Chapter 28
Chapter twenty-eight
In luxuriant and simple parlors where ladies met, at the grocer’s and in the streets, in kitchens where servants gathered for meals, and in the more squalid homes of the factory workers—townspeople prattled and whispered about the young lady who had thrown herself into Mr. Thornton’s arms. Riot or no riot, many supposed the lady must have set her sights on the Master beforehand to act so scandalously.
People passionately argued whether Mr. Thornton had saved a lover from danger, or if an audacious girl had merely forced him into marriage.
Fanny had helped to spread the word of what had happened, having swiftly carried herself to call on Violet Grayson to tell her of her brother’s fate.
Jane had also taken every opportunity to tell everyone she met at the marketplace that morning. Martha said not a word, for she would not deign to know whether Mr. Thornton was in favor of marrying Miss Hale or not. It was not her place to express an opinion on such a matter.
As the course of gossip wound its way through the town, Margaret was at home reading to her mother.
It had been days—it seemed weeks—since Margaret had seen Bessy.
Now that her mother was feeling better, Margaret was eager to see her friend after the uproar of the riot.
So, as soon as she saw her mother was fairly comfortable (Mrs. Hale said the water bed was an improvement), she stole away to the Princeton District.
Along the way, as Margaret traveled the byways of the crowded living areas of the mill workers, she noticed she was an object of interest. A few people pointed at her, directing others to look her way.
She was relieved to be out of the public view when she arrived at the Higgins’ dwelling and Nicholas let her in.
“Were it yo’ they’re talking about?—at the riot?” he asked straightaway with urgency. “Were it yo’ they got to make the Master come out?” His face was worn with care, but his question marked a new crease of concern.
Margaret’s face turned pale, and she bowed her head. “Yes,” she said, shuddering at the awful memory.
“I’d like to take the lot of them who put their hands on yo’ and give them a thrashing,” he growled beneath his breath. “Yo’ see now how dangerous it is to mix with the masters?”
“Don’t listen to him. He’s terrible put out about the riot,” Bessy called out from her reclined position in bed.
Margaret went to her, as Nicholas followed with more questions.
“Did they hurt yo’? Did they cause you injury?” His tone was both tender and fierce.
“They treated me very roughly, but I’ve no injury on their account,” she answered, wishing to be done with any re-living of yesterday’s events.
“I’m glad of that, to be sure. But a price must be paid for what they did to yo’. It’s said that Boucher’s the one that saw yo’ and called yo’ out. Were it him?” he persisted, eager to fix his fury on some solid entity.
“Yes—but don’t hurt him for my sake!” she called out as he stormed towards the door. “He’s had enough trouble,” she added fervently, but he was already gone.
Margaret turned back to Bessy with a pained expression.
“Father is like to only hurl fiery words. I don’t believe he’ll hurt a waif of a man such as Boucher,” Bessy said.
“He has no patience for those who broke the strike by running to cause trouble at Thornton’s.
Now that they’ve lost the strike, all the work the Union has done this past year is for naught. ”
Bessy studied Margaret for any sign of yesterday’s inflictions. “Yo’ look as if naught has happened! I knew if it were true—if it were really yo’ who was there in the middle of it all—that you’d be brave. Yo’ve more courage than most men I’ve seen.”
Margaret made a noise in protest.
“But now, yo’ must tell me all,” Bessy said, “for they say Thornton came out of his house right away to save yo’ and they saw you in the Master’s arms.”
Margaret buried her face in her hands. “Oh, has it truly become the talk of the town?”
“It’s true then,” Bessy whispered with a sense of wonder.
“I was frightened…and I ran to him…I felt safe there,” Margaret stammered, showing her face again and looking to Bessy with imploring eyes.
The sickly girl moved to comfort her friend’s distress, covering Margaret’s hand with her own. “Yo’ were afraid and ran to safety—as anyone would.”
“But now…what will people think?”
“There’s no need to fret over that. The Master will surely come and ask yo’ to marry him,” Bessy said to assure her.
Margaret dropped her head.
Bessy saw the guilty look on Margaret’s face when she looked up again. “Yo’ll not be telling me yo’ve turned him away!” Bessy exclaimed.
Margaret moaned and buried her face in her hands again. “Oh! I don’t know what came over me. He saved me that day, and I argued with him. I spoke to him so coldly.”
Bessy studied her friend’s penitent position for a moment. “Do yo’ care for him?” she asked gently.
“I don’t know!” Margaret burst out. “My heart flutters whenever he is near me, but we can never seem to agree.” She looked to Bessy for understanding.
Bessy saw the glisten of tears in her friend’s eyes and recognized the truth of the matter. “There’s time enough ahead for agreeing. Yo’ said ‘twas a thing to be considered with the heart. Then yo’ ought to listen to it.”
Bessy searched her noggin for what to say to her—to shine a light on what she was certain lay underneath. “What if those that got hold of yo’ had succeeded in their plan? What if they’d hurt Thornton? You’d be happy never to see him again?”
The question struck Margaret like a sudden blow.
Mr Thornton threw himself into his work to cover the bitterness that darkened his soul. Hundreds of hands would begin showing up to regain their jobs.
