Look Unto Me

by Lookbackatme1855

A story of John and Margaret's life after their marriage. Bliss awaits them...or does it?

Chapter One

The gentle clacking of the train's wheels that had lulled her to sleep eased, and she felt the carriage slow. Margaret Thornton carefully opened her eyes, and bright morning light filtered in through the smudged window. She blinked, then closed her eyes again, not wishing to be awakened from such a peaceful slumber.

"We're almost home."

Her husband's deep voice pulled her further out of sleep, and she sighed contentedly. His arm tightened around her. "Tired?"

"I'm already missing Spain, I think," she said, her voice thick with sleep.

"Not ready to come back to dank, dusty Milton?" She heard the humor in John's voice. "You know Fanny was quite jealous of you."

Margaret smiled, thinking of her sister-in-law. "I brought her back some souvenirs. I didn't forget about her." She glanced out the window as the train slowed to a stop. Although the sun was shining, it was nothing like the bright sunlight of Spain, where they'd been for three blissful months. John had spoiled her beyond degree, and Margaret knew she would always treasure those first few months when it had finally only been the two of them after a large wedding in Milton.

John stood slowly beside her, then reached out his hand and helped her up. She picked up her small suitcase, and they stepped out of the train into the mill of people disembarking or boarding.

He reached over and took the suitcase out of her hand, shaking his head.

Margaret laughed up at him. "Do you think I'm that incapable?"

"No. Quite the opposite. Yet you are my wife, and I intend to wait on you, hand and foot."

She smiled to herself and wondered, as she had so many times before, how she had rejected such a man. If they had not met in that train station, so similar to the one they stood in now, he would have been lost to her forever.

John hailed a carriage and helped her in. Margaret sank down into the plush seat, her stiff legs protesting the action. The journey back from Spain had been a long one with too many railway stops. In the back of her mind, she wished they could have settled in Spain, with Frederick and his wife, instead of coming back to Milton. She didn't abhor the city and its smoky factories and dark clouds as she once had, for it had been where she had met her husband, and she would never regret that. She was sure she would grow to love the city eventually, even perhaps as much as John did.

The carriage ride tempted her to sleep again, as John had fallen silent. She knew he was glad to come home, back to Marlborough Mills. Before the wedding, he had made sure his mother was comfortable after buying back their old home and starting up part of the mill, then they had left for their honeymoon. She had been surprised that he hadn't insisted on staying in Milton to oversee the mill, especially as it wasn't running at full capacity for now.

Margaret stiffened at the thought of Mrs. Thornton. The woman was still rather cold to her, even though she had grudgingly accepted Margaret as her son's wife. Margaret knew that was the only reason, for she knew the bond between Mrs. Thornton and John was unbreakable.

With a sigh, she looked out the window, seeing the familiar sites of Milton. Her old home. Her throat tightened as she thought of her parents. What would they think of her? Would they be happy? Her father would certainly be pleased, as John had been one of his closest friends in the North. The thought comforted her somewhat.

But how would Mrs. Thornton act toward her now? And Fanny?

John's warm hand came around hers, and she turned to him, meeting his gentle gaze. "Don't worry, my love."

Had her fretful thoughts been that obvious? She dropped her head to his shoulder. "Why should I be worried when I have the man I love next to me?" she murmured.

The driver yanked open the door to the carriage, and Margaret lifted her head up. They were outside of the Thorntons' home, right beside the mills. A smile curved her lips upward as she remembered the party she had attended so long ago, when she had unknowingly fallen in love.

John helped her out of the carriage, then taking the two suitcases in hand, walked toward the front door. Margaret tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and took a steady breath as they walked up the steps.

Before either of them could knock on the door, it opened. "Oh, Master! And…Miss Hale! Or, well…Mrs. Thornton!" The girl gulped, her cheeks flushing.

Margaret vaguely recalled the girl's name to be Jane, and she smiled graciously. "How do you do, Jane?"

John tilted his head toward the maid, acknowledging her silently, then said, "Help Mrs. Thornton to her room. She's had a long journey."
Jane smiled, then nodded spastically. "Yessir. Yessir. Miss—Missus, won't you come with me?" She hurried down the long hall, and Margaret paused for the briefest of moments.

"Go on," John softly urged her. "You are the lady of the house now."

She nodded, then followed Jane down the long hallway. Much to her dismay, she dreaded meeting John's mother. And Fanny. The girl was such a pea-brained imbecile most of the time, and her moods were mercurial at best.

"Well, Mrs. Thornton, here is yours and the master's room." Jane ushered her into a large suite, in which sat a matching set of furniture including a large four-posted oak bed, dressing table, bureau, and desk.

"Why—why, it's beautiful!" she exclaimed, walking over to the bed and running her hand along the luxurious quilt draped across it. "Thank you…it's beautiful. It's lovely."

Jane just smiled, ducking her head. "Sit down now, Mrs.—"

"Jane, if you wouldn't mind, please don't call me Mrs. Thornton. I feel as if there is only one Mrs. Thornton is this house, and it isn't me." She smiled, trying to soften her words that she knew were true.

The maid's mouth fell slightly open, then she clamped it shut. "Yes'm. Miss—Miss…"

"Margaret."

The smiled came back. "Miss Margaret. What a pretty name for such a pretty lady." Jane pressed her into a chair in front of the dressing table. "And if you don't mind my askin'," she said as she unpinned Margaret's disheveled bun, "how was the trip?"

"Wonderful. I couldn't have dreamed of a better time." At that moment, she wished with all her heart that she could be back in Spain. Away from the hovering cloud of doom that was John's mother.

But she wished it even more so when she heard the door crack open. Margaret glanced in the mirror. Mrs. Thornton's reflection stared back at her, looking just as stormy and forbidding as ever. No…Not when her hair was in disarray and her clothes dusty from the long journey.

"Why, Miss Hale…or rather—"

"Margaret, if you please, Mrs. Thornton," she said, turning in the chair. Jane took a surprised step back and nearly dropped the pin she had just removed.

Mrs. Thornton nodded brusquely. "I have heard that you had an enjoyable time in the southern climate."

Margaret didn't miss the woman's accentuation on "southern," but she tried to fumble past it. "Yes, it was wonderful."

"John tells me the same," she said woodenly, raking her gaze over the room, then over Margaret, as if she found her wanting in every aspect. A judgmental storm cloud, at that.

"Yes. Well, it was."

"I hope you can adapt to our severe Northern ways as you once tried. If you have any concerns or questions, please feel free to ask me."

Margaret dropped her gaze from Mrs. Thornton's penetrating eyes. "Of course." That was the last thing that she would ever do.

"Good day, Miss Hale," Mrs. Thornton said after a moment of silence, seemingly forgetting that Margaret was no longer a Hale. "I shall leave you to your recuperation from such a long journey."
Margaret nodded politely, then sagged in relief when the door clicked closed. What have I done? How can bear living in the same house with her?

Jane cleared her throat nervously. "Would you turn around, please, Miss Margaret?"

She sighed. "Yes. Thank you." She straightened, and after a moment, said, "I believe I shall need a long, hot bath after this, Jane."

"Yes'm. Yes'm. I'll get it right away."

Margaret knew a bath wouldn't solve her problems, but at least she wouldn't feel like a dirty rat when she had to face John's mother again.

Chapter Two

"Mr. Thornton! Glad to see you've safely returned from your journeys. How fare ye?"
Williams, his overseer, fell in step beside him, and John nodded politely. "Very fine, thank you. But I am glad to get back to the mills," he said as he stepped into his office, then continued toward where the cotton mills were running. The incessant whirring of the machines was music to his ears, more beautiful than even the finest Beethoven sonata. Their silence had haunted him, and when he had thought they would be silent forever, it had been nearly unbearable. But not more unbearable than never seeing Margaret again.

Yet now, he had both—Margaret, the woman of his dreams, his life, his love; and the mills, the very lifeblood that ran through his veins. He was a Thornton, after all.

"I'm sure ye are. She's doin' well," he said, looking around the mill. "It's a good sight for me old eyes to see—one that I thought I wouldn't see again."

John reached the door and laid his hand on it to open it. As he pulled it open, his breath caught in his throat for the slightest moment as the familiar, yet so very beautiful, sight.

The cotton swirled through the air, looking like fresh snow. The employees walked dutifully among the machines, the yards and yards of cotton coming into existence from the unprocessed plant material. His lips turned up into a smile as he thought of Margaret seeing the cotton for the first time. How beautiful she had looked, awe written all over her face.

"Well, Mr. Thornton, these machines are needin' a bit of repair before we can get 'em runnin' again. Harry's been tellin' me that you told 'im to keep a tight hold on the expenses, especially before ye came back."

"Thank you. I shall look into it. You've done a good job, Williams." He stopped, letting himself savor the factory he thought he would never see again. And now he had it, because of Margaret. Longing for her welled up inside of him, despite that he stood in the factory he had poured his life into.

"Thank ye, sir. Thank ye. See here, these two, they be needin' a few parts." The overseer motioned toward the still machines.

"Hmm. I see," John murmured, glancing down at them and frowning. Disuse must have caused it, for the months after the bankruptcy had worn hard on the machines.

"Yessir. Well, I'd best be on my way. 'Tis time for me to take my shift."

"Thank you, Williams."

The man nodded, then hurried off.

John laid a hand on the cold metal of the still machine, then looked back out over the large expanse. White, snow white. He shook his head, smiling, then headed out of the sorting room.

His office was the same as he had left it, except the large number of envelopes and papers littering it. He had much work to do now. Three months away would make him behind for quite some time, as he had only let Williams take care of the most urgent of issues. This was his mill, and he wasn't going to let it fall to pieces again as it once had.

But now was the matter of finances. He strode down the hallway to the accountant's office. Harry Kennedy was the one man he trusted with all his money, even though he was puzzled by the man's odd habits. He insisted on wearing one of two wool sweaters every day, one striped and the other an unsatisfactory brown color, so unlike the normal clothing of the day: a cleanly pressed button up shirt, coat, and cravat. The man was a stickler for organization, yet he sat by one moldy window, day in and day out, despite other's suggestions to perhaps clean the window. Harry would merely raise an eyebrow at the offensive suggestion before returning his attention to his ledgers.

John knocked on the door out of courtesy, knowing that he wouldn't get a reply. The man rarely answered, so he pushed the door open.

"Yes?" The man looked up, his glasses having slipped to the end of his nose. He shoved them back into place, surprise lighting his thin features. "Oh, Mr. Thornton! Sir! How do ye do?"
"Very fine, thank you. And you look as if you are faring well." He glanced sideways at the window. Still moldy. He'd expected nothing less. In fact, he would be worried for his accountant if the window had been cleaned.

"Well, yes, thank ye, sir." He slipped the glasses off his face. "Sit down, sir."

John took the chair across from Harry, then the man spun the ledger book around. "Your finances are lookin' mighty well, sir. Except Williams' been after me all three months to get those machines fixed. But I wouldn't, because the master said no' too."

"Thank you. Yes. How much will it cost to repair the machines?"

"Most likely around five 'undred pounds, maybe a wee bit more."

"Hmm." John scanned the ledger, eyeing each meticulous entry. Despite the man's odd habits, he couldn't ask for a better bookkeeper. "All right. Allot the amount for the repairs. We need those to be running as well."

"Yes, sir. Whatever ye be wishin'." Harry took up his pen and started scratching away.

John read through all the entries. When he was content that all was right with the finances, he stood. "Thank you. I am glad to see that you have continued your fine work."

"Always, sir." Harry gave a mock salute, flashing a grin, then looked down at the books again.

John smiled to himself as he left Harry's office and headed toward his own. Paperwork awaited him, but the sooner he could finish, the sooner he could go home to his wife.

Night had fallen, but thick clouds that seemed continually present in Milton obscured the stars. Yet John didn't notice as he walked from the factory, stopping only to make sure the gate was secured, then headed toward his home.

As he trotted up the steps, he remembered the day so long ago when he thought that Margaret was forever lost to him, that he'd never see her again. The anguish he had felt when he had lost the mill had been nothing to the pain that had smothered him when Margaret had driven away that long-ago winter day. Look back. Look back at me.

He pulled the door open, still hardly able to believe that Margaret was indeed his wife. Mrs. Thornton. He smiled to himself at the thought.

"John! So late again. You can't even come home early one night after being gone so long to speak to your mother? If I did not know you better, I would think you loved the mill more than your own mother."

She glided into the room, and John gladly embraced her. "Mother, you know I wish to see you, but there is much to do at the mill. Nevertheless, I'm glad to be home."

She didn't say anything for a moment, her arms still wrapped around him. "I missed you," she whispered into his ear, almost sounding close to tears.

John started, pulling back. "Mother—"

"I'm glad you're home. How is the mill?" she said brusquely, taking him by the arm. "Did you find it well?"

"Yes, yes…very much so." He sat down next to her on the settee.

"I'm glad." She chuckled. "I was running it."

He shot her a concerned look.

She waved her hand lightly, laughing. "Don't worry; not that much. I followed your wishes. I only assisted Mr. Williams occasionally."

He slowly exhaled. "You are a formidable woman."

She tilted her head, then patted his cheek. "That's how I raised such a fine son."

John rubbed her hand lightly. "I'm glad I'm home. And I'm very glad to see you again."

She smiled, basking in the light of her son's love.

He frowned, glancing around the room. "Where is Margaret?"

Her face soured, but she looked away before he could see the full extent of the expression. "She's upstairs, I believe. She retired after supper."

"Ah. I see." He stood, then kissed her lightly on her cheek. "Good night, Mother."

She nodded. "Good night."

He left the room and hurried up the steps. He hadn't seen Margaret since that morning. After being with her nearly constantly for three months in Spain, even a few hours made him miss her all the more.

He twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open. Margaret's back was toward him, as she sat at the writing desk he'd bought for her. However she could think of so many things to say to her insipid cousin was beyond him.

She turned as he clicked the door shut, and her face lit up. "John!"

"What are you doing, my love?" he asked softly, stepping toward her. He bent over to her level, and she raised her head, meeting his lips. Ah, how he loved her…

She leaned back slightly, a smile dancing on her lips. "Writing Edith. I have been quite forgetful on my part. Sholto is such a big boy now, I'm sure. He's no longer a babe. We should visit them sometime soon."

And the name of the name of the woman's son … He'd have to be sure Margaret didn't burden their children with such horrors.

"Of course. Whatever you want," he murmured as he straightened, untying his cravat. "When do you wish to go?"

She tilted her head thoughtfully. "I will have to write her and see what she says."

He threw the necktie aside. "Do you already long to leave Milton?" he questioned gently, wondering if Margaret would grow discontent despite her vow that she would love the North.

"No, no…though I am finding Milton just as rough as it was when I first arrived."

He frowned. "Why? Who is bothering you?" Protectiveness rose up inside of him as he slowly unbuttoned his vest.

Margaret laughed uncomfortably. "If I told the truth…" She met his gaze haltingly. "Your mother, for one."

"Mother? What is she doing?"

"She's not thrilled that I am your wife, I suppose."

"She'll just have to learn," he growled. He loved his mother dearly, but he loved Margaret even more. She was everything to him.

"Don't be angry, John," Margaret said, rising. She walked over toward him, and a smile crossed her face as she looked up at him. "She will learn. It just takes time."

He tilted his head in a negative gesture, blinking. "I don't know."

"Besides, I'm happy." She fingered his collar, her eyes dancing. "I'm happy wherever you are."

The anger melted away, and love for her surged through him. He smiled down at her. "As am I, my love," he murmured before he kissed her. "As am I."

Chapter Three

Margaret waited patiently as Jane poked another pin into her scalp. She tried not to flinch, as the girl was doing her best. That didn't stop tears from burning her eyes. Really? This girl was supposed to be a ladies' maid? By the time her "maid" got through with her hair, she was sure she would have several pins embedded in her brain. Oh, the thought… She would have to strive to be kind. The girl really was trying her hardest. At least, she assumed.

"Well, now, Miss Margaret, 'tis the most beautiful bun I've 'ere made. What do ye say?" Jane held up a mirror for her to survey the work.

Margaret smiled politely. "Oh, yes…it looks…very nice." Never mind the pain radiating out along her head. For one horridly fascinating moment, she dared to picture the worst bun Jane had ever formed. In the next moment, she wished that she were back home in Helstone, where she had done her own hair, dressed herself—in essence, taken care of herself. John had insisted that she have her own lady's maid. Perhaps she would mention to him that Jane needed some days off. As did her scalp.

But then those thoughts fled, as she was truly happy here. She was where she was supposed to be, by her husband's side.

