Chapter 26
Chapter twenty-six
Without the incessant smoke from the mills blackening the sky, the summer sun beat down on roofs and awnings, iron gates and brick paths as Margaret made her way to the Thorntons’ home.
It was a hot July day, and the air was thick with an oppressive stillness.
Only people who had to be outside were on the streets.
A few young men raced past her, then a few more, but her thoughts were consumed with worry about her mother’s suffering and her father’s reactions.
She stared only at the ground ahead of her, watching her footsteps.
Thus it was that as she walked down Marlborough Street, she was not conscious of the distant buzzing noise of a hundred angry men.
At last, the growing sound of shouts broke her sad trance as she drew closer. She looked up to see a raucous crowd gathered far ahead. She halted, fear beginning to build in the pit of her stomach. Were they going to Marlborough Mills? She was not near enough to be certain.
The inner voice of wisdom told her to turn and flee, but fear of violence was not as strong as her need to know what would happen.
She hurried forward, her eyes growing wide and heart hammering with foreboding as she saw teams of men and women, angry strikers, pressing and pounding against the tall wooden doors that were the gateway to Marlborough Mills.
She watched in horror as the masses heaved in unison and, at last, a tremendous splintering crack heralded their success. Streams of haggard-looking men and women streamed into the yard, stamping down the broken doors. Their whoops and hollers sent a chill over Margaret’s skin.
Drawn like a magnet to the danger, she drew even closer, standing back from the broken entryway to avoid being trampled by those still coming to the fray. She stretched her neck to see what they would do, her heart thumping in her chest. Would they break into the mill or try to enter the house?
Forgetting herself, she stood mesmerized by the perilous situation unfolding before her, but she was not invisible to John Boucher as he ran to join the others.
“That’s the Master’s girl!” he shouted, pointing to the statue-still onlooker. Only those closest to him heard.
“Bring her along!” one said, leaping toward her. Others instantly followed.
“Let Thornton come get his prize!” shouted another as they surrounded her, grabbing her arms to force her along with them.
“Let me go!” She twisted and pulled mightily to free herself, but there was no use. They only laughed at her.
“Come along, Missy!” they taunted with a surge of glee at their luck. “Let’s see your beau rescue yo’!”
“Aye, she’s a fiery lass, this one!” one of them said as Margaret continued to writhe and resist desperately.
Terror overtook Margaret as they pulled her into the yard among the throng, shouting out about the prize they’d caught.
“Make way! We’ve got the Master’s girl. Let’s see him come save her!”
Upstairs in the Thornton house, the terrific noise of the gate’s destruction and the onslaught of a hundred threatening cries that followed sent Fanny into hysterics.
“They’re coming to kill us! They’ll kill us all!” she screamed, her hands shaking and eyes wild with fright. “We’re going to die!” She began to cry and wail piteously.
“Mother, take Fan. Stay in the back of the house,” Mr. Thornton directed, his manner urgent but controlled.
“When will the police come?” his mother asked, her tone matching his calm, but her eyes revealed her growing panic.
“They will be here soon,” he assured her. “Take care of Fan,” he said, and shut them safely behind the dividing doors of the large drawing room.
He rushed to the window to scan the scene below. Masses of men poured into the long-still mill yard. Some raced to find entrance to the mill where they had worked. His heart thumped harder with another jolt of anxiety. He had securely barred every door, yet these men were desperate.
Mr. Thornton glanced at the upper floors, where he had put the Irish men and women for safekeeping.
His every nerve pulsed with the strange thrill of danger.
He had knowingly risked provoking their anger so much as this.
Let them do their best, he thought defiantly.
They will soon find out they cannot win this war.
At that moment, his eyes noticed the developing scene below. Wide berth was being made for a few men coming to the front, dragging with them a woman against her will.
All the energy of arrogant triumph drained from his body as he recognized her. A terror he had never known paralyzed him.
“Margaret!” he whispered, frozen in place only for a fleeting moment before flying down the stairs to the front doors. His hands quaked as he fumbled hastily to remove the bar he had put in place to bolt it shut. At last, he threw open the doors with a great thud.
“Let her go!” he bellowed from the portico above the crowd.
An unholy roar rose from the mob. Fists shot into the air. The spectacle they wanted had begun.
Hoorahs filled the yard to see the Master in a rage as he raced down the stone stairs. The rowdy mob moved out of his way as he ran straight toward Margaret’s captors.
