Chapter 22
Chapter twenty-two
Addy Boucher woke in the black of night to the cry of the baby lying next to her. With her husband’s back pressed against her, she fumbled to help the babe find her breast. He clawed frantically as he suckled for a few moments and then drew back and let out a weakened wail.
Tears slid down Addy’s cheeks as she tried to shush the child. On a mattress on the floor nearby, a little girl whimpered.
Her husband stirred but did not get up or speak.
Addy continued to sob silently as she got the baby to suckle again.
She knew her milk would not offer the nourishment he needed.
She had had little enough to eat these past two weeks.
Bread and broth were all they had eaten for supper, and a scant pot of porridge for the morning.
Divided carefully amongst her eight young’uns, her husband, and herself, she gave herself the smallest portions.
Her children were hungry. She hated putting them to bed with the little ones’ pleas for a little more bread.
She hated the masters for not paying her husband more.
She hated the Union for their strict rules which forbade her husband from going to work during the strike.
She hated this world that made her family struggle so.
It was not meant to be this way, she was sure of it.
She remembered the sweet days when she was only seventeen and she and John had stolen kisses on their way home from the mill. Those days seemed like another lifetime ago. She did not regret having the children. She and John loved them all, and they were his joy to come home to.
If she had been born into a better situation, she might have had servants and all the food they wanted.
It was not the children themselves that wore her out.
It was worrying and scraping to keep all fed and clothed.
The struggle never stopped, and the only hope was that the oldest child would soon be old enough to work.
Although she hated to send him to work, they needed the money desperately.
The little one nestled against her and fell asleep.
She took a deep breath of temporary relief.
However, sleep eluded her, despite her weariness.
Her stomach was an empty pit, but it was not hunger that troubled her.
In the dark, where fears festered and grew, she felt a creeping fear that something bad would happen.
It was already past dawn when Margaret rose from her bed. It was the day of the dinner party at the Thorntons’, and the thought of it stole into her mind before her feet touched the woven rug on the wood plank floor.
She sat at her vanity table and looked in the mirror as she carefully brushed her hair—a morning ritual she had kept since girlhood.
She thought at first that she dreaded going to such a formal affair where there would be no one she would know, save the hosts.
But as the date approached, she recognized with some surprise that the tug at her stomach she felt when contemplating the event was not entirely antipathy, but a well-hidden tremor of excitement.
It was not that Mr. Thornton would be there, she told herself, but that she would learn more of the vital forces that formed the soul of Milton by mingling among those whose actions and decisions pulled the levers of power here.
It seemed strange that she should find herself juxtaposed between Bessy Higgins’ world and that of the Thorntons.
She had never experienced such a strong feeling of disparate classes in Helstone.
She could not remember any cottager in her father’s parish openly disparaging his lot as a farmer.
There had been no reason for someone like Nicholas Higgins to rise from the land.
Margaret often thought how Bessy’s life might have fared better if she had lived in Helstone. Perhaps she would be married, and happy enough. She might meet calamity or illness—as anyone might, no matter their lot—but she would certainly not be dying of cotton in the lungs.
A wave of anger passed over her whenever she thought of the countless others who had died and those who were now ill with a sickness that could have been prevented.
Nicholas Higgins paced the confines of his house, not wanting to leave Bess alone, but unable to stay still while doubts and fears plagued him. He wanted nothing more than to go to the Goulden Dragon and escape the torture of his circuitous pattern of worry.
The Union had given the masters a week’s warning to meet their demand for a five percent pay raise.
And when the week had concluded with only contemptuous replies from the masters, the Union had executed its plan.
Every mill worker in Milton had stopped their work and had walked out exactly an hour before the whistle blew at the end of the day.
They had sent an unmistakable sign to the masters that the strike had begun.
That had been two weeks ago.
He studied the face of his daughter, peaceful in sleep—her only respite from the constriction of her lungs, which would eventually cast her into eternal sleep.