"All right, then, what shall ye wear today? The light blue, or the gray? Or maybe the mahogany suit?" Jane ran her hand along the mentioned clothes, frowning with concentration.

"The gray will be fine." Margaret stood, brushing past her. "I've a mind to visit some of my friends. It's been a long time."

Jane dropped her hand from the dress and cocked her head. "Who're ye visitin'?"
"The Higgins's." She pulled the dress out of the bureau and walked over to the bed, setting the dress across it. "I haven't seen them since the wedding."
"Oh. Well…here, mum, let me 'elp you get that on—"

"No, no…I can dress myself. Go on downstairs," Margaret said with a dismissive wave. At Jane's crestfallen look, she smiled to soften her words. "Make sure the table is ready for breakfast." Hopefully, her maid could handle that. She could already picture Mrs. Thornton's infuriated face as she stood over the shards of the broken breakfast dishes.

"Yes'm." Jane slipped out of the room, looking a bit deflated.

Margaret sighed. She really didn't know how to handle a house full of servants. Being raised a parson's daughter, she had never expected to live with such ease. And with ease came more responsibility, it seemed. For everyone to whom much is given, from him much will be required.

The verse ran through her mind unbidden as she secured her dress. Did her life of ease and wealth actually bring more troubles than her old one? It seemed to be.

Margaret shook her head, dispelling the thoughts as she slipped her shoes on. Because she had been blessed with such wealth, she would try to help others who were less fortunate. Even if Mrs. Thornton objected.

"Miss Hale. How are ye?"

Margaret smiled at Nicholas Higgins, relieved that he seemed none the worse for the wear after her three-month absence. "Very well, and you, sir?"
He ushered her inside the small house, as the Higgins's still lived in the poor district of Milton. "We be doin' all right. And, I s'pose ye're no longer Miss Hale, but Mrs. Thornton." He chuckled. "How's it feel to be called the same name as the ol' queen of Marlborough Mills?"

Margaret laughed along with him, feeling as if she'd come back to exactly what she'd left. She set the basket of groceries on the table. "I still don't think I'm Mrs. Thornton. Some people call me that, but I don't think I'll ever live up to it."

"Or live down to it," Higgins muttered under his breath as they sat down at the table.

"Here ye go, Miss Margaret," Mary murmured, setting a cup of tea on the table.

"Thank you, Mary," Margaret smiled as the girl slipped away and ducked her head. "How are the rest of the children?" Boucher's children, after his poor wife's death.

"Growin' up. Eatin' more 'n more."

"I brought some things for you all," Margaret said, motioning to the basket she had set on the table. "I—"

"Miss H—Mrs. Thornton…we don't be needin' your charity," Higgins interrupted her. "We make do with what we have."

Margaret set her cup down, feeling vaguely uncomfortable. "I know you don't; there are just so many children. And you are supporting them all."

Higgins held up his hands. "But we're not refusin' a gift from a friend."
Margaret tilted her head, then smiled. "Thank you, Nicholas." Finally he seemed to have come around to realize she only wanted to help him and the children.

"Don't need to be thankin' me. Thank you, ma'am." He sighed, glancing out the window before his gaze came back to hers. "How's the master?"
Margaret felt the smile on her face widen at the mention of John. "He's well."

"I saw a glimpse of him a few days ago, lookin' at the mill like 'e'd never seen it before. He must have missed it."

"He's been working tirelessly," she agreed and sighed slightly.

Higgins noticed. "He's not forgettin' ye, is he?"
She shook her head. "No. I know what that mill means to him, and to his family."

"Sure. Especially Mrs. Thornton. The elder, that is," he added quickly.

Margaret shook her head, smiling faintly.

Higgins cocked his head for a moment, then asked, "How's Miss Dixon? Did she come with you?"

"Dixon?" Margaret paused, her brow furrowed. What a strange question. She could have sworn she saw something close to affection in his eyes. "Why, no, she's in London right now. But she's expected in a few weeks. Why so?"
He looked down at one of the children, clearing his throat. "Just curious." He suddenly stood. "I've got to get on now. My shift starts in a half hour."

She stood as well, then smiled at one of the children, perplexed by his odd questions. "How are you?" she murmured, patting the little one's head gently. The little girl smiled back at her, then ran off. Such a shy little thing.

"She's always like that at first," Higgins said as he fetched his hat. "She'll warm up eventually to visitors." He glanced at Mary. "I'll be back tonight."

She nodded, going back to stirring something on the stove.

"Are you going to work?" Margaret asked as she stepped toward the door.

"Yes'm. Care for an escort?"

She smiled, nodding, and followed him out the door. He closed the door with a dull thud as Margaret took in the desperate poverty so many people lived in. "How is it with the mills now?" she asked quietly as she tucked her hand into the crook of Higgins's elbow.

"Not very good. Most are back to their old practices. And the union's no longer an option." He sighed heavily as they ascended the steps heading out of the slum area. A little boy extended a hand, and she stopped, pulling a coin out of her purse and placing it in his little palm. He didn't meet her eye, then scurried off. "Guess there's not much we can do to change anything. The masters are goin' to be masters."

She frowned. "But isn't there something that you can do? Higher wages are only fair. Look at all these starving children, even without the strike."

Higgins shrugged. "The only way I know is strikin'. And you saw what 'appened then."

Margaret fell silent as they walked, wondering what she could possibly do. Perhaps she could talk to John about it tonight.

A humming sound reached Margaret's ears, signaling that they had nearly arrived at Marlborough Mills. Though at first the constant noise had been aggravating to her, she had learned to accept it as part of her life.

She glanced around the yard, and her eye caught on a tall, quickly striding figure. In spite of herself, her heart sped up. John. She wondered if she would ever get over the blushing newlywed stage.

His gaze landed on her, and the dark expression on his face fled. She slipped her hand off Higgins's arm and hurried to her husband. "I didn't even tell you good morning," she declared as she reached him.

John pulled her into a quick embrace, murmuring in her ear, "I'm sorry. But you're so beautiful when you're asleep, and it was early." He pressed a light kiss to her temple, then released her.

Margaret felt a flush creep up her neck, but she couldn't contain the smile that danced on her lips. Thankfully neither of the two men seemed to notice.

"Higgins. How are you doing?" John firmly grasped the other man's hand.

"Doin' well. Miss Margaret came and visited us, and I was 'bout to leave for my shift. Decided she needed someone to escort her."

"Thank you. I appreciate it." He glanced over at her quickly, seeming to check if she were unharmed. Then he turned back to Higgins, mentioning something about the mill.

Margaret waited for a moment, then decided that the conversation had turned to the mill, of which she knew nothing. She brushed John's hand as she walked past, and he looked over at her. She smiled and gave him a little wave, then hurried away.

Back to Mrs. Thornton for her. Perhaps she should take up mill working.

Chapter Four

"You've got a fine lady in Miss Margaret, there, Master."
John smiled to himself as he stepped beside Higgins. "She is." He paused, then added, "I just wish she wouldn't think that she must travel around Milton by herself. It's much too dangerous."

"She's been doin' it for a while, sir. Long before she was married to you."

John entered the building that housed the actual mill. "She's my wife now, not the parson's daughter."

"It's the Christian way, I suppose." Higgins gave him a mock salute and walked away toward the mill room.

The Christian way. John mused the thought as he headed toward his office. If she had to do that, then so be it. Anything to make her happy.

He pushed the door open, seeing that his desk was still full of too much paperwork. More and more letters to be read and accounted for, decisions to make, buyers to find…

He slipped his coat off, hung it on the coatrack, then took a seat in the chair behind the desk. Eyeing the stack of new mail that had just come it, he mentally debated whether to finish the stack he was on or work on the new arrival. He picked up the new stack, planning on merely scanning the senders.

The first was from a buyer, the next from a company that sold the part that was needed for the machines. He picked up the next envelope and frowned. It was small and white, with clean, crisp edges and a plain red seal on the back. He flipped it over. No return address.

Frowning, he quickly sliced the envelope open. A single sheet of paper was inside, and he pulled it out. Broad, masculine strokes dominated the page.

Mr. Thornton,

As the master of Marlborough Mills, you should be aware of the dangers that come from such a factory. Fires have killed hundreds—caused only by one careless employee. Machines can be misused, inflicting death on innocent men, women, and children—caused by one careless employee.

You are aware of the risks and dangers. So is your young wife. I believe that in the future you should be more vigilant, for you never know what could happen.

The note was unsigned, and John let it fall to the desk. Whatever was this? Of course he knew the dangers of a mill; he had lived with them most of his life. He was stricter than any of the masters on smoking. His overseers were some of the best in Milton, able to spot a "careless employee" immediately. He had installed the latest and best improvements in his mill. Improvements that made it the safest in the city.

This wasn't just a warning; it was a threat.

He stood suddenly, the chair scraping loudly on the wood floor. Margaret. He had to make sure she was safe.

As he laid his hand on the cold doorknob, his logical mind stopped him from continuing further. Margaret was fine. He had seen her mere minutes ago. The note was nothing. It was probably just a competing mill owner sore over his losings. Nothing more. Nothing to worry about. Or so he told himself.

He forced himself to walk back to the desk and sit down. He would handle this slowly and cautiously. He couldn't mention it to Margaret. She would only be scared for what he hoped was no reason.

He ran an anxious hand along his mouth, trying to think of all the possibilities. An angry employee? Surely not with the rich red seal on the back. Yet it wasn't a wealthy man's seal. The sender had applied it improperly, and the wax ran in uneven patterns.

He mentally filed through all the possibilities. He'd only encountered problems with a few employees –Becker, Thomson…Stephens. John had been forced to reject the man a number of times after he'd found the man smoking in the mill. Smoking after he'd been warned of the dangers. But that had been years ago, and surely the man had moved on.

Nothing else came to his mind. Maybe it was just an employee blustering.

But even if it were, he needed to talk to his overseer. If anything abnormal were to happen, he needed to be aware of the letter.

"Yessir, of course. No. I saw nothin'. Everyone's doin' their job as they should."

"Thank you," John replied after he had told the overseer what had happened.

"You don't worry 'bout it now, Master," Williams said. "Everythin' is goin' fine. It was probably just a letter. Nothin' more to come of it."

"I hope so." He looked around the factory for a moment, contented at the sight of the busy mills despite the fear that niggled in the back of his mind.

"And your wife? Does she know?"

John's head snapped back around. "No. And I don't want her to know of it," he ordered. "Don't let her hear a word. She'll only worry."

"Yessir." The overseer ducked away, heading back to his post. It was nearly time to close for the night, and many employees kept glancing out the window at the fading sunlight.

Just then, the familiar sound of the whirring machines eased, followed quickly by a harsh clicking. The machines winding down to their stillness for the night. John stepped out of the mill room and made his way back to his office as the last rays of sunlight threw shafts of warmth along his path.

He yanked the office door open. The letter still lay where he had left it, seemingly taunting him. He stared at it for a moment, then snatched it up and tore it into little shreds, tossing it into the wastebasket. He had no need to read it again; the words were emblazoned on his memory, and he couldn't risk Margaret even getting a glimpse of it.

He glanced up at the clock, then remembered that his mother had wished for him to be at supper tonight. Poor Mother, always looking out for his wellbeing.

The thought stopped him as he finished his work for the day. What of Mother? If something happened to her—

He ended the thought before it could form, because nothing was going to happen to Margaret or his mother. Paranoia was not going to gain control of him. The letter was nothing, and it was best to just be slightly precautious, not terrified of what the letter may mean.

Trying to push all his dark thoughts aside, he hurried out of the mill and headed home. The door swung open before he could reach it. Margaret. The sight of her eased the tension he hadn't known he had been harboring. "I'm sorry I'm late."

She smiled, impulsively rising on her toes and planting a kiss on his cheek. "You'll have to answer to your mother," she said, then took his coat from him.

John put a hand around her waist, ushering her toward the dining room. "She'll be fine." He unconsciously tightened his arm around her.

"John! Do you not realize was time it is?" Mother's words were scolding, but her tone wasn't. She smiled as she reached her hands out to him from her place at the table as he took his seat.

He took her cold hands in his own and brushed a kiss across them. "I'm sorry I kept you waiting."

She shook her head, but a faint smile flashed across her face. "You were working, and that's a fine excuse."

As they began the meal, light conversation flowed between the three, Margaret and Mrs. Thornton actually seeming to accept one another's company for once. He looked around the table, seeing the people he loved most. Worry crept into his mind, and he wondered if he could keep his family safe.

Chapter Five

"As the lady of the house, you are expected to wear fine clothes. Not the ones you wore as a parson's daughter."

"Mrs. Thornton—" Margaret was quite sure the lady didn't need to dictate which style of clothing she wore. After all, she wasn't the somewhat vain and flashy Fanny.

"I insisted. We are to go to the dressmaker today to buy you some dresses and the like. If you wish to be a Thornton, you must dress like one."

Margaret sighed as she door clicked shut, and she didn't miss the barb the woman had just thrown at her. Jane jabbed another pin into her scalp, and Margaret suddenly stood. "That woman," she hissed, stepping toward the window. "Am I not allowed to have my own life, not being watched by that awful old crow of a woman?"

Jane didn't answer. Of course, Jane didn't answer. But thankfully she didn't stick in another pin either.

"Telling me that my clothes are not suitable. They are plenty fine! I have many dresses, and skirts, and blouses. Who does she think I am, a pauper?" She spun from the window, and Jane flinched backward, a pin still in her hand.

Margaret blew out a hard breath, then collapsed into the chair. "Please finish." She might as well get the daily torture out of the way.

Jane swallowed hard, her expression one of a warrior summoning up courage for a battle. "Yes'm," she muttered, cautiously inserting a pin. Thank goodness.

Finally, Jane was finished, and Margaret was dressed and ready for the dreaded shopping excursion. As her hair had been finished, her anger had cooled, and she had decided anew to try to get along with John's mother. If such a thing were even possible. Most of the time, she doubted it. He loved her so; could she not learn to love her as well? But it was more than difficult.
Mrs. Thornton met her at the door, and they walked outside together. Neither said a word, but Margaret chanced a hopeful glance toward the mill. No sign of John. She sighed, resigning herself again to the fate that awaited her.

"Fanny will be joining us at the dressmaker's. She's getting some new dresses as well."

"Oh. Yes." That wasn't a surprise. The girl insisted on having new dresses of the latest fashion, regardless of the fact that the ones she currently had were perfectly acceptable.

"She is much too large for her current ones."
Large? Margaret looked over at Mrs. Thornton. Fanny had never been classified as "large."

"She's expecting a child."

"Oh, how wonderful!" She was truly happy for Fanny, even though the girl did irritate her at times. "When?" She had heard none of this splendid news, even though Fanny had been at their wedding over three months ago.

"Due in two months' time. She has not been very happy about her…increasing size. Until I suggested a trip to the dressmakers'."

Margaret smiled to herself as they arrived at the store. Mrs. Thornton opened the door. A little bell rang, announcing their presence.

"Mrs. Thornton! And…Miss—Mrs. Thornton, as well!" A balding man with a small French mustache greeted them heartily. Really, when would people stop stumbling over her last name?

"Yes. We—"
"Ooh, Mama! Look what I found! Isn't it beautiful?"

Margaret would know that voice anywhere. Fanny. She turned to see her peeking out from between some racks. "Fanny!" she said happily, hurrying toward her. She took the girl's hands in hers. "Congratulations."

"Oh…yes, yes, thank you." Fanny glanced down at her wide waistline, then rolled her eyes, looking anything but thankful. "It's so tiresome." She sighed dramatically. "My poor little feet. If I cannot fit into my slippers, I don't know what I shall do! It's bad enough that I can't fit into any of my dresses anymore."

"Come now, Fanny. Stop complaining, and we shall look at the fabric." Mrs. Thornton brushed past her daughter to inspect a bright blue fabric.

Margaret sighed, glancing around the store. She really didn't need any more clothes, yet John's mother insisted. More decisions as to what would be suitable each day for her to wear as a wealthy mill owner's wife.

She again felt the weight settle on her, but she squared her shoulders and walked toward Fanny and Mrs. Thornton.

"Seven new dresses! Is that right, Margaret?" Fanny looked down at the receipt, frowning as they left the store. "How many did I get, Mama?" she said plaintively.

"Ten," Mrs. Thornton replied leadenly, seeming to have reached the end of her wits with Fanny. "And that's quite enough. You have two more months until the child is born, and I am sure you will survive just fine with ten dresses."

"Oh, but it's an eternity!" Fanny sighed heavily.

