Cinders and Smoke #5
She began a swift inventory of her body parts, amusing herself with a vision of John Thornton sorting through the components of a disassembled spinning mule spread out upon the shop floor–picking up one piece and then another, inspecting each for wear.
Oddly, that picture left a warm glow in its wake.
Margaret began by wiggling her fingers and toes and, later, her limbs.
Her head, however, persisted in plaguing her with a dull ache.
Movement of that member was not to be borne!
Sound became more distinct as her hearing improved.
“Doctor…doctor! I thin’ she be comin’ ‘round now!” That was dearest Dixon, the maid’s strident tones colored with worry and relief rolled into one.
A cool cloth laved Margaret’s face, soothing away some of her discomfort. She cleared her throat.
“How long?” She was surprised at the croak that broke free in place of her normally well-modulated alto.
The active cloth was replaced by a cool compress across her forehead. Margaret could imagine her family’s old retainer kneeling next to her, squeezing out excess water into a basin. The soundscape was vivid with the subtraction of her sense of sight.
Dixon replied, “‘Nigh unto two hours, Miss Margaret. But the doctor says that t’was ta be ‘xpected.”
Her eyes fluttered open in time to see Dr. Donaldson arrive, hovering above her, while Dixon scooted a few inches closer to the head of the sofa upon which Margaret reclined.
Donaldson was focusing on a spot near her left temple in her hairline.
He asked a few questions about her symptoms, the date, the monarch, and the city.
Then he adjusted his manner from inquiry to caution.
“This may hurt a bit. If you would be so kind, Miss Dixon, as to hold Miss Hale’s hand…” he said before gently probing with his fingers, pushing Margaret’s hair to one side.
Margaret gasped as a wave of pain scorched across her nerves.
Donaldson pulled back and said, “There now. Finished. My apologies for causing you any discomfort.”
Then he became all business. “Normally I would not burden my patients with weather reports, but knowing your history with your mother’s illness,” at this he lifted his head to include Dixon in his ken, “I feel that you will take my diagnosis pragmatically.
“Physicians always find head injuries, particularly those involving violent impacts, worrisome. For the layman, such wounds are all-the-more terrifying because scalp lacerations bleed—pardon my frank language—like the devil. Such was the case with yours. I fear your gown is ruined. And I think your incapacitation overset your Mr. Thornton, at least according to Mr. Higgins.”
My Mr. Thornton? Why would Nicholas know what bothered John?
“Now, as for your condition: from what I can tell, you were struck a glancing blow by either a brick or a paving stone. Either weapon might have done serious—fatal—damage if it had scored a direct hit. However, something deflected the trajectory enough to lessen the impact.
“Your head is laid open for about an inch right within your hairline. With a cut of that nature, I would usually stitch it closed. However, as the skin is stretched tightly at this location on your head, embroidery would be dicey at best. I have decided to allow the cut to heal naturally. I cleaned it, applied some of Maturin’s blue mold salve, and covered it with a plaster.
Miss Dixon must do the same every day: clean, ointment, fresh plaster.
You will have a scar, but only those closest to you will notice: your father, Miss Dixon, and your husband. ”
My husband?
Donaldson concluded, “I do not believe you are concussed. Your pupils are equal, and you do not seem to exhibit any sort of mental impairment. The headache will subside after a brief period, maybe two or three days. Miss Dixon can visit the apothecary for a powder that I have prescribed. My final injunction is that you move slowly, take your rest, and drink plenty of liquids. No gamboling around, young lady. Allow Miss Dixon to fetch as needed.”
The servant vigorously nodded in agreement with the doctor’s orders. Donaldson stood tall, tugged his waistcoat, shot his cuffs and smoothed the wrinkles from his suit.
“I will go tell Mr. Thornton and Mr. Higgins that you have rejoined the land of the living.”
An unaccountable thrill coursed through Margaret.
While the men were absent, she fussed to organize her gown until Dixon carefully rearranged a blanket around her, decently covering her legs and feet.
However, short of mummifying her from chin to toe, nothing could be done to hide Margaret’s blood-stained collar.
