Chapter 2 Passages in Time
Passages in Time
Kate Forrester
“Oh my Margaret - my Margaret! no one can tell what you are to me!” - Chapter XXII, North and South
Chapter One
John Thornton sensed something was amiss as soon as he descended the steps of his home and crossed the mill yard.
At first, he couldn’t put his finger on what was unnerving him, but something was.
He was halfway to the mill office when scuffling to his left caused him to pause and glance into the dark shadows along the mill walls.
What had made the noise, he wondered? A rat, probably, scurrying among the wooden crates that were stacked around the yard.
The hair at the nape of his neck stood on end, and a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold washed over him.
He turned sharply, unable to shake the feeling he was being watched.
He was up earlier than usual – sleep had eluded him these last few weeks, the departure of the woman he loved and business worries fuelling his insomnia.
No matter the hour there was always work to be done, and he had taken to going over to his office long before the mill came to life.
At this hour of the morning the yard was dark and deserted; sometimes the moon bathed the towering buildings in an incandescent light, but today its welcome light was obscured behind dark scurrying clouds.
The wind was lively, cutting through the wool of his suit coat.
It was an old one he used for work and he doubted it would see him through another winter, for it was thin and threadbare.
He was almost at the mill office when he saw that the door to the building that held the raw cotton was slightly ajar. How could that be? The overseer would have made sure it was locked last evening when the shift had finished.
“Is anybody there?” he called, entering the store.
The sound of footsteps moving inside was unmistakable.
“Who’s there? What do you want?” he called, moving into the dark interior of the building.
A voice cut through the silence. “Thornton, you were warned.”
He didn’t have time to place the voice before he heard a more frightening noise: a strange hissing pop, a small and insignificant sound that still struck terror in his heart for he was certain he knew what it meant.
A second later, his fears were confirmed as flames licked over a stack of bales in the corner.
Fire! It was every mill owner’s nightmare.
Raw cotton would smoulder for a while but, once well alight, burned fast and furious.
The only hope was to stop it before it took hold.
Removing his coat, he moved towards the burning bale and began using the garment to beat at the creeping flames.
He had barely started when the tell-tale sounds of several other cotton bales burning made him stop.
The man had been clever – he’d obviously intended fire to break out simultaneously in several areas of the cotton store, which meant that the blaze would be well alight before it was discovered.
John realised if he was to save the mill, he must get help, but when he reached the great door he realised he was locked in. It wasn’t only his mill he was in danger of losing – it was his life.
Knowing that panicking would only make the situation worse, he took a steadying breath before banging on the door and shouting in the vain hope that somebody would hear him.
The fire burned with devastating swiftness, destroying all in its path.
His eyes smarted and tears streamed down his face, his body’s way of washing them clean of ash and smoke.
Smoke was even now scorching his throat and burning his nostrils, causing him to cough and splutter.
He suddenly realised the smoke was more of a danger than the flames.
Removing his cravat, he tied it over his mouth and nose in an attempt to stop the thick fumes from reaching his lungs.
Looking up through the smoke, he could see flames licking at the roof. The beams were alight now, the heat and flames from the bales causing them to crack and splinter as they exploded into life.
People said that before you died, your life passed before your eyes.
His didn’t, and yet he felt sure his death could not be far away.
His coughing worsened, forcing him to his knees as he tried to get rid of the noxious smoke that burned and clogged his lungs.
As he knelt, a thick black veil seemed to descend on him, its tendrils invading his mind and body.
His last conscious thought was of seeing a beam fall from the roof and knowing he must move to avoid death.
MJ stood in silence, staring up at the once proud structure; it broke her heart to see the mighty building partially destroyed.
Its walls were blackened, the windows blown out by the heat of the fire, and the roof was gone, leaving the whole building exposed to the elements.
The mill gates had been thrown open to allow the fire engines access.
She walked towards it and stood staring into the yard.