Margaret laid a hand on her arm. "It won't be that long. And once you see your baby, you know that it was all worth it."

Fanny sniffed. "I doubt it. I wish to avoid this grievous ailment the rest of my life. And after he is born, why, I expect he will never stop wailing. Oh … the horror … the ruins of my life." She stopped suddenly, and Margaret glanced over at her. Fanny tilted her head. "Why…it's Mr. Lennox!"

Margaret immediately stiffened. Henry. He was a mere three paces away from her, and a sour look dominated his face. As it usually did. If anything, he looked more stiff and uncomfortable than ever. He brushed a hand across his coat tails, grimacing.

She dropped her head, hoping that perhaps he wouldn't recognize her.

"Margaret. What a surprise."

Her plan had obviously failed. She raised her head, meeting his gaze firmly. "Mr. Lennox, how do you fare?"

"Fine." He looked from Mrs. Thornton to Fanny. "Ladies." Touching the brim of his hat, he looked at Margaret again. "Enjoying the wonders of Milton at last? London does not suite you?" He frowned. "I wonder why that rich husband of yours doesn't take you out of this God-forsaken place?"

God-forsaken? Hadn't that been what her own mother had said? She straightened. "No. I am enjoying being back in Milton."

"Oh? I was so sure that London suited you much better."

Margaret didn't miss his meaning. She didn't want to hear anything else he had to say. "Good day, Mr. Lennox." She stepped past him, not able to stand another look at his smug face.

She kept walking, faster than would seem polite for a lady of her station, but she didn't exactly care at the moment. The gall that man had! Mister Henry Lennox. What would her life have been like if she had married that man?

"Margaret! Where do you think you're going?"
Fanny's voice drifted up to her, and she forced herself to stop and turn back around, clenching her purse in her hands. Fanny and her mother finally caught up with her, but none too soon.

"What was the meaning of that?" Mrs. Thornton demanded. "That man's rudeness!"

"I—I don't know." Margaret suddenly faltered, her anger dying away. She felt a certain kinship with Mrs. Thornton at the moment, as they were united in their dislike for Lennox. Then Mrs. Thornton tore the peace away.

"You should. You are, after all, a Southerner. You don't know our ways."

"Never will," Fanny quipped thoughtlessly, swinging her purse around in a girlish fashion.

Margaret tried to ignore the stinging remark, but today she couldn't. She would never belong here.

After what seemed like eternity, she walked up the front steps of the house, yanked the door open, and hurried to her room. She couldn't face Mrs. Thornton again after her words. Nothing else has been spoken on the endless trip home.

She threw her reticule on the bed, taking a shaky breath. Never had she been one for hysterics, and now would not be the time. She stepped to the window and allowed her her fingernails to bite into the window ledge.

Employees hefted bales of cotton about as a few puffs of cotton lazily wafted in the stagnant air. Dark clouds hovered over the city, covering it in the same gloomy shade it so often was. Everything in this place was shrouded in shades of black. Everything.

Images of Helstone danced her in her memory: her old home, her parents, Frederick. The sunny days filled with happy times. Nothing like dusty, smoky Milton.

I don't belong here. She turned away from the window and paced around the room. Mrs. Thornton's gravelly voice filtered up the steps, but she couldn't make out what the woman was saying. Not that she wanted to: she couldn't bear to hear another word out of the woman's mouth.

She needed her husband. He was the only one whom she could actually confide in, yet it seemed as if he were busier and busier by the day. Every morning she awoke, he was already gone to the mill, and many days he was home late in the evening.

Stepping over to the desk by the window again, her hand brushed something. She glanced down. Her Bible. Her conscience struck her. She had not been faithful in her devotions for months, and in her wedded bliss, she had pushed the Lord aside.

More failures. What would her father think of her now? And her poor mother? And the Lord? Though she had never been a completely devoted believer, she had trusted Christ at a young age. Now she felt as if she had nearly forgotten the God who loved her.

With a sigh, she picked up the soft leather-bound book up. Her throat tightened as she flipped through it, then stopped in the Psalms.

"From the end of the earth will I cry unto thee, when my heart is overwhelmed: lead me to the rock that is higher than I. For thou hast been a shelter for me, and a strong tower from the enemy. I will abide in thy tabernacle for ever: I will trust in the covert of thy wings. Selah."

The words were sweet on her tongue, and she softly closed the Bible. Her eyes closed. Forgive me. Help me.

Peace flowed into her heart, for He was with her even when others failed her. Even when she failed Him, He was still her Rock, unchanging and faithful even when she changed and was faithless. He was enough for her, always and forever.

Chapter Six

"John, I want to go to church."

He lowered the newspaper he was reading. "Today?"

"Of course. It's Sunday." Margaret slipped out of bed, as she had slept in late, yawning, and ambled over to his chair by the window. "Is that all right?"

He would do whatever she wanted. He uncrossed his legs, straightening his suit coat. "Of course."

"Will your mother come?" She sat down at her dressing table and started brushing out her hair.

"I suppose. Fanny and her husband are occasionally in attendance as well."

Her brushing paused, then she continued. "All right."

He stood, setting the newspaper aside. "Has Fanny been bothering you? I wish her to be your friend."

She set the brush down, then started twisting her hair into an ornate bun. Without Jane's help. John smiled to himself, realizing that his insistence that his wife have a lady's maid was unnecessary.

"She's…well…" Her voice trailed off, then she sighed. "She can be difficult. But then again, I'm sure she just speaks without thinking sometimes."

He shook his head. "I'm sorry. She's difficult." He sensed that she wanted to say something else but didn't. "What it is?" he asked gently.

She pushed in one more pin, then let her arms fall. "Nothing. Nothing at all."

Her voice was too bright. "Margaret—"

"It's nothing. Please." She stood, then smiled at him. "I'm fine."

What was it? She wouldn't tell him. Had she received a strange letter as he had? Had something happened?

Then Jane entered the room, smiling widely. "Miss Margaret. A new dress today?"

"Yes…"

John left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. He would have to get her to talk to him, regardless of if she wanted to or not.

Mother's hand was tight on his forearm as they entered the church. "Was this her idea?" she hissed disapprovingly in his ear.

"She wanted to, Mother. It's only natural—her father was a parson, you remember," he replied smoothly.

Mother sighed. "Parson or not, we Thorntons are not expected to attend services every week. She should learn that."

John didn't answer her. He had been in this church many times in his life for Christmas services, Easter services, christenings, and funerals. His own father's funeral. He bit back the slightest tinge of anger and bitterness at the thought—the father who had left his wife and children because he couldn't provide for them. But now was not the time for such thoughts, as it was the past, and nothing could change that.

Masters weren't expected to attend weekly services, as Mother had said. They were accepted as the proud, rich men that they were. John considered himself a good man, as he was much more just than the other masters. Yet perhaps he should consider attending church more often, especially if Margaret wished it.

She led them to a pew near the front of the church, gracefully taking her seat. He sank down beside her, and she took his hand in hers. "Thank you," she whispered, smiling. He rubbed her hand with his thumb, then turned to face the front as the minister started the service.

John forgot most of what the minister's sermon, as the man droned in a monotone voice about a passage in the book of Numbers. Margaret seemed intensely focused, while Mother's head bobbed forward, as if she were fighting sleep.

"And let us end with a hymn. Please stand and sing."

The words reached his ears, and he automatically stood. Margaret pressed a hymnbook into his hands as the huge pipe organ rang through the sanctuary.

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me
I once was lost, but now am found
T'was blind but now I see.

The melody was sweet and unknown to him. Margaret sang along quietly, as she had often said her singing voice was not her best quality. But more than that, in the back of his mind, he puzzled. Grace…grace. A wretch…like me? Am I not a good person? I do my best…

T'was grace that taught my heart to fear
And grace, my fears relieved
How precious did that grace appear
The hour I first believed.

Believe. That seemed much too simple. God would not accept him just because of simple belief. John Thornton had worked and striven his whole life, and he knew the only way to God was the same way he had gained wealth. Hard work.

Through many dangers, toils and snares
We have already come.
T'was grace that brought us safe thus far
And grace will lead us home.

The hymn ended, the last note echoing through the sanctuary. The minister dropped his head, said a prayer, then dismissed the churchgoers.

Margaret laid her hand in the crook of his elbow as they left. John's earlier thoughts dissipated as he looked down at her. She looked happier than she had in a long time. "That was wonderful. Thank you, John."

"You're welcome. Anytime you wish."

Mother shot him a slightly disguised glare, but his wife's happiness was more important that his mother's at this point.

"Wherever are Fanny and her husband?" Margaret asked as they walked along. The sun shone down on them, heating the black fabric of his coat.

"They don't come regularly," Mother bit out.

"Oh." Margaret's grip tightened, and they continued silently.

As they walked, his thoughts strayed. To the mill. The finances, the new machines that were to be installed. The letter.

The fear that ran through him made him tug Margaret closer to him. Surely it was just an empty threat. Yet it had sounded like so much more. Who could be behind it? And would they try anything?

He glanced around, suddenly overly aware of their surroundings. Every person that passed by that he didn't recognize made him suspicious. Or was it someone he knew? Someone he trusted?

The questions were endless, and he didn't have any answers.

Chapter Seven

Mary slipped inside the door, and Margaret took the basket from her hands. "You didn't need to bring it back," she said lightly.

Mary shook her head. "Father told me I needed to." She looked up, around, and down. "This is where you live now, with the master?"

"Yes." Margaret cringed at the wonder in the young girl's expression. True, the Thorntons' house was large and ornate, but now that she had been living there for a month, she had grown used to it. Mary was used to her one-room cottage down in the slums.

"How's your father?" she asked kindly, turning her attention back to the girl.

"He's fine. He's workin'. Long hours this week and next to meet the orders, he be tellin' me."

"Oh. Is everything all right? With the rest of the children?"

Mary nodded. "Yes, but the Phillips's down the street, their children have fallen ill. I'm worried." She sighed. "Barely enough money to support 'em."

Margaret wondered if she spoke of her own family or the Phillips. "Where does Mr. Phillips work?"

"Marlborough Mills, just like Father."

Margaret frowned, then Mary touched her hand. She smiled, suddenly resembling her older sister, Bessy, who had passed on a few years ago. Margaret felt a hollow ache in her chest, missing her friend.

"Now, Miss Margaret, don't be worryin'. You can't do nothin' about it. We'll get through, as will they." She gave Margaret's hand one last pat then let herself out of the door.

Margaret watched her descend the steps and meld into the group of people scurrying around the yard.

She sighed and closed the door. Everyone was busy with a job to do, while she sat at home. If only she could do something to help all the poor families who were suffering in their poverty. It seemed as if her little baskets did nothing to avail the problems.

John. The thought sprang to her mind, and a smile curved her lips. Yes. He would help her, and he would listen to her, she was sure.

Margaret stepped into the dim light of the mill, her eyes slowly adjusting from the light outside. She reached John's office. The door was slightly ajar, and voices came from the inside.

"I don't know," said an unfamiliar voice, not John's.

"I don't want it to be spread about…" That was her husband's voice, and she couldn't hear the end of the sentence.

Questions swirled through her as she wondered what the two men were speaking of. Yet it didn't matter; it was probably only financial matters. She pressed lightly on the door.

The door swung open, revealing John, sitting at his desk, frowning over a piece of paper, and another man, patiently waiting as he sat in the chair across from the desk.

John raised his head, his expression dark. "Margaret," he said, rising. "Is something wrong?"

The other man, dressed in a horridly colored striped…sweater? She cringed at the strange styling, so different from the normal dress of gentlemen as he stood, turning to face her. His hair brushed the collar of his sweater, longer than the style of the day. He slipped glasses from his sharp nose but smiled kindly, if a bit awkwardly, at her.

"No, nothing's wrong," she replied. "I just wanted to talk to you about some things, if you have a moment to spare."

"Of course." He stepped out from behind the desk, then looked over at the sweater-man. "Harry, this is my wife, Margaret Thornton. Margaret, this is Harry Kennedy, my accountant."

"Ma'am. 'Tis a pleasure." He bowed at the waist.

She nodded politely, then Harry slipped out of the room, a large book clutched under his arm. He closed the door, then Margaret turned back to John. "He seems to be a kind man," she said as she glanced at the piles and piles of books and paperwork.

"Yes, he is," John replied absently, gazing down at her with a strange mixture of love and concern.

She smiled up at him. "What's wrong?"

He dropped his gaze, then moved away from her. "Nothing. What is it you want to talk to me about?" He took his seat in his chair, and she took the chair across from him, feeling very much like a businessman discussing important matters with the master.

John moved a letter aside as she began. "Well, I was just thinking…well, Mary came to visit me."

He raised an eyebrow, questioning.

"Nicholas's daughter." He nodded, and she went on. "I feel so badly for them all, John. They live in such poverty, and sickness runs rampant through the poor districts. I want to do something for them."

He kept looking at her, neutral.

"I take them baskets," she said, "but it doesn't seem like enough. They just keep starving, falling ill, only scraping by…regardless of what I do." She paused.

"Yes?"

"I believe that as the master of Marlborough Mills, you should increase the wages of your employees."

John stiffened. "Margaret, I am not here as charity. I do the best I can by them. I give them a fair wage. I cannot fight illnesses for them. I cannot help them all."

"But it wouldn't be much of a problem to increase their wages."

He closed his eyes. "You don't know anything of how to run a mill." His words were tight but not unkind. "Let me run the mill, and you can keep helping them. Take them baskets, if you have to."

"But it's only temporary! And there are hundreds and hundreds! Couldn't you take the initiative and raise the wages? Then the other masters would as well! Don't you see?"

"No, I don't." He stood, and for the first time since their marriage, she detected anger behind his voice. "I already lost the mill once. I'm not about to do that again, and raising wages is a dangerous action. You do not understand what you are asking me to do."

"I'm only asking—"

"Margaret, you are asking something that is not possible. Now, please, I have work to do." He turned away from her, reaching for a book, obviously attempting to end the conversation.

"Is it not my money?"

Her words hung in the air. John slowly turned back to her, his gaze cutting intensely into hers. "Again," he said slowly, articulating each syllable, "you do not understand what you are speaking of."

"Or do I? You don't realize what kind of poverty these people live in! We live in a comfortable house with servants at every beck and call." She paused, then cried, "You don't understand such things because you're so used to ease and comfort!" Once the words were out of her mouth, she immediately regretted them. Yet she could not ignore the plight of the starving and suffering people.

John's face looked as if it were cut from granite. "Go home, Margaret. We shall discuss this later." He stepped to her side, offering his arm to her. He was making her leave.

"John—"

"Come," he snapped. "I have work to do, and you are only further delaying me."

How could he be so uncaring? It was her money, after all. She had given up her wealth for him to start Marlborough Mills again. Did he not remember that? Did she not get any say in how her money was invested?

She rose with a start, obstinately ignoring the arm he offered her. "Good day," she bit out, then left the room, slamming the door behind her.

Anger coursed through her veins, and she ignored the curious glances of a few of the employees. The employees she was trying to help, yet her husband ignored their plight.

She had been sitting in the parlor for two hours, waiting for John's return. It was nearly midnight, and still, there was no sign of him. Thankfully, Mrs. Thornton had retired an hour ago, and the house was still and quiet.

Her nerves hummed with anxiety, and she second-guessed herself over and over again as she had for hours after her anger had died away. Had she done what was right? Should she have dared to defy her husband for the mill workers' gain?

The door clicked open at that moment, and Margaret stiffened. She heard John's firm footsteps on the hardwood floor, and she felt him stop right behind her wing chair.

She heard him slowly exhale, and she wondered if he were going to force her to speak first, or if he would take the incentive.

Finally, she heard his low voice. "I did what you asked."

The breath stalled in her lungs.

"The workers received a raise today." His voice was quiet, but sharp.

She twisted around in her chair, staring up at him. He moved away, toward the stairs. "I only did it for you, Margaret. But please don't ask for it again." He wouldn't look at her as he trudged up the stairs, his slow, heavy steps showing his weariness.

Margaret thought of rising to her feet and going after him, but at that moment, she didn't have the strength or will to do so. She couldn't face him. Had she forever separated them? The thought sent a tremor through her, and she gripped the chair tightly. No. She couldn't lose him.

She thought of the poor, starving children who would have more food, more clothing, more warmth…yet still she didn't know if it were worth it.

Chapter Eight

A dull headache pounded in the back of his skull, making the numbers in front of him blur. John dropped his head, massaging the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. Everything had gone wrong today: Williams had been sick, someone had gotten into Harry's ledger, a machine had stopped working, one of the new parts had already broken. Slickson had barreled into John's office early that morning, demanding why on earth he had raised the wages at Marlborough Mills. It had taken two hours to placate the man. What else could go wrong today?