The rumble of heavy footfalls drowned out the mechanical thrum that had pervaded the office. Thornton was the first to emerge from the stairwell followed closely by Higgins and the doctor. Upon seeing Margaret stretched out on his couch, he skidded to a halt, full of conflicting emotions.
In other circumstances, his heart would have soared to see her taking her ease in his office.
Only two other women in his life—Hannah and Fanny—could presume to recline in so intimate a manner, although his sister was unlikely to cross the mill’s threshold.
Miss Hale, though, was supine because he had failed in his one duty… to protect those most vulnerable.
Thornton also was immediately overset by the ochre and carmine that besmirched the material of her evening wear. How had she survived?
Again, his copybook was truly blotted.
He ceased his recriminations when his eyes were dragged into the vortices that centered upon her large brown eyes, burning out of the pallor that was her complexion.
Those pools took in his being and, he was certain, weighed his sins and failings against a feather.
If he were in the Egyptian halls of Ma’at awaiting judgment, John Thornton was sure that a serpent would snap up his soul to extinguish his existence, so heavy was his heart.
Margaret Hale knew the contours of his inner man. Of that, he was convinced. She peeled away all his puffery. He stood naked before her; such was her power over him. He feared her perception, her insight, for it led him to the place he dreaded…where he had to tell himself the truth.
The memory of his father, the suicide, the destruction of what was, rose unbidden to reaffirm the path forward. Thornton had few recollections of his father, so ruthlessly had he purged images that could bring nothing but pain.
Yet one bit of wisdom, seemingly saved until now, chased away every shadow that had plagued Thornton.
The gift, only appreciated in the current circumstances and not recalled for at least a decade, had been spoken bare months before the family’s world crashed down around their ears.
Whether uttered by design or unintentionally, his father had bequeathed it to him one warm summer Sunday as the two walked together upon the moor above Milton.
Hannah had remained behind resting on the family picnic blanket while Fanny played. As the Sun began dropping toward the Irish Sea, Mr. Thornton stopped and looked down upon Milton’s smokestacks, somnolent for the Sabbath. He assayed a pensive look before offering his soliloquy.
The women we love the most, John, are the ones who know our darkest secrets without asking.
They perceive our transgressions without judgment and find gems lying within the dross that is everything we ourselves value.
They do not hector us, nor do they sermonize.
Rather, my boy, they use their infinitely better natures to point us toward examples of acceptable behavior and those traits they would encourage within us…
and ones they would have us leave behind.
This is a difficult task, John, for it demands that we hew tightly to principle rather than expedience.
There are few men who could achieve that which would elevate them above the grasping crowd.
I fear the price of failure for that would bring unbearable shame.
Such good women would have us work to become the best versions of ourselves so that we may be worthy of our name and their love.
Thornton’s eyes widened as the scales fell away. The man his father had been and Higgins, who was now the age his sire would have been, had come together on this dark night.
He exhaled, “Exagoras agapis.”
Margaret flashed him a quizzical look, a smile lifting the corners of her lips. Her eyes bright, she reached out to both men. Thornton and Higgins shuffled forward to take her hands. Each man felt sheepish that this gentle lady had been laid low by their dispute.
She intoned, “Mr. Thornton, Mr. Higgins, you and I have much to discuss.
I fear that the events of this evening are but a foretaste of further trouble if we do not act, even in this small corner of Milton, to find a way forward.
It is time for two men I have come to deeply respect to set aside their pride and work together for the good of Marlborough Mills, its employees, and Milton!
“Doctor, could you move a second chair by my side? I find that I agree with you that I should not be rattling about until I have recovered more. I would speak with these two gentlemen but will remain resting here.
“Normally I would ask you and Dixon to withdraw. However, I fear that it might be considered improper for me to be alone with two unmarried men, however honorable. Might you both retreat to the opposite side of the office to bear witness?”
Dixon looked mulish but allowed the doctor to escort her to a seating area surrounding a small table, upon which rested a stack of sample books. He settled next to her to watch the next act.
The field thus cleared, Margaret continued, “Mr. Thornton, Mr. Higgins, I am not above using my sex or my infirmity to have my own way. I have offered us as much privacy as we can reasonably expect. You may feel free to air your dirty laundry without curious ears.