By God, he would fight for her sake!—and for all those like her whose lives were cut short by the greed of the masters.
She had not asked for this life, and he was almost sorry he had brought her into this suffering world.
And yet, he loved her. Would love her. She had been a light for him, keeping him steady when his wife had died.
He didn’t know how he would manage when she was gone.
A knock at the door made him wince. He was weary of men and women coming to tell of their hardships—as if the strike were not for their sakes! He glanced to see Bess stirring as he went to answer the door.
“Oh, it’s yo’,” he said at the sight of Margaret. He was glad but embarrassed to see that she had brought a basket with some food. He wondered how she had arrived at their door without having been begged dry of her goods.
He put a finger to his lips and tipped his head towards the sleeper.
Margaret’s lips formed a silent ‘O’ and she whispered she would come back later.
“No, don’t go,” Bessy’s wobbly voice called out.
Margaret went to her bedside. “I can come back later, if you need to rest,” she offered gently.
“No, please,” the weakened girl answered, as she propped herself up. “Seeing your bonny face is a bit o’ cheering I could sorely use.”
Having seen his daughter taken care of, Nicholas took his leave of the place.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Bessy spoke.
“Father can hardly stand the suffering. Everyone comes by to tell ’im to break the strike, or to give ’em something to feed their wee ones.
The strike were supposed to last a week, but the masters have not made a move to meet the Union demands.
I’m afraid he’ll go drink to ease his pain, as it were. ”
Margaret glanced back at the door with a flood of sympathy both for the weight of responsibility Nicholas must be bearing, and for the daughter’s fear that her father would fall into sin.
“But let’s not talk of the strike. I’m sick of such things,” Bessy pleaded. “Tonight is the Thornton dinner, isn’t it? Have you got your dress ready?” she asked, her face brightening in her excitement.
“Yes, of course. I should be in great trouble if I declined to go now, for you would be vastly disappointed!” she teased, giving Bessy’s hand a squeeze.
“It’s the only hopeful thing I have to think on these days,” she answered. “I wished I could see yo’ there with all those masters and their wives. Yo’ll be a fresh wind in their sails.”
“If you can find your way to our house this evening, you could see me in my dress and let me know if it passes muster for Milton,” Margaret invited with a warm smile.
“If yo’ wore it in London, I ‘spect it will be fine enough for this smoky town. Oh! But I don’t know if I can walk as far as that. Perhaps father can find a way; he knows everyone,” she posed with a tinge of hope.
“I know what I’d wear if I could go,” Bessy continued, “a dress of pure blue silk, with ribbons at the shoulders and ruffled lace at the hem. Like the one I saw once in the window at the draper’s shop,” she mused dreamily, picturing it in her mind.
“Blue would suit you,” Margaret agreed with a pleasant tone that belied the tug of melancholy Bessy’s longing wrought in her. It seemed unfair that her friend would never wear such a dress or go to a fancy dinner such as she was attending that night.
“It’s said Thornton’s mother wears naught but black, no matter the occasion. But I wonder if ‘tis true even for such a night. Yo’ll tell me if she dons some color that no one has ever seen her wear in the streets,” Bessy begged to know.
Margaret had to grin at Mrs. Thornton’s solemn reputation. “We shall see. It is true. I’ve not seen her in anything but mourning dress. I fear she is not one to break solid patterns of decision.”
“I suppose that’s where the Master gets his stubborn nature. Father calls him the ol’ bulldog. He won’t be swayed to change his mind once he’s made his will clear,” Bessy said.
This comment sobered Margaret, for it was exactly Mr. Thornton’s headstrong will that often troubled her when she found herself thinking of him.
“But what father doesn’t see,” Bessy continued, “is that he can be just as stubborn, grabbing hold of his ideas of what’s to be done without letting anyone’s complaints get in the way.
It’s this that gets everything so muddled.
And all I want is some peace. This world is too full of fighting,” she said with a long sigh.
“Which is why I’m not afraid to go to heaven. ‘Twill be a better place.”