Whatever he tried to do, he couldn't distract himself. Margaret. Over and over, he heard her words. Heard his angry replies. He shouldn't have spoken to her in such a way. He loved her desperately. Yet he couldn't contain the anger that ran through him when she acted as if she were more qualified to run the mill. More qualified than he was. Raising wages was no small thing; it had consequences upon his mill and others'. If he had the rest of the masters' ire resting upon him, it would only make his life so much worse.

What had Margaret been thinking? Did she really think that she knew better than him? Did she not trust him?

"Mr. Thornton. Mail for ye." Harry bustled about, overstressed because of his tampered-with ledger and the extra duties heaped on him because of Williams's absence. "Anything else I can do for ye, sir?"

"No, no," John replied, waving him off. His accountant's frayed nerves did nothing for his headache or level mind, or his lack thereof.

Harry nodded a bit spastically and left the room. John sighed as he looked down at the mail. More and more problems, it was obvious as he flipped through them.

Then his gaze landed on a small envelope, marked with a red seal. His blood froze in his veins, and he tore the letter open.

Mr. Thornton,

You might believe you are safe. You might believe your family is safe. Safety is only an illusion. An illusion which I can easily shatter.

The note was again unsigned, and John threw the letter down. He slammed his fist into the desk, feeling with satisfaction the pain that coursed through his hand. Who was this? What did they want? Was it an employee? Had he not given them what they had wanted? No, they always wanted more. It was never enough.

He rose from his seat, growling. Whoever was doing this was going to be found out, and now. This was not going to continue if he had anything to do with it.

John strode through the yard of the mill, anger still coursing through his veins. Nothing he had tried had brought anything to fruition. He asked Harry. He asked the postmaster. He questioned certain employees who seemed doubtful as to their loyalties. Nothing had brought the results he so desperately wanted.

Now he had to face Margaret. Half of him longed for her, the other half was still angry with her.

He yanked the door open. Mother and Margaret were both sitting in the parlor, silently doing embroidery. He stalked to coatrack and hung his coat upon it. Why ever couldn't they get along? The tension between them was so thick he could feel it. Just what he needed after the day he'd had.

"John," his mother said, rising from her seat. She frowned as she looked at him. "What happened?"

He had no doubt that his expression showed how he felt. "Too many things to count," he muttered. He glanced over at Margaret, who was still busy sewing.

"Whatever is wrong?" Mother grabbed him by the arm and led him to the settee. He sank into it, dreading the certain interrogation. "Is it the mill?"

He sighed. "Just a bad day," he said, leaning into the back of the settee. Closing his eyes, he prayed she would not question him any further.

He heard Margaret stand, and he opened his eyes. She set her embroidery down, then murmured, "I'm tired. Excuse me." Slipping from the room, she disappeared before he could say anything.

Mother watched her, then turned back to him. Her eyes narrowed. "I knew she was not good enough for you. Look at her, when her husband obviously needs her love, she walks away! Why did you not listen to me, John?" she hissed.

He closed his eyes again. "No. No. Don't say such things." Even in his anger, he couldn't listen to Mother speak badly of Margaret.

"Don't you understand? She doesn't know how to be your wife. She only knows how to be a rebellious daughter!"

He didn't have the strength to reply, and his head ached.

She sighed, and he felt her take him by the hand. "What is it."

Where could he even start? There were too many problems to even talk about them all. Yet Mother had always been there for him, through thick and thin. She had seen her family through her husband's self-inflicted death and subsequent bankruptcy. She was not innocent to the ways of the world as Margaret sometimes seemed to be.

"Williams was sick. Harry was a ball of nerves. Slickson shouted at me for an upward of two hours over the wage raise—"

"What?" He opened his eyes at her sharp tone. She didn't know about the raise.

He sighed heavily, not wanting to say the next words but knowing that he must. "I gave them a raise yesterday. Please don't ask about it, Mother."

"Why? Because she made you?"

How did she know all these things? "How did you know?" he replied despondently.

"I know that girl," she said roughly. "She will use you until the day you die, John, for her charity."

"No. Please stop." He straightened and gazed into her eyes. "Mother, I love her."

She looked heavenward. "I know you do. Though I don't know how you can manage. Her mere appearance is like fingers scraping across slate to me. And that blank look in her eyes. And that wheezing way she talks. Really, John." She sighed, her shoulders rising and falling in agitation. "But you don't have to tell me that you love her. I don't know why, but it's obvious that you do."

"No. I want you to be kind to her, and Fanny also."

"She is not good enough for you, and she never will be."

"She is more than I deserve," he muttered. Shaking his head, he turned aside. "I don't want to argue with you, too," he said, sounding battle-weary. He rubbed his forehead.

"I don't know why you chose her," she finally said, "but if you insist, I will try to like her. I am quite certain I will fail. But for you, I will try."

"Thank you."

She squeezed his hand, and they were silent for long moments. Then quietly, Mother said, "What else is bothering you? There's something else, isn't there? It's not the mill, is it?"

"No. The mill is fine."

"Then…?"

He looked over at her, and in her eyes, he saw understanding. Compassion. A mother's love. He dropped his head. "I've received threats—Margaret as well."
"What!" she cried, her eyes wide with fear. Fear for him. "John! Why have you not told me—"

"Calm yourself. I'm sure it's nothing."

"Nothing! Really, are you that naïve? I know you're not. What did they say? When?"

"Warning about the dangers of the mill." She opened her mouth to say something, but he cut her off. "I don't know what it is, but you must promise me not to tell Margaret. Please."

She frowned, then nodded. "She wouldn't be able to bear the strain."

"I don't want her to know."

"You must do something about it. You have to! John, you could be killed!" Anger roughened her voice, but something else lurked in her eyes: fear. Fear for him.

Suddenly, exhaustion overcame him, and he slowly patted her hand, feeling a despondent helplessness. "Stop worrying. It's probably nothing."

"You don't know that."

He smiled gently at her, too tired to argue further with her. "Nothing has happened. You cannot worry yourself. You must stay calm. Trust me."

"John—"

"Good night, Mother." He kissed her cheek and patted her shoulder, suddenly feeling guilty for confiding in her. She should be living out her older years in peace. Peace and comfort that he should be able to provide. "It will look better in the morning," he added, trying to reassure her.

He left the room, heading upstairs. At that moment, he wished he had a father to confide in, someone who would understand but also be able to bear the worries. Yet he had no such father, as his hadn't been able to bear financial struggles. If only he had a strong, capable father.

"Through many dangers, toils and snares we have already come. T'was grace that brought us safe thus far and grace will lead us home."

The melody weaved through his mind. Grace. The grace of God. Grace that brought us safe this far.

Feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders, he wished that he had that grace, and the protection of a heavenly Father. Yet he knew he would never have that unless he earned it.

Chapter Nine

Nicholas Higgins had never been a nervous man, but at this moment, he was.

For one, the sky above him was leaden, promising rain. It couldn't rain. Not today. It could rain any other day in Milton, but it couldn't rain today.

Second of all, the flowers he held in his hands were drooping. They looked depressed, but it was the best he could find and afford.

Third of all, was the food in the basket he held high enough quality? She was coming from London, after all.
And last of all, but not least important—actually, the most important was this: would she remember him? Would she still care for him?

A drop of rain landed on his face, and more anxiety wound through him. He was a fool to think that she would care for him. Especially on this day, when the sky could unleash with torrents of rain at any moment.

He shifted awkwardly, growing more and more impatient by the moment. He'd heard from his sources around town that she would arrive in Milton today. Yet…was this too soon? She would want to change, see Miss Margaret…

He was about to leave when he heard the sound of carriage wheels. Swallowing hard, he pulled himself as tall as he could and tightened his grip on the bouquet of wilting flowers and the basket of questionable food.

A carriage pulled to a stop right in front of the house, and the driver jumped down from the tall seat, sending a scathing glance at Higgins.

He took a step back, knowing he probably looked like a lousy vagabond.

Then she stepped out of the carriage, and his breath caught in his throat. She looked around, then her gaze landed on him. He stepped forward before he let himself turn and run away. "Miss Dixon. 'ow are ye?" He shoved the flowers toward her.

Dixon stopped in her tracks, her eyes wide. "Mr.—Mr. Higgins! 'ow are ye, sir? I'm doin' well."

"Very fine." He pushed the flowers toward her again, hoping and praying she'd take them.

She looked down at them strangely for a moment, then took them, her plump hands caressing the stems as if they were the most precious things in the world. "What is this for?"

His heart sunk. "I—I, well…I…" She would refuse him. He would be left in the street, holding this basket.

"For me?" she smiled. The driver came alongside her, bags in hand.

"Yes'm," Higgins quickly replied.

"Oh, why…thank you!" A smile spread across her broad face, and her double chin quivered in a strange rhythm.

"Ye're welcome."

"Miss," the driver said, a bit sharply. "Your bags."

"Oh—" she looked at him for a moment, then back to Higgins. "Just set them on the back porch, please." She still didn't look away from Higgins.

The driver nodded curtly, then took disappeared around the back of the house.

Higgins smiled at her, then extended his arm. "Miss Dixon? Would ye care to take a walk with me?"

"I did enjoy London, it's just that I'm glad to be back with Miss Margaret. I'm not sure if it will be the same now, with her marrying that master."

Higgins chuckled, joy reverberating through his whole being, as Dixon's hand was tucked into the crook of his elbow. "He's a fine man. And the missus will keep him in line, I'm sure."
"Which one?" she said drily, raising at eyebrow at him.

"Both," he replied, and they both laughed. They reached their destination, the outskirts of the cemetery. It was the only area in Milton that was not smoky and filled with loud people. He was pretty sure Mary would chide him to no end for eating a picnic with Dixon in the cemetery. She had such strange ideas about romance and all. To him, a cemetery was peaceful, a good place for a picnic.

"Here, Miss Dixon," he said, reluctantly removing her hand from his arm so he could lay a picnic blanket out on the ground.

"Well, thank you!" she cried, her plump facing turning red. She sat down on the blanket, smoothing her skirts. "This is…this is so nice. Nicholas."

Higgins started at her use of his Christian name, and hope spread through him. She thought it was nice. See, she didn't care about the location. "You're welcome." He sat beside her and opened the basket. "Bread, cheese, and a small bit of fruit. I'm sorry it's not any more."
"No, no. It looks scrumptious. I didn't notice the color of the fruit. It's magnificent."

Higgins nodded his agreement, but he didn't care about the color of fruit, for goodness' sake. He cared about Dixon. The color of fruit, indeed. Only a fool would speak of the color of fruit when the woman he loved sat before him.

Soon, their meal was nearly finished, with only a few pieces of bread and cheese left. Higgins reached over and grabbed both of her hands in his. "Miss Dixon," he said slowly, "I have missed you." They had met briefly when Margaret and John had been on their honeymoon, and the time had been much too short, as Dixon had only been visiting for a few days, preparing Margaret's house. Yet in that time, they had fallen hard for each other. Love, such a strange thing. Strangely wonderful.

"I missed you desperately. I despaired of ever seeing you again."

"Never will we be separated again, will we?" he said softly, leaning forward to kiss her. Their lips met—

"Mr. Higgins? 'ow are ye? Oh—oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disrupt anythin'."

Higgins cursed under his breath, pulling away from Dixon so fast he thought he might have injured his neck. "Harry Kennedy. What do you want?" he growled. Couldn't the man see he was busy? He didn't need him and his awful sweater interrupting such a romantic moment.

Harry jauntily sauntered up, hands in his pockets, his signature sweater brightening the dreary day with its horribly wonderful colors. "'ow are ye? 'ello, Miss. 'ow ye do?" He grinned, flashing perfect white teeth.

"I'm—I'm doin' well. Won't you join us?" Dixon glanced over at Higgins, and he restrained the urge to roll his eyes. He didn't need this idiot accountant to join them.

"Thank ye, I will, ma'am. Mmm, I'm hungry. Thanks, miss!" Harry plopped down beside Higgins and snatched up a piece of bread as a dreary rain began to fall.

Higgins sighed heavily. Everything had fallen apart. All thanks to the oblivious man who now shoved the remainder of their lunch into his mouth. He was not disturbed by the poor quality in the least. Not that Higgins cared.

Chapter Ten

Margaret stepped into the back door, a basket in her hands. A soaking rain fell outside, and she was cold and tired and wet.

Yet as she set the basket on the kitchen counter, she realized that the house was completely silent. Usually Mrs. Thornton was bustling around, doing something or the other: commanding the servants, writing letters while discussing plans with the maids, sometimes traipsing through the halls… Margaret shook her head at herself, but she couldn't help but think of her mother-in-law creeping throughout the old, dark halls of the house. Terrifying, completely terrifying.

"Jane!" she called as she entered the parlor, wondering where everyone was. No reply sounded, and she frowned.

She walked slowly through the house, and dread built in her heart. Had something happened at the mills? John…

At that moment, the front door banged open, and Jane and a few other of the servants entered, looking equally as wet as Margaret. They stopped in their tracks, looking sheepish and ready to be shamed.

"Wherever have you been?" she asked, only slightly annoyed at their absence. And she had known nothing about it, and she was supposedly "the lady of the house."

"Oh, Miss Margaret!" Jane cried happily, her face now lightened by a smile. "Miss Fanny had her babies!"

Margaret cocked her head. "Babies?" she repeated blankly. How would she stand two more people like Fanny?

"Yes'm! She had twins. Looks just like 'er 'usband, too." Jane beamed. "Mrs. Thornton is there right now."

"Oh, I must go—"

"No, no, Mrs. Thornton said that you didn't need to, as Miss Fanny needed her appropriate rest," Jane cut her off, brushing past her. "Now, now…ye need to change. Come along now."

Margaret slowly followed her, once again feeling as if she didn't belong at all in Milton. Mrs. Thornton didn't even wish for her to visit Fanny and her children. She sighed but resolved in herself that one day she would belong.

"Margaret." John welcomed her as he stepped in the door, sounding only a bit warmer than he had for the past days.

She stood, forcing a smile on her face. Of course, he didn't even show a hint of one. Instead, he walked over toward her, his face solemn, seeming even more so that usual. Dark shadows underscored his icy blue eyes, and weariness lined his face. He tossed a letter onto the table. "I'm sorry to be the bearer of such news…" His voice trailed off, and he shook his head, his hand going to his mouth. "Mr. Bell died last week. In Argentina."

Mr. Bell? He was dead as well? She sank back onto the settee, grief overcoming her, choking her. She pressed a hand to her mouth.

"I'm sorry." John's fingers brushed her shoulder, and she had an overwhelming desire to jump into his arms and cry until all the pain was gone. But no, she could not do that. If Mrs. Thornton saw such a display of emotion, it would just be more leverage against Margaret. Right now, she was caring less and less about leverage.

"I…" Her voice broke, and she took a shaky breath. "When is his funeral?" She kept her gaze firmly planted on the ground. She couldn't look up, or she would indeed burst into uncontrollable tears.

He didn't reply for long moments, then he reached down and grasped her hand firmly, pulling her to her feet. "I don't know." Then he pulled her into his arms, and Margaret felt the tears pushing on the back of her eyes more strongly, nearly breaking down the dam she had erected to keep them in place all these years.

She tried to take a deep breath, inhaling John's minty scent, but her breath was ragged against his coat. His hand traced slow circles in the small of her back, and she felt him press a kiss onto the top of her head.

After a moment, he released her, dropping his arms.

"John. You're home." Mrs. Thornton swept into the room, actually looking quite happy. "Fanny has given birth."

"Oh?" He sounded tired and disinterested, but his mother pushed him into the settee.

"Yes. Twins, John! Twins! Two grandchildren!"

Mrs. Thornton kept gushing about the new babies, and Margaret knew she couldn't hold her raging emotions too much longer. She slipped out of the room and walked up the steps and into her bedroom. Closing the door behind her, she closed her eyes, tears still burning.

She opened her eyes, slightly blinded by pooling tears, and saw her Bible. Snatching it up, she opened it to the Psalms. Psalm 23, her father's favorite. "The Lord is my Shepherd…" she whispered, treasuring the sacred, holy words.

When she reached the end, she felt a bit calmer, yet her heart still ached. Mr. Bell, her father's closest friend. One of her last ties to her father. That only left John.

She sighed, flipping through the Bible. It fell open to Hebrews chapter nine. Her eyes landed on a verse. "And as it is appointed unto men once to die, but after this the judgment:"

Poor Mr. Bell. The judgment. She wondered if the man had been saved, and it was painful to acknowledge that she didn't know. If he were not, he was burning in hell for all of eternity.