As he entered the meeting hall later that morning to consult with the other cotton mill masters, Mr. Slickson put a hand on his shoulder. “Congratulations, Thornton, on ending the strike! Your move in hiring the Irish has worked to free all of us to start our mills working again.”
“And I hear congratulations are in order—you’ll be getting married! My wife says it’s the girl you escorted to dinner who got caught up in the riot. Incredible turn of events! You’ll have your hands full with that one, but you’ve picked a beauty!” Grunts and hums of agreement came from the others.
Mr. Thornton rankled at his assumptions. “I came to discuss business, gentlemen. I’m not ready to talk about personal matters,” he said.
His colleagues exchanged glances, their curiosity piqued at his curt manner.
Mr. Hamper cleared his throat. “I’m taking measures to prevent the Union from meddling with my operations. Any man who wants to work for me, must swear they are not members of the Union.”
“Good thinking,” Mr. Henderson agreed, and the others nodded except for Mr. Thornton.
They looked to him for his response.
“I despise the Union as much as the rest of you for what they’ve done, giving men false hope in making demands that can’t be met. But I’ll not make liars of men. They’ll make their promises to you, but many will not break from the Union.”
“It’s their word broken, not mine. I’ll wager some will be scared enough to break from the Union,” Hamper replied.
Throughout the rest of their meeting, Mr. Thornton noticed the wary glances made in his direction, but he did not care a whit for their opinions on either his business or his relationship with Miss Hale.
He never smiled, for although the others were elated to start up their mills again, he himself found little to claim great triumph.
He had the Irish hands to deal with, while the orders for cloth were nearing their contract date with no hope of timely fulfillment.
The strike had cost him dearly, and it would be all he could do to bring his mill to a level of profit again.
He was relieved to escape their scrutiny when their planning concluded.
As he walked along the street to return to the privacy of his office, his mind at first whirled with tasks and priorities of his business.
But as he went on, the vision of Margaret in that dim parlor would rise to send him into an agony of despair.
When he arrived, he closed the door to sit in his chair, his open ledger and the contract documents arrayed before him on the desk.
He allowed his thoughts to drift to his sore heart.
Although he attempted to forget her condemnatory words, they still stung.
How could she expect him to keep the strikers from starving?
He had responsibilities only to those who were working for him.
When they were not in his employ, he had no moral purview over them.
Her concern about their lack of sufficient food lodged in his mind.
How was he to solve such a problem? It was preposterous to consider he should pay his workers in food, or have their mid-day meal delivered to the mill for some kind of daily provision.
He paid them a fair wage, and they fed themselves and their families with it.
But as he contemplated the matter, an idea formed in his head that roused him to think again. Not because it would please her to consider it, but because it seemed a possibility that might benefit both men and masters. He would not toy with philanthropic measures. He had a business to run.
Dixon dropped the proper amount of coins into the hand of Mrs. MacLean for the flour and treacle in her basket.
“Have you heard about Mr. Thornton?” the grocer asked, putting the coins away.
“Of Marlborough Mills?”
“The very one. There was a riot yesterday, a mob of striking workers that broke down the doors to his yard.”
“No!” was the response.
“Yes, and that’s not the half of it. Those ruffians got hold of a girl—they say she was the Master’s girl—and made the Master come out into the mob to save her,” Mrs. MacLean said, satisfied to see she had sufficiently shocked her listener.
“Did they give a name to the girl?” Dixon pressed, her skin tingling with apprehension at her own guess.
“No one gave any. Do you know who it might be?” the grocer asked with great interest.
“I may or may not. But I’d not sully the girl’s name all about town,” Dixon huffed and turned to go. She nearly stumbled over the cobblestones in her haste to return home, bumping into one poor lad who did not make way swiftly enough for the wide-sized servant.
Out of breath and red-faced, Dixon descended the stairs to the kitchen to unburden herself of the basket she’d been carrying when she saw Martha there, washing dishes.
“Where is Miss Margaret?” Dixon asked between heaving breaths.
“She’s not yet come back from going out,” was the dutiful reply, her back turned to the inquirer.
“Then you must tell me—you were at Thornton’s yesterday, were you not?” Dixon asked.
Martha went still. “Yes,” she answered feebly.
Dixon pulled out a stool and sat on it. “Come now, and dry your hands. You must tell me what happened. I’ve heard rumors of a riot and a girl—Lord, have mercy!” Dixon exclaimed, seeing Martha’s guilty countenance.
“It was Miss Margaret, wasn’t it?” Dixon declared.
Martha nodded.
“Gracious, my lass! Why did you not tell me or the mistress? Oh, the mistress! She’ll be struck with fear. Why, she’ll fret about ever letting Miss Margaret out on the streets of this terrible town.”
“What happened? You must tell me all,” Dixon insisted.
And so Martha told her all she had seen from the Thornton’s window while Dixon muttered pleas to her Creator.
When all had been told, Dixon stared at the cold flagstone floor in disbelief. Then, she looked straight into Martha’s eyes. “Miss Margaret must marry the Master.”