“Please don’t come any closer, miss. The building’s not safe. We’ll be damping it down for several hours yet,” a fireman told her as she peered around the corner.
“No, I won’t. Was anybody hurt?”
“No. Fortunately, the fire broke out in the early hours of the morning, so the place was deserted. The fire investigator will be along later, looking for the cause. Are you with the press?”
“Oh no, I’m an historian, MJ Hale. I was supposed to meet with the mill’s owner.”
“I doubt he will be seeing anybody today.”
“No, I suppose not. I’ll leave a message with his secretary and rearrange our meeting. It’s odd – I was seeing him about a fire that broke out here back in the nineteenth century.”
“That’s an unpleasant coincidence. If I see him, I’ll let him know you were here. I must get back to work. Remember, stay well back. It’s not safe.”
MJ stayed where she was as he walked away, continuing to stare at the destruction before her.
It looked like the fire was contained to one building.
The large hotel at the end of the yard appeared untouched.
It was this that made Marlborough Mills different from other mills.
The hotel had once been the mansion home of the original owner, John Thornton – the man who had been killed in the earlier fire and whom she was researching.
Rain began to fall, a gift from heaven to help damp down the still smouldering building. It was pointless standing here getting wet. Matt Slickson wasn’t going to see her today. She turned to leave, casting one last glance back at the poor building -- and then she saw him.
It was odd; he seemed to appear out of nowhere.
One minute, the yard was practically deserted, and then he was there.
Not that she realised at first it was a man; all she saw was what looked like a pile of clothes.
It took her a moment to realise that it was someone who’d collapsed on the floor by the door of the mill where the fire had been.
Although she wasn’t supposed to be in the yard, she ran across to see if she could help. Fearing the worst, she dropped by his side and rolled him over. The man groaned and began to cough violently.
She knew she should be relieved he was alive but she was too shocked to feel relief. If the portrait she had seen was accurate, the man before her was John Thornton, the nineteenth-century master of Marlborough Mills.
Of course, he couldn’t be John Thornton.
He must be a tour guide dressed up as the original mill owner, for he wore Victorian-styled clothing.
He obviously took his role seriously, for his sideburns were real – no stuck-on mutton chops for this chap.
While his identity was a mystery, it was obvious he needed assistance.
She turned and shouted for help before returning her attention to the man on the floor. A moment later, the fireman she’d spoken to appeared at her side.
“Where the hell did he come from?” he asked. “We checked everywhere for people trapped. How did we miss him?”
“That doesn’t matter now. What matters is helping him. Call an ambulance! If the fire truck has any oxygen on board, we should use it to help this poor man’s breathing.”
He nodded and spoke into a radio perched on his shoulder, requesting an ambulance and giving the details of the casualty before running to get the emergency equipment from the fire engine.
When he returned, he heard MJ reasoning with the man, who was trying to stand up.
“Please sir, stay still, help is on the way. Moving around will only make you cough more.”
“Here’s the oxygen,” the fireman exclaimed. “The ambulance is on its way.”
Their attempt to place the oxygen mask over the man’s face met with violent struggles from the stranger. He looks terrified, MJ thought.
“Sir, this is oxygen,” she explained. “It will help you breathe – it cannot harm you. Look at me. I will place it over my face so you can see it will cause no harm,” she added, seeking to reassure him.
He watched her for a moment. When she was sure he realised it wouldn’t hurt him, she placed the mask in his hand and guided it slowly to his face.
“It just feels like a breeze. The strap means you don’t have to hold it with your hand. Can I place it over your head?” He nodded.
“My name is MJ Hale, and this is…” She turned to the fireman at her side.
“Henry Bourne. Can you tell us your name, sir, and if you are hurt anywhere?”
“I don’t think I am physically hurt.” His voice was hoarse, roughened from the smoke he’d inhaled.
“And your name?” MJ asked.
“My name is Thornton – John Thornton, owner of Marlborough Mills. Can someone please explain into what kind of hell I have descended?”
Chapter Two