Margaret closed the book, then drew the curtains closed. She readied herself for bed, brushing out her hair and braiding it, then changing into her nightgown. As she lay down, John still hadn't come up. Still talking to Mrs. Thornton.

She closed her eyes, bringing the quilt up to her chin. A thought entered her mind, and it made her breath catch. Was John saved?

They had never spoken of it overtly, and Margaret berated herself for it. She had truly fallen away from the Lord. Was that not the most important thing in life, to follow the Lord and trust Him?

No wonder their marriage was falling apart.

She started at the thought. Was their marriage failing? But how could it succeed if they were not grounded in the Lord Jesus?

A sinking feeling started in her stomach, and guilt washed over her. What a mistake she had made. "Lord, forgive me…please. Please. I don't know what I have done."

If John died today, he could be in hell. The thought was impossible to bear. Not her beloved husband. No, not the one she adored. No…

The door clicked open, and John stepped into the room. She tossed the quilt aside, then pushed herself upright. "John?"

He glanced over at her. "Did you hear of Fanny?"

"Yes, yes. It's wonderful. I will go visit her tomorrow." She didn't tell him that Mrs. Thornton had not wished her to visit Fanny at all.

"Yes." His reply was short, and whatever warmth he had earlier shown had dissolved.

Margaret leaned back against the headpost, fingering the quilt as he took off his cravat and waistcoat. He took a seat on the bed, removing his boots, and the silence stretched between them.

"John—I…I need to talk to you."

"About what?" he murmured, laying down beside her, closing his eyes.

Margaret fiddled with the quilt as she looked over at him, scared to even ask the question she knew she must. "Are you a believer?" she asked softly.

He didn't open his eyes. "Of course I believe in God. I'd be a fool not to."
"No…do you trust Christ?"

He sighed, then tilted his head to look over and up at her. "Margaret, why are you asking me these things? I try to be a good man. I go to church with you. I treat my workers…fairly."

She didn't miss the pause but plowed ahead. "If you do not trust Jesus, you will go to hell. You know that, don't you?"

"I understand that I will stand before God someday." He closed his eyes.

"And with your own righteousness you will go to hell. John, don't you understand? If you died, you would be in hell! Please, listen to me. Please."

He didn't answer for a moment after her anguished plea, then said, "I do the best I can. If it's not enough, then it's not enough."

"What do you mean? You know you can't earn your salvation. The Bible says that."

"I just think that we have to do enough good things to balance it out, Margaret. I've worked my whole life for what I've earned, and it must be the same with religion," he snapped.

She felt ill. No, this couldn't be. Why had she been so careless? She loved him. She couldn't let him continue this way. "No. That is not right. The Bible says that it is grace that saves us. God's grace."

He fell silent for so long she thought he slept.

"John?" she prodded, desperate for him to talk to her.

"Good night, Margaret," he said thickly, and she knew the conversation had ended. She turned down the lamp, and despair settled over her like a thick cloud. For once in her married life, she questioned if she had done the right thing by marrying him.

Chapter Eleven

The morning was cool and misty as John left and closed the door quietly behind him. Margaret thankfully had not risen, and he avoided any further conversations with her.

The discussion from last night drifted through his mind, and again he regretted speaking to his wife sharply. He loved her, yet he was aware he had a temper. A temper that easily flared now with so many problems. He would have to do better from now on.

"The Bible says that it is grace that saves us. God's grace."

Her words floated through his mind, but he pushed them away. It was fine if she wanted to think such things; she was indeed a parson's daughter. Perhaps that was why she was so gentle, so loving, the Margaret he knew. Yet he could not accept this grace offered to him; he had never been shown grace in his life. It wasn't different with God.

He stepped into his office, taking off his black coat and hanging it up. The mill brought welcome distraction, but when he glanced over at the stack of mail, paranoia crept upon him. He shook his head at himself. This was ridiculous. He wasn't about to live in fear that someone was going to harm him.

But Margaret…the thought struck him. What if someone tried to hurt her? He couldn't live with himself. What was he thinking? He would have to keep her closer. Anger still simmered in him, ashamedly at her. She was such a generous, kind, loving person, and he a greedy mill owner.

He sighed as he sat down in his chair. He knew he wasn't good enough for her; never would be, never could be. Yet he couldn't let this discontent and anger stay in him, festering toward her.

"Mr. Thornton, sir!" Harry burst into the room, without knocking, as he customarily did. Of course, he was wearing his favorite striped sweater. Today, the clashing colors made John's stomach roil with nausea.

"Harry. What's wrong?" He dreaded the accountant's answer, as he had nearly had a mental breakdown when someone had fiddled with his ledger.

"Nothin', sir. Nothin' at all. I'm just givin' ye the report."

Report? John stared blankly at the man, then he remembered. "Yes, yes…the report." The weekly report. How could he have been so forgetful? "Thank you." He had never forgotten it, not in the many years he had been running Marlborough Mills.

Harry cocked his head, blinking. "Are you a'right, sir?" He set the report down on John's desk.

"Yes. That will be all. Thank you." He opened the report and started reading down the columns of numbers.

Harry paused and took a breath as if he were about to speak, then closed his mouth firmly. "Yes, sir," he muttered and left the room.

The report was long and tedious today. Never before had it seemed as mind-numbing as it was now. After a half hour of studying it, he closed it. He couldn't concentrate. All he could see was Margaret's hurt expression.

He stared off into space, brooding over the many problems that weighed him down. The raise. New anger rose in him as he thought of Margaret's insistence. Did she not understand that he did not run a charity?

Suddenly, he heard shouts. He glanced out the window, thinking it to be an unruly group of boys. Nothing abnormal. He drew in a deep breath—

"No." He started from his chair, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

Smoke. It couldn't be, not here where he was more than strict on the smoking of pipes. When he found the employee responsible … Well, he had better hope Margaret was nowhere near to see what followed.

He hurried from his office, momentarily glancing at all the paperwork that would combust so easily. He would just have to take his chance—the employees and cotton were more important.

More shouts filtered through the air, then the alarm bell. Strong smoke entered his nose. No. No. Not here. Not at Marlborough Mills.

He bolted into the sorting room, scanning the area. In the far corner was a flame, rapidly spreading. As he watched, dumbfounded for the slightest moment, it flared, reaching a large bale of unprocessed cotton. It burst into flames.

Two employees batted at it with their jackets as John ran toward them. "Get everyone out, now!" he shouted over the sound of the rapidly spreading fire. Unbidden, gruesome images floated to his mind of other mill fires…hundreds dead.

Employees rushed toward the exits, scrambling for the doors. Screams sounded: the screams of children, women. A sound he'd never wanted to hear.

They ran, trampling over a few innocent victims in their mad rush for the exits.

"Let me through!"

"These are children! Let us through!"

"Get outta me way!"

"We're all gonna die 'ere!"

John whipped off his coat and started trying to smother the spreading fire. The heat washed up on his face and hands, but he barely felt it. This couldn't be happening. No. No.

"Master, ye get outta 'ere!" Higgins shouted as a few employees ran back into the room with pails of water. It would do nothing to stop the fire.

"No! You go on, Higgins! You've got children that are depending on you!" John yelled back at him, coughing.

"No—"

"You 'eard me!" He forcibly shoved the other man away. "It's an order!"

Higgins paused, and the fire spreading by the moment. John was forced to move backward, and he shouted at the other man to leave too. The few that had brought pails of water had disappeared. The flames hungrily reached for the cotton, sending choking smoke through the air.

"Go!"

Higgins grabbed John's arm, pulling him away from the flame. "You're not staying in

'ere!"

John stumbled, then wrenched his arm out of the man's grasp. "I'm comin'. Go on."

Higgins narrowed his eyes, then choked, coughing.

It was useless. The fire was relentless, and it was getting closer and closer, spreading over the mill room. Right now, it was burning about a third of the room, and the rest was soon to follow.

Higgins ran out of the room, and John followed him, though not running. He felt as if he were in a trance, some terrible dream. Everything he had ever worked for was going up in flames before his eyes. What had happened?

He walked toward the exit of the mill, choking, feeling nauseated and dizzy. It couldn't be.

Harry.

The fire was engulfing the offices, surprisingly even quicker than the sorting rooms. Yet he had to make sure his accountant was out safely. The man was so oblivious to everything that he probably wasn't even aware of what was happening.

John paused, watching Higgins slip out of the door. Surely Harry had gotten out. Yet he couldn't leave without making sure the man was safe.

He sprinted down the long hallway as the smoke grew heavier by the moment The flames already licked at his office. He twisted the doorknob to Harry's office. It stuck. With a growl, he twisted it again, then kicked it.

It fell open. "Harry!" he shouted as the smoke spread even more thickly through the room. "Harry!"

"Mr. Thornton! What are ye doin'?" Harry was scurrying about the office, picking up large books frantically.

"Fool! What do ya think you're doing? You're bound to get yourself killed! C'mon!" John strode toward him, ready to bodily haul the man out of the burning building.

"No, one moment! I have to get my ledgers! Ye don't understand…"

John grabbed the man's arm. "You're coming with me. You're not dying over some fool ledger," he said, his throat aching from the smoke. He couldn't think, couldn't do anything except force himself to do what he must. It was too painful to acknowledge what was happening.

"A'right, I'm comin'…" Harry wheezed as he stumbled to the door, his arms full of books.

John lunged toward the door. The doorknob was hot to his touch. He twisted it. It didn't move. He twisted it again. Nothing.

The door had been open. Before.

He whirled, running into his accountant. "Did you close this?" he demanded, coughing.

"No, sir. No. Why?" Harry put his hand out to grab the doorknob, but John yanked his hand away.

"It's stuck—"

The door burst into flames at that moment, and John staggered back, bringing Harry with him. He covered his eyes, gagging, his lungs crying out for clean, fresh air. "The window," he choked out, hoping Harry had heard him.

The smoke was so thick he couldn't see past him, trying to remember the layout of the room. Harry's hand wrapped completely around his forearm, tugging him forward. "'ere, Master…"

The smoke eased slightly, and he could barely make out the window. Harry's moldy window. He fumbled with the latch, then succeeded in loosening it. Stifling a cough, he pushed up on it.

Nothing.

What was going on? He pushed again, harder. It didn't budge. Harry bent over coughing beside him, still clutching the books to his chest.

John cursed under his breath, then yanked a book out of Harry's arms. "Mr. Thornton!" his accountant cried.

Too bad for the ledger. He pushed Harry back slightly, then swung the heavy book at the window. Glass shattered, spraying shards everywhere.

"Go on!" he shouted, and Harry stumbled to the window.

He took a glance at the ground two stories below, then slipped out of the window and disappeared from John's view, ledgers clutched tightly to his chest.

John took one more look back at the door, and a foreign smell met his nose. Kerosene.

Kerosene. The fire was intentional.

A spasm of coughing rent his body, and he was vaguely aware of the fact that his vision was dimming. Who had done this? Why? Who would be capable of this? An employee?

He shook his head, trying to make himself think logically. This thinking would be done best out of a burning building. He pulled himself out of the window, trying to breathe the fresh air still heavily tainted with smoke.

Then black shrouded his vision, and everything fell away.

His last thought was of Margaret.

Chapter Twelve

"Mama, I think that the dark blue would go well with Franny's complexion. And the light pink—no the light blue would go well with Annie's."

Margaret watched Mrs. Thornton's reaction. Fanny's mother nodded, looking relatively annoyed with her daughter's long shopping trips. It seemed as if even Mrs. Thornton was tired of the extended outings. The twins, named Frances and Anne, were always dressed in the most stylish of infant clothing, and the need for new dresses was almost endless. Margaret decided that when she had a child, he would have regular newborn clothing. Nothing with lace. Nothing with silk.

"All right, then…that's forty-two outfits…" Fanny mused, frowning. "That's three weeks. I think that should be enough for now."

"For now," Mrs. Thornton said with a smile on her face, for once. She ushered Fanny toward the counter, and Margaret followed happily. The trip was almost over. Why had they even dragged her along?

The proprietor's eyes grew wide at the amount of orders Fanny requested. His family would eat well tonight.

Margaret's gaze wandered over the store as Fanny's orders were taken, and she picked up a package of buttons on the counter, fingering them absently. Her mind, as usual, drifted to John. If only they could be as they once were—madly in love. If only…yet she wondered if it would ever be the same again.

Just then, the door burst open, letting in the sounds of shouts and distant ringing bells. Bells—alarm bells?

"Mrs. Thornton! Miss!" A young boy ran into the store, panting, stopping just short of Margaret and John's mother.

"Yes?" Mrs. Thornton said disdainfully, looking completely calm, but she glanced out the window, and her brow furrowed.

"There's been a fire—"

"What? A fire?" Terror shot through Margaret, and she grabbed the boy's shoulders tightly. "A fire? At Marlborough Mills?" Where was John? Could anything else go wrong?

"Yes'm—"

"John!" Margaret cried, panic spreading through her as she hurried to the door, yanking it open. She rushed out of the store, then broke into a run in the direction of the mill.

Her heart raced, and her breath came fast and shallow. John. No. Oh God, no…please. No. It was all she could think. Spare him…

She reached the gate to the mills, fighting through the thickening smoke. The gates were open, and employees were struggling to get out. She fought her way against the tide of the exiting employees, her side aching from the strain of running.

Smoke filled the air, and she coughed. Flames shot up from the top of part of the mill's roof. No…

An older man was walking, or rather stumbling about, waving his hands in the air. The few strands of hair that graced his head were blackened by smoke, as was his disheveled clothing. "Remain calm! I am the fire marshal!" He paused his wild ranting, not seeming to notice that no one paid him any mind. Margaret barely recognized him—the fire marshal, Blaze Burns. "Lemme show ye somethin'!" he crowed. "Ye're walkin' along…"

Margaret didn't hear the rest, and she didn't care. She had to find her husband.

A cluster of men surrounded something. One of the men in the group…John? Her breath caught in her throat. No, no…it was Harry. The accountant.

She ran to his side, gasping for air. "Harry! Harry!"

He spun, his eyes wide. His arms were tight around some thick books, his glasses bent, and his hair a bit singed. Fluffs of cotton decorated his clothes and hair, giving him the look of a man who'd been stranded in a blizzard. "Yes'm?"

"Are you all right? Where—where is…the master?"

"I'm fine." He coughed, then nodded forward, worry furrowing his brow.

He didn't say anything more, and Margaret stared up at him. "Where is John?" she cried.

"Ma'am—"

She stepped forward, pushing her way through the cluster of men. No, no…

"John!" she screamed, horror lancing through her. He lay on the ground motionless. He was dead. No. Oh, God, no…not him. God! Please…

She threw herself to the ground beside him. "John! My love! Oh no…not you!" Tears clogged her throat. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't move. Nausea burned her throat. Oh, Lord…

"Mrs. Thornton." A man knelt beside her. "He's not dead. Calm yourself."

"He's not dead." "Oh, God, thank You. Thank You." The tears spilled over as two men picked up John's limp body.

Margaret tried to steel herself, yet it seemed impossible. John. No...

The men carried John toward the house, which still stood safe from the burning flames despite the proximity to the mill. Margaret never left his side. She pushed the door open, letting the men inside. "Upstairs," she said as firmly as she could, but her voice sounded weak even to her own ears.

The two employees settled John on the bed gently, then turned to Margaret. "We'll send for the doctor, miss," one of them murmured, then slipped out of the room, leaving her alone with her husband.

Margaret closed her eyes, unable to restrain her emotions any longer. "John…no. What has happened? Why?" she pled, her hand fumbling as she tried to untie his tight cravat. It loosened, and Margaret closed her eyes, taking his hand in hers. Sobs overtook her, and she raised his hand to her mouth, pressing a kiss to it as she once had so long ago.

The doctor arrived in less then ten minutes, just a little after Mrs. Thornton and Fanny had arrived. Mrs. Thornton was nearly in tears herself, something Margaret had never thought to see, as the woman was so stalwart and heartless.

The doctor shooed all three of them out of the room as he tended to John, then appeared from the room, his bag in hand. "With proper rest and nutrition, I'm assured he'll make a complete recovery. He's sustained a few cracked ribs, a concussion, and one too many lungfuls of smoky air. Nothing a little bit of time won't heal." He smiled as he handed Mrs. Thornton a bottle of medicine. "Give this to him twice a day, and make sure he drinks plenty of water and gets plenty of sleep."

