted. He allowed it was understandable even a man like Mr. Thornton might be dazed from his brush with such a violent uprising. “I asked if you knew the names of the men who held Miss Hale captive?”
The Master shook his head, returning his attention to the matter at hand. “I’m not one to know the hands by name,” he answered, receiving a nod in return.
He would press charges against the aggressors who had the gall to treat her ill—if they could be named. Anger and the touch of fear rose in him every time he thought of what might have happened to her.
In her fear, she had rushed to him—to him—for protection. She would find no safer place. He would give his very life to keep her safe.
It took tremendous self-control to remain where he was when every fiber of his being wanted to rush back home to Miss Hale, to be certain she was recovering well.
But he must finish his business with the police and take himself to check on his Irish, who were still cowering from the threat of the mob.
He forced himself to talk calmly but firmly with the poor frightened Irish, telling them they would be safe now.
He sent for Father Grady to help. Many of the women were crying to be sent back, and he had half a mind to do so.
Perhaps causing this riot would be their true usefulness to him, despite all the trouble and cost of bringing them.
For now, the strike would surely be over.
They had shown themselves to be animals, and could no longer sway public opinion.
All this he surmised as he quieted the people he had brought to save his mill, reminding them that the police would guard the premises through the night.
Racing in the back of his mind were questions that would not be quelled: Had she displayed her true feelings for him?
Would she accept him as her husband now?
Did she see clearly now the depths to which he would go to protect her?
He would go to her as soon as he had an opportunity.
While her son was gone and the drawing room was blessedly still once again, Hannah Thornton sat in the straight-backed chair at the dining table, her Bible laid out before her. She turned to the Psalm she knew well already, having turned to it almost daily after her husband had hung himself.
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures,
He leadeth me beside the still waters…
The tremor of change had begun. She could feel the tension of fear coiling about her heart. It made her hands tremble.
After Miss Hale had gone—such a strong-willed girl!—Fanny had told her what had happened. How Miss Hale had been taken hostage and forced to the front to make John come out and save her.
And he had done so. It was not this that disturbed her. Although the risk to his life had been great, he proved himself to be brave in facing their foolish taunts with immediate action. What else could he do?
No, he was no coward. Not him. Her mother’s heart beat proudly because of him.
It was what she had done—wrapped her arms around her son—in front of so many pairs of eyes! This was the act that could not be undone—that would be all their undoing.
Nothing would be the same now. Miss Hale had thrust herself into their lives for good. He must offer his hand to her in some haste to save her reputation.
Miss Hale would become mistress of this home.
Mrs. Thornton’s shoulders drooped to consider it.
No longer would she decide how to order the house, what to hang on the walls, when to dine, and what economies to make.
After all these many years, she would have no purpose but to stand aside and watch him build a new life.
She chided herself for such selfish thoughts, but they flowed into every crevice of her sorrowing heart at present. The time had come at last. She must give him up to another.
She heard his footsteps coming. She straightened her back and pretended to be reading the Scriptures.
John strode into the room. “Where is she?” he asked, seeing the empty sofa. It irritated him to find his mother placidly reading as if no kind of catastrophe had occurred.
“She’s gone home,” his mother replied calmly, repressing her own irritation at his abruptness.
“Home?” he repeated incredulously. “She was gravely injured—“
Mrs. Thornton gave a short huff. “She was taken care of as best we could. Dr. Donaldson examined her and took her home in a cab.”
She saw the glint of doubt in his eyes.
“Honestly, John. She’s such a headstrong girl! I insisted she stay here to recover herself, but she was bound and determined to go home. How do you expect such a girl to submit to your will?”
“Submit to my will?” he repeated, his brow furrowed in confusion.
“As your wife, she must learn to—“
“My wife?” The word struck deep into his core as he voiced it. “Did she speak of marriage?” he asked, a sudden flood of hope coursing through him. He had asked her once. Was she ready now to reply?
“Certainly not. But she must know what such a public scene must come to,” she said with a tight voice. “I am merely speaking of what must now take place.”
What must now take place. Was it a certainty then? Stubborn rational thought battled the rush of emotions that swept in. He did not wish her to marry him because society told her to. He needed to know if she would marry him because she cared for him.
“You know what happened then,” he said, his voice low.
“Martha saw it all from the attic window and told Fanny.”
“Did Miss Hale speak? Did she say how she came to be taken up by the strikers?” he asked, his breath quickening.
“She was coming to borrow the water bed for her mother,” she answered. “I don’t know any details beyond that.”
He was silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts as he stared vacantly about. “I must go see her,” he announced.
Mrs. Thornton flinched. “Surely not right now. She will need her rest. And you must have other pressing obligations to finish.”
“No, not now,” he agreed reluctantly as he began pacing the room, combing his fingers through his hair in his distracted state. “I must go to the police station and will need to speak to Hamper and the rest.”
He stopped and turned to look directly into his mother’s eyes. “But I will go see her this evening when I return.”
She saw his intent, and her heart sank at his haste to secure the future she wished to push away. “I’m sure tomorrow would be soon enough—“
“No,” he said with decision, shaking his head. “I must know if she will accept me. I cannot wait.”
His powerful emotions unnerved her. She stared at him warily as some unfamiliar creature from her steady and self-controlled son. Miss Hale had stolen his ability to see reason.
“Accept you? Of course, she should accept you! Did not she cling to you in front of all that unruly mob? Do you not think that it will become the tittle-tattle of all Milton by tomorrow?”
The mere mention of Miss Hale’s clinging to him sent again a surge of fierce passion through his every nerve ending.
“She did cling to me…but she was frightened,” he stammered, doubt clouding his face. “I cannot be certain she cares for me in that way….”
“Cares for you? Why, she has ensnared you with her southern wiles from the start. She has kept you at arm’s length and thrown out arguments against you only to keep you fascinated with her ways. Now that she has won you, I pray she knows your true worth.”
Mr. Thornton startled at this assessment. “It is not in her nature, Mother, to make designs on men. You do not know her.”
Mrs. Thornton opened her mouth, but pressed her lips closed and shook her head in dismay. She could not open his eyes to the ways of women. Miss Hale had entranced him somehow from the very start. She silently scoffed at his certainty of knowing her.
“Very well, John, but you needn’t doubt her intention to accept you,” she said, hoping with all her might that Miss Hale would make him happy. Mrs. Thornton was certain enough that she didn’t deserve him.
When at last he had done with all that was necessary, Mr. Thornton made his way to the Crampton home.
His entire frame thrummed with the need to feel her body against his again.
He would claim her as his own; nothing could now stop what the force of heaven had done yet again to put her in his arms. He allowed the light of happiness to burn within him more brightly, imagining how she would blush and fall into his arms again—where she belonged.
The last glow of light in the western skies dimmed as he strode the paths and byways to the side of town where all his desire lay. The darkness only enhanced his fevered thoughts as all reality faded from sight and the realm of dreams played on the blank canvas of night.
The heat of the day still lingered. A bead of sweat trickled down his spine as he kept up his desperate pace.
At the crest of one hill, he saw the gas-lit lamps and shapes of the rows and rows of buildings below. In that moment, with all of Milton below and behind him, the swell of triumph filled his breast at the glorious life he envisioned ahead of him.