“Let her GO!” he thundered, his face so darkly menacing as he lunged closer that some loosened their hold on her and she wrested free.
He opened his arms to her, and she threw herself into them, wrapping her own arms tightly around his middle, her cheek pressed against his chest. She began sobbing.
He held her close with one arm as he unleashed the ferocity of his anger on them. “Are you proud of yourselves now?” he shouted. The mob quieted down. “Taking an innocent woman prisoner! For what end?” His voice cracked with vehement fury.
“To call you out of your hiding!” someone hollered.
“Here I am! What will you do now?” he challenged them.
No answer was given, for at that moment the first whistles were heard of the mounted police. They galloped into the yard, swinging their batons to disperse the mob. The crowd scattered to escape, shouts and screams mixed with the clatter of hoofbeats.
The tension coursing through Mr. Thornton’s veins eased. He released his hold on Margaret as she pulled away. “Are you hurt?” he asked, looking over her earnestly for cuts or bruises as chaos surrounded them on all sides.
“No...only a little...” she stammered in dazed confusion. Embarrassed now for clinging to him, she stepped away from him.
“Margaret!” he called out, reaching to pull her back. But it was too late.
A man fleeing the horses whizzed by, knocking her to the ground.
The Master crouched down to help her up, terror welling up in him when she did not move.
“Margaret!” he called out, his voice hoarse with fear.
He swiftly scooped her up into his arms, carrying her away from the stampede, up the stairs to his house.
He saw blood trickle from a slight wound on her head near her temple.
Panic filled him as she lay limp in his arms. She was so close to him he could smell the scent of rosewater.
“Mother!” he shouted as he carried his burden up the grand stairway. He called for help once more before he gently laid Miss Hale down onto the sofa. Crouching by her side, he placed a hand on her cheek, then pressed to feel for a pulse at her neck and heaved an audible sigh to find it.
“Oh, Margaret, I thought I had lost you!” he murmured, his body quaking with a surge of emotion.
He cradled her head in his hands, willing her to wake to witness his passion.
As he worriedly studied her unmoving face, he brushed a trembling thumb over her lips—those lips that had spoken so vehemently against him at dinner days ago.
“There will never be another woman like you. I love you,” he told her in fervent, hushed tones.
Approaching footsteps sounded on the stairs. He stood up quickly, a faint stain of crimson coloring his cheeks.
“Heavens!” Mrs. Thornton exclaimed, rushing to him. “Whatever happened? How is Miss Hale here?” She kneeled to examine the girl.
“She was knocked to the ground. The rioters took her captive,” he feebly explained, pacing the floor in agitation.
Fanny screamed to see Miss Hale’s lifeless form. “Is she dead?” she asked, hovering a distance away, her hands over her mouth.
“Shush! She is not dead. But she’s received quite a blow,” her mother answered.
Mr. Thornton heard the note of serious concern in her voice. “I’ll fetch the doctor at once,” he announced and turned to go, his head buzzing with desperate fear.
“John!” she called him back, giving him a wary look. It unnerved her to see him half out of his senses. “You must go down to meet with the police. And see to the Irish. I will take care of Miss Hale.”
He hesitated, then nodded and left to do what he knew he must. But his legs plodded heavily in their resistance to leave her. He used every ounce of deliberation to resist the powerful urge to stay where his every hope of happiness lay.
“Fanny, get Jane down here at once,” Mrs. Thornton commanded, as soon as her son had gone.
When the maid appeared, she received orders to go fetch the doctor. “But Ma’am, the streets are too dangerous,” she insisted, wringing her hands.
“For pity’s sake! I’ll go myself, then,” the older woman said. “Try giving Miss Hale some smelling salts, and take care no blood gets on the sofa,” she directed as she hurried out of the room.
Jane went for the smelling salts while Fanny approached Miss Hale. “There, there,” she soothed the unconscious girl, “the doctor is coming.”
“Did you see what happened?” Jane asked when she returned.
“No! What?” Fanny’s eyes opened wide, ready to absorb every tidbit of gossip.
“Martha saw everything from the top corner window. She was so worried about the Master,” Jane began, her voice somewhat hushed. She glanced slyly at the prone figure before them before continuing with eagerness. “The rioters kidnapped her—“
“Kidnapped! How?”