"Yes. Thank you, Dr. Donaldson," Mrs. Thornton said stiffly, taking the bottle, then handing him some money.

Margaret sagged against the doorjamb, feeling exhausted, terrified, and nauseated. The doctor seemed much too cheery to have come from a patient's bedside. She doubted if his words were true. After all, no doctor had been able to help her poor mother and father.

"Go on home, Fanny," Mrs. Thornton ordered suddenly. "Anne and Frances need you. John will be taken care of perfectly fine without you."

Fanny frowned. "But I – he's so poor and helpless and pitiful." She lowered her voice and looked around conspiratorially. "And those dear children cry incessantly. Why, I can't get a moment's rest."

"Go on." Mrs. Thornton waved her off, and Fanny turned and walked down the hallway, pouting.

Margaret followed Mrs. Thornton into the room. Mrs. Thornton pulled a chair over to John's bedside, but Margaret merely sat on the edge of the mattress, taking John's hand in hers. They didn't say anything for a long while, both lost in their thoughts.

Tears welled in the backs of Margaret's eyes as she gazed down at John's well-loved face. The noble nose that would have been too long and too sharp on anyone else. The well-set eyes, now closed. She closed own eyes, forcing the tears to not spill over. "We must pray," she whispered to Mrs. Thornton, her voice loud in the quiet room.

Mrs. Thornton didn't say anything for a long moment. "If you wish."

She tightened her grip on John's hand. "Dear Lord, please heal him. Heal him now. Oh God—" her voice broke, and she drew in a sharp breath. "I can't lose him. Please, heal him and bring him back to us, whole and healthy. Please, dear Lord Jesus. Be with us always. In Jesus' name, Amen."

"Amen," Mrs. Thornton murmured low, and Margaret raised her head, shocked the women would say anything. She didn't look at Margaret, but a tear slipped down the older woman's face.

Margaret reached over and grabbed her mother-in-law's hand, squeezing it gently. Mrs. Thornton raised her teary eyes, then looked back down, blinking rapidly and sniffing.

John's head stirred on the pillow, and Margaret let go of Mrs. Thornton's hand. His eyes opened slowly, unfocused. He blinked a couple of times, and his glazed eyes drifted to his wife. "Margaret…"

"John. Oh…" She closed her eyes, so thankful to see him awake. She leaned down, planting a soft kiss on his forehead. "Rest now, love. It's all right."

"H—Harry?" His rasp was so unlike his velvety baritone.

"He's fine."

His eyes closed, and he coughed. Pain washed over his face, and Margaret gripped his hand tighter.

"John…my dear boy." Mrs. Thornton placed a hand on his cheek, a tear slipping down her own again. "Sleep. I promise everything is well." Her voice was gentler than Margaret had ever dreamt possible.

His eyes opened again, and his gaze swung to his mother's. The faintest of smiles curved his mouth, then his eyes fell closed again.

Margaret drew in a shaky breath, trying to calm herself, yet all she could do was thank God that the love of her life had been spared. Because if he had died, he would be suffering eternally in flames much hotter and endless than the ones he had survived.

Chapter Thirteen

Bright light nudged at his eyelids, and he slowly opened his eyes. He blinked rapidly, his eyes frantically attempting to adjust to the blinding light.

John took a breath, his throat feeling as if he had swallowed glass. The breath made a cough rise, forcing its way out. Pain lanced through him, drawing another cough, and he sagged back into the mattress.

The fire. A strange man running around the mill yard, rasping, "lemme show ya somethin'…" What in the world? The memory was vague, but that one statement would not leave his mind.

What had happened? A wild employee? A vengeful master after the wage increase? He didn't know.

Yet he did know this: the fire had been purposeful. Kerosene had met his nose as he had stood there. It had certainly been set purposely.

He closed his eyes again. The last few days had passed in a blur of faces: Margaret's, Mother's, even Fanny's, then Higgins's once. He remembered drinking some awful tasting medicine but not much else.

Thankfully, he now felt better than he had in days, yet his throat still ached and his ribs protested with each breath he took.

Never mind that, he had to check on the mill. See how much damage had been done, if any of it remained. He moved the sheet off his body, slowly sitting up. The room swam before his eyes, and his head throbbed. He forced himself to stand, reaching for a clean white shirt that had been draped over the chair.

Agony spread through his chest as he touched the shirt, and the room faded. He sank back onto the bed, taking shallow gasps, trying to clear his vision. This was ridiculous. He couldn't even stand up without nearly passing out.

"John! What do you think you're doing?"

Margaret's voice rang through the room as the door clicked open. The pounding in his head intensified at the shrillness of her voice. What was wrong with him? Normally she didn't sound like that.

"John. Really. You're supposed to be resting," she said in a chiding tone, though he could tell it was false.

She stepped to his side. "Do you have an answer?"

Ah, she was so beautiful. And he'd been so close to never seeing her face again. Never hearing her say his name again. Forgetting the pain, he reached out and pulled her to him, making her sit beside him on the bed, and kissed her.

He felt her giggle as her lips curved against his. She pulled back, a soft smile on her face, yet her eyes were red. "Silly. You're trying to bribe me, aren't you? You don't want your medicine, you bad boy." She was scarily cheerful. It was false.

Exhaustion overcame him, and he groaned as he lay back down. Margaret situated the pillows behind his head, acting very much like an anxious mother hen.

"I'm fine," he ground out, his voice feeling and sounding like gravel.

"No. You're actually not. So drink this." Instead of handing it to him, she slipped her hand behind his head, raising it up, and pressed a glass to his lips.

He drank, wincing at the pain it caused and the horrid taste. Finally, the whole draught was gone, and she laid his head back on the pillow. "There." She patted his hand, smiling much too widely.

He grasped her hand with his. "Margaret," he rasped. He cleared his throat, but it didn't seem to help. "I—I'm sorry."

Her face crumpled. So much for the cheerfulness. He'd known it was false.

"I—"

"No. No. I shouldn't have…" She dragged in a breath. "It doesn't really matter anymore. I love you, John. I shouldn't have threatened our marriage with something like that. You know how to run the factory better than I. I don't—" She dropped her head, silent sobs shaking her shoulders.

John's heart was rent inside of him, and he reached up, despite the pain, and placed his hand on her cheek. "My love," he murmured, raising her head to make her look at him. "No. It's over."

A real smile curved her mouth, and he felt it in his hand. "It is." She sniffed, then pressed her own hand to his. "Rest now. You will get well that way." She rubbed the back of his hand, then gently laid his hand by his side.

Rising, she straightened a few things in the room, then glanced back at him. Realizing he wasn't sleeping, she raised an eyebrow. "You're supposed to be resting."

He smiled faintly at her. "I've been resting for the past three days."

She shook her head, then picked up a book from her desk and handed it to him. "Then read." Again, she smiled, then left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

John let out a slow breath, then looked down at the book in his hands. It was her Bible. He frowned, Margaret's conversation faintly running through his mind.

"And with your own righteousness you will go to hell. John, don't you understand? If you died, you would be in hell! Please, listen to me. Please."

Hell. He would have gone to hell if he had died in the fire. The thought sent a chill through his veins. And he knew hell wouldn't be white, snow white, as Margaret had long ago claimed. He remembered the feeling of the scorching heat behind him, the thick smoke choking him…hell was much worse than the fire he had survived.

Well, maybe he deserved hell. He did. He knew that. He was not righteous and holy like God. He was a dirty, filthy sinner. Never had he doubted that fact. That had been obvious since his childhood.

Yet to get to heaven…one had to be good. Surely his good deeds would outweigh the bad. Perhaps he needed to just work harder. Try to do better. Do more for the poor. He cringed at the thought of raising wages again. But if it meant heaven…

This was all wishful thinking, he suddenly realized. He was so sinful he doubted if any of his good deeds would make up for his wrongdoing. He was destined for hell for all of eternity. Maybe if he were someone like Margaret, he would go to heaven. Yes, she was good; she was lovely; she was righteous. She did much for the poor. He did nothing but strive for earthly treasure. Earthly treasure that had disappeared in a flame.

Anguish roiled through him, despair creeping over him. The mill was gone, everything he had ever worked for. His pride and joy.

Yet at the moment, he couldn't pull his mind from the thought of hell, and even the mill seemed like nothing compared to the threat of eternal damnation. He was headed there, because he knew he was not holy. He could never be good enough. Never.

He sighed heavily, forgetting, and was overwhelmed by new pain. Once it had subsided, he flipped through the Bible. He was sure all he would find was condemnation, but one small part of him hoped.

Flipping to the back, he wondered if he would find something helpful there. His eyes landed on a verse.

But the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone: which is the second death.

John closed the book firmly. That certainly didn't help. He fit almost all of those categories perfectly. That did not help at all. What a cheery thought.

He sat there for long moments. Hell awaited him, regardless of how hard he worked. He was deserving of it.

Against his will, he opened the Bible one more time. Wasn't there a verse about seeking and finding? He let it fall open, and his eyes were drawn to an underlined verse.

For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God: Not of works, lest any man should boast.

He couldn't breathe. Not of works? He gripped the pages more firmly, reading them over and over again. Not of works. By…grace.

T'was grace that taught my heart to fear
And grace, my fears relieved
How precious did that grace appear
The hour I first believed.

The melody wove through his mind, gentle and sweet. Shockingly, he felt tears pressing at the back of his eyes. It was too good to be true.

For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.

The verse ran through his mind, familiar from his childhood, likely the only verse he had ever heard. It was miraculous that he remembered it, yet it sounded so sweet to him. It was—believe on Him. The Son—Jesus. The One who had died for him. He had known the story all his life, and finally it all made sense. Jesus had come to earth as a babe, lived a perfect life, and died, and risen, for him. So he could be saved—by grace. God's grace.

And on that warm spring day of 1855, John Thornton trusted the King of Kings and Lord of Lords, the Lord Jesus Christ, to save him.

And he was forever safe, and peace filled his heart, regardless of the waves that would shake him, for His Lord was stronger than the sea could ever be.

Chapter Fourteen

"Mrs. Thornton. Thank ye for havin' me. I do realize I'm not exactly—"

"Oh, Nicholas, don't worry. You're always welcome here." Margaret ushered him into the parlor, motioning for him to sit down.

It had been three days since the fire, and her eyes still felt swollen and red from her crying. John had forgiven her, and all was well between them. He had looked at her as he once had, with love: tender, perfect love, unaffected by the world and its cares, and she felt as if nothing could be wrong ever again.

But now everything came back, the weight of it crashing upon her shoulders. How long would it take John to recover? He had assured her he was fine, but how could she accept that when pain so often marred his expression? When his voice was so terribly scarred from the fire?

And the mill. Nearly all of it had gone up in flames, leaving only ashes and blackened reminders of the once-glorious mill. How long would it take to repair it? Or would they rebuild? What would Mrs. Thornton be like without her mill? She hardly dared imagine such a thing.

"Ma'am. Are you all right?"

Higgins's voice pulled her from her dark thoughts, and she forced a smile. "I'm—I'm just thinking."

He nodded, understanding. "'ow's the master?"

She shrugged. "He's resting. The doctor has assured me he'll be all right, but…" her voiced trailed off. "It's so hard seeing him suffering."

Higgins nodded again, and his gaze turned faraway. He had seen his own daughter suffer for so long, then die. Margaret felt selfish worrying so for John, when it was relatively certain that he would recover, when Higgins had lost so much.

"I know," he murmured. "Just try and keep yer head up." He smiled at her, then fell silent, twisting his cap in his hands.

She watched him curiously for a few moments, then said, "Thank you. Thank you again, Nicholas, for everything you did. I know you were responsible for getting everyone out safely and trying to save the mill."

"No, miss…it's nothin'. I would 'ave done it for anyone, but especially Mr. Thornton. He's a good man, a good master. He's my friend."

Margaret smiled. Higgins was silent again for long moments, and the pause stretched awkwardly between them.

He sighed heavily and looked away from her. "Mrs. Thornton," he started hesitantly. "I…I don't believe that fire was an accident."

"What?"

"Yes'm. Well, I did some—some lookin' around. I thought, maybe 'tis an employee. An angry one." He glanced up at her. "Some of 'em get real riled up. So I asked around."

She raised an eyebrow, worry twisting her stomach.

"And I came up with nothin.' Nothin' a'tall."

Relief washed over her. "So it was an accident."

"I don't know. But the way it spread…" He shook his head. "It spread from the far corner of the mill, closest to the offices, into the offices, real quick. Of course, fire spreads fast with cotton. But the offices should have been last—slower burnin'."

"And?"

"I don't know."

Margaret shook her head. "That doesn't make sense. I'm sorry, but that seems to be stretching it. Just because it spread one way faster than another?"

Higgins shrugged. "I don't know, but somethin' tells me this isn't right." He paused, still spinning his cap in his hands. "Please just be careful, Mrs. Thornton. You're a very trustin' young lady, and the world isn't as nice as ye think it to be."

"Of course." Was that a nice way of saying she was naïve?

He gave a strained smile, then rose quickly. "Give my regards to Thornton," he said, slapping the cap onto his head. "Good day, Mrs. Thornton."

She walked him over to the door and saw him out. He trotted down the steps, then melted into the crowd of people. She closed the door, then leaned against it, feeling overtaken by a sense of fear and exhaustion. These last few days had been more than trying, and now there was possible reason to believe that Marlborough Mills had been purposely burned.

Night had fallen, and Margaret quietly opened the door to her bedroom. Hopefully John was asleep instead of worrying about the mill.

She closed the door behind her, then walked over to the window, closing the curtain. Her hand brushed where her Bible usually was, meeting cool wood. She glanced over at the bed, and vaguely remembered giving John the Bible to read.

His head was turned sideways in sleep, his hand resting on the Bible, his breathing deeper and more even than it had been in days. He looked peaceful.

Margaret smiled to herself, then gently pulled the Bible out of his hand. He stirred as she removed it. She sank onto the bed next to him, laying a hand on his forehead. It was cool to the touch, and her paranoia disappeared.

His eyes open, icy blue, and a smile curved his mouth. "Margaret."

"Yes?" she said, stifling a yawn.

"You were right, my love," he whispered, his voice rasping in his throat, yet it was gentle. "Grace."

"What?" she said softly, afraid she had heard him wrong. Joy started blooming in her chest, but she restrained it. She may have heard him wrong.

"Grace. The Lord's grace. I trust Him now. I trust the Lord Jesus with everything that's in me, Margaret."

Tears pooled in her eyes, and she dropped her head. "Oh, John!"

"Thank you, my darling," he murmured low, "for everything. But most of all, praise the Lord, for He is good."

It had been four days since the fire, and John had insisted on getting out of bed and talking with different people about the fire. Men were such stubborn creatures. Even now, she heard the rumble of men's voices beneath her in the parlor. She had slept late, again, as exhaustion plagued her so often now, most likely because of the stress of the fire. Yet she missed John's presence acutely, more so than ever. Every day, she had fallen more and more in love with the man she had married, and she knew it was only because the Lord had saved him.

Now she was sitting at the dressing table, Jane finishing her hair. Jane was insisting, every morning now, that she must do her hair. Margaret had finally relented, letting the girl do as she wished. Never mind that her scalp ached constantly from the girl's relentless jabbing. Would she ever learn?

"There! It's perfect!" Jane crowed as she jabbed one last pin into Margaret's scalp.

"Thank you," she said, trying to keep her tone sincere. The girl did try. Margaret chanced a look in the mirror. Sure enough, the bun sagged to one side, more resembling a fallen souffle than a fashionable hairstyle.

"All right, Miss Margaret. Let's get you dressed and ready." Jane stepped to her side as she rose, helping her put on all of the various undergarments that were in fashion. Margaret resented them, but she had to do so to appease Mrs. Thornton. As if that were even possible.

Jane slipped on the most hated, the corset. Margaret took a breath, steeling herself against the coming lacing. Jane always made it so tight.

It bit into her waist, and she sucked in a breath. "Come, Jane, not so tight! I must move."

"That's not tight, miss," Jane replied absently, humming to herself.

"That's not tight?" she echoed blankly. It felt tighter than ever.

"No. Not at all. Usually you're laced up further, except recently." Jane put the dress over her head, snickering slightly. "The desserts have been quite tasty these last few weeks. I know I've put on a few pounds meself."

Margaret cocked her head. She had always been thin, and she hadn't been overeating.

The exhaustion. The nausea. A smile rose to her lips as she pressed her hand to her midsection. How the Lord had blessed her.

Chapter Fifteen

John kept his back ramrod straight, trying to keep every movement to a minimum. Every breath he took was painful, burning all the way down his throat, down into his lungs, and his ribs ached with each movement. Even his back hurt, and back pain was the worst. The parlor blurred in his vision occasionally, but he had to work.

Instead of focusing on the discomfort, he looked over at Harry. The man was looking mostly normal, except that he was wearing a new sweater. "It was singed," he had mournfully reported when he had entered the door. "I had to purchase a new one. It was terribly expensive, and I hate change."

Now Harry leaned back in his chair, his expression one of pity. John vaguely wondered how bad he actually looked to elicit such a response. "I feel so bad for ye, master, because I landed on top o' those cotton bales just afore they moved 'em. It broke me fall, but then ye, on the other hand…" His voice trailed off.

John shook his head slightly, regretting the action. His head throbbed, and black threatened his vision.

"Mr. Thornton?" Harry's voice seemed faraway, and John forced himself to take another agonizing breath.

"Have you seen the mill?" he choked out, hoping the black would recede. It finally gave way.

Harry eyed him for a moment, then nodded. "Yessir…it's—" He pulled his glasses from his nose, and turned them over and over in his hands. The man needed to stop. His frames were already bent, and he was only making them worse.

A loud rap sounded on the door, cutting of the rest of his sentence. Then the door swung open, and in sauntered the fire marshal. John pushed himself to his feet, not able to restrain the groan that escaped from his lips. Not Burns. If possible, the man's hair was even sparser than before. John could count on one hand the number of singed hairs that populated the equally charred scalp.

"Fire Marshal Burns," he said, trying to sound as polite as possible, under the circumstances.

Burns stepped to his side, grinning wildly. "Mr. Thornton! And how do you do today, sir?" He leaned in, peering at John with one wide eye as he grasped his hand in a firm handshake.

John tilted his head in a negative gesture, blinking and looking down. "Fine, sir. Fine. Please—do take a seat." He couldn't look into that wild eye again. Slowly, he sank back down into the chair.

"Why, thank ye, sir! Thank ye." Burns sat on the edge of a wing chair, and John nearly choked as an overpowering wave of smoke washed over him. Was it his imagination, or was a tiny plume of smoke rising from the chair? "I'll get right down to business, then if ye're not in a mood for small talk! Your fire has been declared an accidental flame."

John fought to ignore the curse that rose to his mind. I'm sorry, Lord Jesus, forgive me. He looked over at Burns, fighting to control the anger rising in him. "I have due cause to believe that it wasn't an accident. Did you thoroughly examine the property?"

Harry looked at him strangely, but he wasn't about to turn his head to look at him.

"Why, of course I did! I am a fire marshal, after all." Burns narrowed his eyes at John. "But…maybe you're on to something." He suddenly stood, the quick movement hurting John to even watch it. "Lemme show you something'!"
Out of nowhere, he produced a cup of liquid, looking suspiciously flammable. "You're walkin' along in your mill, and you got kerosene in one hand, and—" he whipped something out of his pocket, a match, and struck it on the wall—"and you've got a match…" Burns walked through the parlor, humming absently.

Harry started. "Hey! Be careful there, Fire Marshal—"

Burns paused in his walking to peer at Harry. "Remain calm!" he thundered. "I am a fire marshal!"

Harry scooted back in his chair. John's head ached.

"Well, you're walkin' along in your factory, Thornton, and then—a piece of cotton gets in your eye!" He rubbed his eye violently with his shoulder, as his hands were full. "Then—"

"Burns, put that fool flame out," John snapped, rising. "You know that's dangerous." He yanked the kerosene out of the man's hand. "Sit down." Pain radiated through him, and the room swam dangerously, but he wasn't going to let this hooligan burn his house down.
"Dangerous? What's dangerous?" Burns stared at him curiously for a moment, then grinned. "Okay." He rubbed the match out with his fingers. Harry's eyes narrowed, and his mouth fell open.

John didn't have time for this. "Is that your final report?"

"Yessir. Nothin' else to see here. Good-bye." Burns snatched the kerosene out of John's hand, then sauntered out of the house, his fingers still smoking.

John closed his eyes with a moan, bringing his hand to his forehead. The smell of smoke renewed the ache in his throat.

"Mr. Thornton?" Harry questioned, sounding concerned.

"Can you make sure that he is gone?" he asked wearily. "I'll be down at the mill soon, and we can talk more then." He felt himself weaving on his feet. "Thank you, Harry. I'm glad you're all right."

"Are you sure you're all right?" Harry said, sounding skeptical, his brow raised.

John waved him off dismissively, and pain shot through him. "Yes…fine." He stumbled toward the stairway as Harry opened the front door.

He heard Harry's heavy sigh, then the accountant bolted out of the door. "Sir!" he shouted. "You're burning!"
John sighed, wondering whatever the world had come to.

Three days later, the scent of burnt cotton was acrid in his nose, and the sight of the hollowed-out mill was harder than John had thought it would be. Everything cried out in him to be angry, to lash out, to accuse…yet he could not.

"So that's most of the mill burned out, Master," Williams remarked as John looked out over the blackened remains. In stark contrast, somehow, miraculously, a small bit of it remained unscathed, a far corner that had been furthest away from the fire.

"Yes. We'll have to get surveyors out here to see how much it will cost to rebuild." He dropped his eyes, struggling to look at the remains of his once-prosperous mill. His pride and joy—

No. Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal:

The verse echoed through his mind, and he fought to hold onto it. This could be rebuilt, perhaps. But even if it couldn't be, it didn't really matter in the long run, and it was the Lord's Will.

That was difficult for John to grasp, as he'd been raised his whole life to fight for every penny.

"You're rebuilding?" Williams's voice had a note of surprise.

John looked over at him, frowning. "Of course. Why wouldn't I?"

The man shrugged. "It looks pretty bad to me. And with the recent…" His voice trailed off as he looked around, then back at John. "The threats."
Thoughts had been swirling around in his mind as he had been recovering, and the threat notes had not been forgotten. In fact, he was relatively sure that the person responsible for the notes had started the fire.

"I'm not going to let whoever is doing this break me," John said firmly. "I just don't understand what they want."

Williams shrugged again. "Well, I don't know, but what I do know for sure is that these employees aren't goin' to like sittin' around with no paycheck for 'owever long this is goin' to take."
He nodded. "I know." He took a step forward, and dry ashes crunched beneath his feet. "We'll try to get it running as soon as we can."

"That will take a long while. They can't wait that long."

John sighed, the action pulling a cough from him and making his chest protest. "I know," he repeated. He knew all too well how quickly unhappy employees could move from simply unhappy to violent.

He glanced toward where the offices had been, now just a blackened shell. None of the years and years of paperwork remained. Another heavy burden to bear. How could he start back up after this? Maybe Williams was right.

Before the despairing thoughts could fully cement themselves in his mind, he pushed them away. No. He would not bow to whatever coward was trying to break him.

"Harry brought these over today," Margaret said, handing him a thick stack of books a couple days later. "He wanted me to tell you that he made sure everything was in order, and he said that it was, in fact, flawless."

"Thank you," John murmured, taking the ledgers from her. They were sooty, and one of them was blackened around the edges, but other than that, they were intact. "I'm sorry I missed him. Was he all right?" Even though Harry had assured him that he was well, he still worried for the man, as he was so thin and had taken a bad fall.
Margaret sat down in the dining room chair next to him. "He said his wife has been taking good care of him. Making him eat too much chicken soup, he said. He keeps insisting that he's not sick, but she keeps feeding him more."

John chuckled, cracking open one of the books. "I'm glad he's all right."

"He said that if you need any help, he's ready and able."

He closed the book, and tilted his head thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing. "If I had any work for anyone to do, I would." He glanced over at her, his mind going to his employees. "I'm worried for them, Margaret."

She gazed at him for a long moment, then tears started welling in her eyes.

He frowned. Margaret rarely cried, and never this impulsively.

"I—I never thought I'd hear you say something like that," she said, wiping her eyes quickly, ducking her head to hide her tears.

"Are you all right?" he asked gently, reaching over and grasping one of her hands.

She sniffed, rubbing at her eye with one hand again. "Yes, yes…I'm fine. It will stop in a few months."
"A few—months?" he repeated blankly. She was going to cry for a few months? That would be … tiresome.

"Yes." She raised her head, a wobbly smile on her face. "I'm with child, John."

He stared at her for a long moment, dumbfounded. This—how could this be? How could he be so blessed? The Lord had saved his soul…and now given him a child?

He pulled her to her feet, tugging her toward him. "My love," he choked out, emotion tightening his throat as he lowered his head to hers.

"John!"

Mother's scolding voice made him slowly pull away, turning away from his wife to Mother.

"I do understand that you are married, but must you go around—go around…" she sighed heavily. "Such outward displays of affection. Really! And in my own house. Right in front of me. Can't I even have a moment's peace?"

John smiled, slipping his around Margaret's waist. "Come, Mother. She is my wife, after all." He looked down at Margaret, and she smiled up at him.

"I know that. You can be sure I know that." she replied drily, looking down at the ledgers, and frowning.

"Mother."
"Hmm?" she opened one of the books, her brow furrowed as she read down the long columns.

He couldn't keep the smile off his face, despite the turmoil that surrounded them. "You're going to have another grandchild."

Mother looked up quickly, her eyes going first to him, then to Margaret. A slow smile stretched across her face, then she stepped toward both of them. She pulled John into an embrace first, then patted Margaret's arm. "I'm happy for you. It will be good to have a child in the house."

Mother started walking out of the room, then she slowly turned. "You do know, Margaret, what that means."
She stiffened beside him. "Yes?"

"Another shopping trip. I'm not going to invite Fanny." With the smallest of smiles, she hurried out of the room.

"Olive branch," Margaret muttered under her breath, sounding surprised.

"What?" He'd heard that expecting mothers always desired strange foods. Had this already started?

"Never mind." She turned in his arms, then wrapped her arms around his neck. "I have better things to do," she said as their lips met.

Chapter Sixteen

Margaret squinted her eyes, peering down at the tiny row of stiches she was attempting to finish. They were so small, and her eyes were so tired. But she was determined to at least make a sock for her child; as she was not running to the tailor's every day for clothing as Fanny did.

The door clicked open, and Margaret happily set the sewing aside, glad for an excuse to pause. She turned around, expecting maybe Dixon or Jane.

Instead, it was John. Her pulse spiked with anticipation, and she stood. But he wasn't alone. Three men entered behind him, all tall and imposing.

Margaret frowned, glancing at John.
"Margaret." He stepped to her side, taking her arm gently. "Since the fire, I've been worried about you. I can't be here all the time, so I hired three men who will guard the house."

"Guard the house?" As if she wanted these three brutes standing over her as she sewed. Or tried to sew.

"Yes."

Margaret's brow furrowed. "That's ridiculous. I don't need guards. The fire was an accident. It could happen at any mill. The fire marshal said so himself. And you know he has a reputation for being the best in the business."

John paused for a moment, and one of the men stepped forward. His hair was black, and his eyes sharp. "Ma'am, if I may take the liberty…you should listen to your husband. I assure you that he knows best."

She smiled politely at the man, then nodded. "Of course." Anger stirred in her chest, and she tried to clamp it down. What wasn't John telling her?

"Margaret, may I introduce you to these three fine men." John motioned to the dark-haired one who had spoken. "Mr. North."

She nodded formally.

John motioned to the one next to North. "Mr. Parker."

She nodded again, her ire rising throughout these strange introductions.

"And Mr. Borne."

The last man was dressed in a well-cut black suit, looking rather dapper; yet his hair was longer than the dictates of society, and he seemed to have a raw edge about him.

She tipped her head toward him. "It's a pleasure to meet all of you."

John let go of her arm. "Don't worry about them," he murmured to her. "They're all very fine men. I just want you to be safe."

She sighed. "Yes, John."

It was finally evening, and Margaret paced around the bedroom, waiting for John to come upstairs. She couldn't say anything she wished to in front of the guards. One of them was always lingering in the shadows, and she felt as if she were an intruder in her own home.

"Stop wearing a hole in the carpet."

She spun around, pressing a hand to her chest to still her sudden increase in heartrate. "You scared me."

"I'm sorry, love," he murmured, reaching her and kissing her softly on her head. "Have they bothered you?"

"No…well, not personally. I just don't like them being here. I feel as if I can't even walk around my own house without someone making sure I don't fall on my face! It's bad enough with your mother," she groused. "It's like having three more of your mother."

John smiled slightly as he untied his cravat. "Not quite as bad as Mother, though?"

"No! I mean, I don't know." She flounced onto the bed. "Why are they here?"

The smile on his face disappeared, and he was quiet for long moments, his expression dark. "I don't think the fire was an accident," he said in a low voice.

"What?"

"Yes." He undid a button on his waistcoat, his eyes narrowing as he stared off into the distance. "In the last few minutes when I was in the office, when it was burning, I smelled something. Kerosene."

"Kerosene?" Margaret echoed.

"Yes. I think that someone set the mill on fire, on purpose."

"Oh, no." Fear swirled through her. For John, for herself, for their child. "Who—who would do that?"

"I don't know." He slipped the vest off. "And…Margaret, please don't be angry at me…"

His voice trailed off, and she raised an eyebrow, half afraid of what he was about to say. "What?"

"I've received letters. Threats."

"Threats?" Dizziness swirled through her, and her breath came fast. "I—why didn't you tell me?" she cried. Did he not trust her?

"I'm sorry. I should have, yet I couldn't bear to think of you worrying over something that could amount to nothing."

"But now it has. And that flame was not accidental." She closed her eyes, trying to block the fear that was growing.

"That's why I hired those three men," he said gently.

"To—to protect me? You think someone would try to hurt—me?" She frowned, the thought terrifying her, mostly for the sake of the child she was carrying. But that didn't make sense; she didn't have enemies. "Why? I don't have enemies, not that I know of." She shook her head, a humorless smile on her lips. "Only Mr. Lennox."

"Lennox? That lawyer?" he growled, suspicion lurking in his eyes.

"Yes. But Henry's not that way. He wouldn't do anything like that." She sighed, and her earlier anger melted away. "I'm sorry for railing at you," she said quietly after a moment.

John splashed water onto his face, then dried it with a towel. "You didn't." He turned back to her, still somber. "Are you sure you're comfortable with those three men? Because if you're not, I can find others. They were the best I could find—qualified and respectable."

"Yes…yes, I suppose," she murmured absently.

Yet still, in the back of her mind, running through her thoughts long into the night was the question: who was out to destroy them?

Margaret opened her bedroom door, hurrying downstairs as the pounding on the door continued. "Whoever could it be at this hour?" she muttered. She had just risen, early, and now someone was trying to break down their front door.

"Mrs. Thornton."

The deep voice stopped her. "I'll get the door."

It was one of the bodyguards—Borne? No, no…Parker. She could never remember their names. And she couldn't figure out why. The man opened the door slowly, and Margaret peered around him to see who was at the door.

"Sir—easy, easy. What happened to ya?" Someone stumbled forward, resulting in a shuffling of feet as Parker tried to help the man into the room.

Margaret's mouth went dry.

It was Higgins.

"Nicholas! What happened to you?" she cried as Parker helped him over to a wing chair. Higgins's lip was split, his face bruised, and an angry red cut ran down from his temple to his jaw.

"I—don't know…"

Dixon bustled into the room just then, complaining of early callers. Then she stopped in her tracks, and her face went stark white. Parker hurried to her side, catching her just before she collapsed.

The strain showed on the man's face as he gently lowered her to the ground. He glanced up at Margaret, his face reddened. "Smelling salts, miss?"

Well, Dixon was a bit on the heavy side.

"Oh, yes, yes…" Margaret yanked open a drawer in the side table and fumbled around until she found them. She twisted the cap off and handed the bottle to Parker.

He waved the bottle under Dixon's nose a couple times, then she started coughing violently. "What—what are you shovin' under me nose?" she demanded, somewhat weakly. "Get that outta me face." She brushed the bottle aside, as if it were a bothersome insect.

"Calm yourself, ma'am," Parker soothed, looking up concernedly at Higgins slumped over in the chair.

Margaret rushed to Higgins's side. "Nicholas!"

He slowly raised his head, his eyes dull and unfocused. "Just rest now," she murmured. "I'll be right back with some water, and we'll get the doctor," she soothed, then rose a bit too quickly, the room tilting beneath her. Now she needed the smelling salts.

She heard a muttered curse and fast footsteps, then she was being lowered to the ground. "Come, miss, please. Don't you be faintin' on me too."

Her vision cleared, and she waved Parker's hands away. "I'm fine. I just got up to quickly."

He cocked his head, blinking. "Are you sure you're all right?" he questioned doubtfully.

"Yes, yes…" Margaret slowly got to her feet with his assistance. "I'm going to get some water for Nicholas."

"All right," Parker said hesitantly. "Do be careful, ma'am," he added.

Worry crept through her mind for Nicholas as she hurried to the kitchen. What had happened? Was it just random?
When she arrived back in the parlor, Dixon had risen and was kneeling at Higgins's side, tears rolling down her round face. "Oh, Nicholas! You could have been killed!"

"Shh, shh…" Margaret said softly, taking the wet rag and washing away the blood and dirt from Higgins's face. "Try to be calm, Dixon," she said, surprised that her faithful servant was acting in such a way. She had never been like this before.

Higgins groaned as she dabbed at the cut. "I'm sorry—Mrs. Thornton," he mumbled.

"Shh, it's all right, I promise. Just be still." She glanced up at Parker, who was standing a few feet away, a frown on his face. "Could you fetch a doctor?"

He nodded, then strode away, shouting, "Borne!"

The other guard walked into the room a moment later, looking weary. Obviously the three had rotated the night and day shifts; Borne must have been resting. His longish hair looked disheveled, and his clothes looked wrinkled as he stepped to Parker's side. "Wha' 'appened?" he muttered.

"Fetch the doctor. The man needs medical care," Parker snapped to the other man.

Borne nodded slowly, then turned and walked out of the front door.

Margaret looked back over at Higgins. "Just rest easy, Nicholas," she said, trying to stay calm, yet finding that she was becoming a victim of the fear she tried to fight. What was happening? Had the fire at the mill not been an accident? Was it related to Higgins's assault?

"Oh, Nicholas!" Dixon cried, patting his knee as she knelt beside the chair he was resting in. "Whatever happened to you, my little darling?"

My little darling? Higgins could never be described as little. And Margaret had never considered him a darling. Margaret's mind went blank, and her hand dropped from Higgins's face. She looked back and forth between the two. Dixon…and Nicholas? Well, they were kind of cute together. In a rotund sort of way.

"Margaret!"

She started at John's voice, but relief rushed through her as he came to her side. "Higgins, what happened to you?" Concern etched his brow as he crouched beside the chair.

Higgins took a ragged breath, then slowly let it out. "Walkin' to work…came outta nowhere. Probably…I don't know, eight or nine big men."

"Did they say anything to you?"

"Nothin' 'til the end. 'Stay where ye belong.'"

Margaret glanced over at John, whose eyes were narrowed and staring into space. She'd only seen that expression when he was deep in thought. "Did you know any of them?" he asked slowly.

"No, sir." Higgins closed his eyes.

John rose quickly. "Did you send for the doctor?"

"Yes," Margaret replied. "He should be here at any moment."

John nodded brusquely. "I'll send for a carriage for you once the doctor's through with you, Higgins. You're not in any shape to be walkin' home."

"No—"

"It's fine," Margaret said gently. "It's a gift." She smiled at him, and he faintly smiled back at her, then sagged back into the chair with a moan.

"Mr. Higgins." One of the guards stepped forward—North. His voice had a strange rhythm to it, a trace of an accent she couldn't place. "Have you been…investigating?"

North's words hung in the air, and Margaret's eyes were wide. Had this truly happened because of the mill fire?

"Yes. I did."

North's gaze cut to John's. John anxiously ran a hand over his mouth, sighing heavily, his eyes hardening. "I'm—"

The door banged open, and Borne strode in with the doctor on his heels. Dr. Donaldson hurried to Higgins's side, frowning.

Margaret eased away, starting to rise, then felt John's hand on her elbow to help her up. She turned to thank him, but he wasn't even looking at her. Something was wrong, terribly wrong.

The mill first, then Higgins—the message was clear. The mill had been burned intentionally, and the arsonist didn't want to be found out.

But why the mill? Marlborough Mills was one of the most respected mills in Milton. The wages were fair, the work better than most. John was one of the most just masters, unlike the others who worked their employees for endless hours at unfair rate and punished them for the slightest infraction.

Had it been because of the raise? Margaret felt guilt crash down onto her.

Had she caused this?

Chapter Seventeen

The night shadows had fallen, and a few candles flickered in the middle of the table as John sat down into the straight-back chair. It was past midnight, yet he knew he couldn't sleep, and he needed to be able to talk without having to worry about Margaret hearing.

Mother had come home from Fanny's an hour after Higgins had arrived, and once she had heard what had happened, she had become enraged. No one threatened her family without paying for it, she had vowed.

But even Mother didn't have a good reason for why someone would want to destroy them. John had wracked his mind for any good reason, but nothing had surfaced. The few employees that he'd had problems with had either left the city or were happily employed elsewhere.

He raised his head as the three guards slipped into their seats across from him. Parker, North, and Borne. All three's faces were shadowed by the flickering candlelight, making the planes of their faces sharpened by the dark and light.

"I'm sorry that I was forced to organize this meeting at such a late hour," John began, feeling as if he were at a stockholder's meeting, therefore feeling as if he were on much firmer ground. "But circumstances forced me to take immediate action."

"I'd say so," Parker muttered, leaning back in his chair and casually crossing a booted foot over his leg.

"I have gone through every possible avenue of investigation, questioned everyone I know to question, thought about every possible suspect…yet nothing seems plausible," John admitted. "That's why you three are here."

North tilted his head, his eyes narrowing.

John caught the man's reaction. Of the three, North was the quietest and most somber, yet there was an intelligent glint in his eyes, the eyes that saw everything. The mind behind them seemed just as able and quick.

"Have you seen anything suspicious?"

John's question met silence.

After a moment, Borne broke the silence. "Nothing out of the ordinary, sir."

John sighed, feeling frustration well up inside of him. Nothing came of his searches. Nothing. How could he stop whoever was doing this? What would happen next time—would it be Margaret? Mother?

The possibilities were horrifying. But he wasn't about to let anything happen to either of them if he had anything to do with it.

"What about your overseer?" North questioned after a moment.

"Williams?" John shook his head, frowning. "He's been my overseer for over six years, and he's never once caused trouble. There's no reason why he would want to harm the mills; if anything, that would only cause him harm."

North shrugged dismissively. "You never know. Sometimes the ones you trust the most are the ones that turn on you."

Parker stiffened at the other man's words.

Perhaps it was time to get the law involved. Yet the fire marshal had investigated the incident and had declared it an accidental flame. John highly doubted Burns's sanity, though, and couldn't give too much credence to his proclamation. But the law would not investigate because it was considered an accidental fire.

"Watch him," North murmured under his breath, drumming his long fingers on the smooth table. "That's what I would do if I were you."

"Why so?"

Again, the man shrugged, not offering a reply.

"Is there evidence?"

"No," North bit out, then leaned forward, his gaze cutting into John's. "I can read most men, Thornton, and that man gives me an uneasy feeling." He leaned back, the fire in his eyes fading. "But again, I couldn't be sure."

John sighed, hating that he had to question everyone and everything. Williams? Surely not. Surely not. Then who else would turn on him?

Borne shifted in his chair. "What about the rest of your workers?"

"All of my employees? I don't know where to start there, unless I question every single one. The employees I have now are some of the best I've ever had. They work hard, they're respectful…I couldn't imagine any of them doing such a thing."

"You don't know each one's problems," the man replied.

"That certainly doesn't narrow it down. But if it comes down to that…" John's voice trailed off. He had come to a dead end. He had no idea who was doing this, and another vicious attack could happen at any moment.

Margaret. Their child. Mother. John rose suddenly, forcing his dark thought away. "Thank you, gentlemen, for your time."

The three left the room, discussing among themselves who was in charge of the night watch. John sighed heavily. What could he do? He felt helpless. He couldn't keep his family safe. What could happen tomorrow?

He wandered to the window, then looked up at the night sky. A sky for once not obscured by clouds. Countless stars twinkled overhead, the moon a tiny sliver.

"Oh, God," he whispered roughly. "I can't keep my family safe. Only You can. I don't know what to do."

John sank to his knees, reaching the end of himself and his intelligence. "Lord, guide me. Protect us. Show us the way. Keep Your Hand of protection on us, Lord. Please. I don't know what to do. Forgive me. Help me."
Gentle peace flowed into his soul, smothering the fear and doubt. These men might be powerful, but they were nothing in comparison to the God he served.

Bright morning sunlight filtered through the window as Margaret came down the steps the next morning. John rose from the wing chair as she approached him. "You look beautiful this morning," he said as he lightly kissed her forehead.

"Thank you, John." She offered him a smile as she stepped toward the front window. Although her words were light, her hands were clutched together at her still-thin waist, the knuckles white on her hands.

He walked up beside her, slipping an arm around her and gently disengaging her tight hands. "I don't want you to be scared, my love."

She looked up at him, her eyes filled with worry. "But I am—I feel as if every moment I look behind me expecting to see someone about to kill me!" She laughed humorlessly. "I'm ridiculous. I'm sorry. Perhaps I shall blame it on my delicate condition."

A faint smile curved his lips, then it faded. "I don't know what to do, but we have to trust the Lord in this. That's all that we can do."

She nodded. "Yes, I'm attempting…it's just so very hard." Leaning her head against him, she added softly, "I can't thank Him enough for what He's done. Even with what is going on, He has still blessed us so greatly."

"Indeed," John murmured, understanding what she was saying. He couldn't thank God enough for how He had saved him, or how He had given him Margaret and now a child. There was much to be thankful for. God had changed him, he realized; before, he would have been more than distraught about the loss of the mill. Now, he was certainly distraught, but he could be thankful for his many other blessings, the blessings that mattered most, and not just material things. A calm pervaded him that he hadn't known before, and he knew it only came from the living God.

They stood in silence, enjoying each other's company, until Margaret said, "John, I have to ask you something."

Her voice was weak, and he tightened his hold on her. "Is something wrong?"

"No, no…well, I mean…" She sighed. "Is this happening because of the wage increase?"

John frowned. He doubted that any of the masters would try such a thing, as they themselves knew how much a fire destroyed. Even the worst of them wouldn't dare to do such a thing.

Or would they?

"You never know. Sometimes the ones you trust the most are the ones that turn on you."

North's words rang through his mind, haunting him. How could he really know? They were competition, and the wage increase surely hadn't helped the tenuous relationship between him and the other masters.

"I don't know, Margaret. I don't think so, but there could be a chance."

She sagged against him. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have made you—"

"You didn't make me do anything. In the end, it was my decision. I didn't have to do it."

"Yes, but you wouldn't have done it if I hadn't asked. You said so yourself."

John remembered his words, and he knew that what she was saying was true. He would never have raised the wages.

The floor creaked behind them, and John let Margaret go, turning. "Mother. I pray you had a restful night of sleep?"

She hmphed. "Not really. I'm waiting for those scoundrels to show up at my doorstep. It's bad enough with these…these men." She spat out the word. Then a tight, determined smile edged up her lips. "I plan to meet those scoundrels as soon as they come in. I'm prepared you know."

John's eyes settled on the hilt of a dagger protruding from the cuff of her sleeve and raised one eyebrow. Heaven help the man who got on the wrong side of his mother. "I'm sorry. The bodyguards are not bothering you, are they?"

Mother shrugged, then ambled toward the dining room. "They could become bothersome very quickly," she said over her shoulder.

Margaret shook her head beside him. "She's never going to change," she muttered under her breath as he pulled on his coat.

He had no reply to her comment. Opening the front door, he said, "Be careful, Margaret. I don't want you going anywhere. All right?"

She nodded reluctantly, then stepped to him and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "You be careful yourself."

"I will." He gave her a brief smile, then slipped out of the door.

Chapter Eighteen

Two weeks passed without any form of threats or strange occurrences. Higgins had healed up quickly and had no lasting damage from the brutal attack. The mill's construction was progressing as well as it could, with near-constant noise throughout the day of banging and shouting as the mill was rebuilt.

Margaret found that staying cooped up the house was beginning to be unbearable. She paced back and forth half the day and the other half attempted to sew something or read. Neither helped her much, as both required her to sit down and rest when all felt like doing was walking, yet she was exhausted.

It was a perplexing problem for her, one she had never experienced. She longed for the days of freedom she had enjoyed back in Helstone, in her younger days in Milton, in her honeymoon in Spain. The thought of Spain made her long for the balmy ocean winds, the happiness, the joy that had accompanied her there.

Everything seemed to be back to normal, except the three men that were constantly lurking in the shadows. Each man was perfectly polite to her, never getting too close to her, yet never too far either. It was her house, and it irked her that even in her own home she felt like a prisoner.

John had gone to talk with one of the masters that day, Mr. Foster, she thought, and bright sunlight was streaming in through the windows, and a cooling breeze came through the window. An idea came to her.

She spun around from the window in the parlor. Of course, a guard was not too far away. "Mr. Parker," she addressed the man.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Do you think it would be all right for me to take a walk? I need to take some things to some friends of mine. Would you come with me? Surely that would be all right."

He frowned, tilting his head in a negative manner and blinking. "Is your husband all right with this?"

"I don't know. But surely it would be all right. I'm going to go insane if I have to stay in this house too much longer. You will be with me. I'm probably just as safe out there as I am here."
"As you wish, ma'am," he murmured.

Five minutes later, the two were walking out of the mill yard. The bright sunlight on her face felt heavenly, the air as fresh and clean as Milton could be. Much better than that house.

"You're not from here, are you," Parker observed as they ambled onto the main road of Milton.

Margaret laughed. "No, not at all. I'm from the South. Helstone."

He nodded. "I could tell."

"It is still obvious? I feel as if I will never belong here. But someday, I will," she said firmly.

"Yes, someday, you will, ma'am. You are young. You have much of your life ahead of you, and you will adapt to their ways. You already are."

"I try," she admitted. She motioned to the left, toward the steps which led down to the slums of Milton.

"Your—friends?" Parker stopped, frowning over at her, confusion marring his face.

"Yes. Many of them live in poverty, and I try to help them as much as they will let me. A few baskets are all they will allow."

"I see." His arm tightened, and she felt the muscles bunching beneath her hand as they descended the steps. The light faded as the buildings grew closer and closer.

Margaret looked around, suddenly expecting someone to jump out from behind one of the houses and attack her. Everything and everyone looked suspicious. Even the small boy who held out his hand startled her. She paused, and Parker stopped beside her. "Miss…" he said under his breath, warning her.

Margaret slipped the coin into the boy's hand, then continued on her way, pushing the dark thoughts away. "It's all right," she said, half to herself.

She felt the guard frown beside her, as if he didn't believe her words at all. Well, she was tired of living in fear. "Where do you hail from, sir?" she asked lightly, trying to drain the tension from the air.

"London."

"Ah. Such a large city. It dwarfs Milton." Margaret remembered her times in London while living with her cousin. Although it had been much cleaner than Milton, it had overwhelmed her. Milton was busy enough for her.

"It does. But both have their problems."

His reply was monotone, and she glanced up at him. His expression was hard, yet his eyes scanned constantly, taking in every movement, every object in one sweep. He kept her pulled toward him, his arm tight. Did he really think that someone would try to hurt her here? After the quiet two weeks, Margaret's fear and anxiety had melted away somewhat, and things had started to go back to normal. But now as she walked beside Parker, she knew it wasn't the case. He knew something more than she did.

"What is it?" she asked softly.

He paused, and his arm loosened. "Nothing, Mrs. Thornton."

"I'm aware that you are trying to shield me from any further worries, but I would like to know what is going on. I don't see anything, yet you look as if we're about to attacked by a hundred angry soldiers."

He stiffened beside her, his expression neutral. "No, ma'am. I'm only doing my job."

She set a basket down in front of the Phillips's home, making Parker stop beside her. Knocking lightly on the door, she waited, hoping to speak a few words to the struggling family, but no one answered. After a moment, she continued forward, placing some groceries in front of a few of the other homes.

Now that Margaret had a substantial amount of money, she longed to do all she could to help the poor families. But she had learned that charity was not taken well in Milton, so she only left small amounts of food. Surely they wouldn't be offended by that.

They walked together in silence as they exited the worst of the slums. Finally, Margaret's curiosity got the best of her. "Is someone following us? Or watching us?"

Parker let out a heavy sigh laced with frustration. "Miss, please. I'm only trying to watch over you. That's what your husband has asked me to do. I don't know who is out here. None of us do."

"I'm sorry—"

He stopped suddenly, and he looked down at her, his eyes sharp. "I've learned to be careful the hard way. Watching fifteen of my best men cut down by enemy fire because of my carelessness wasn't the best way to learn to be careful, to take every precaution. That's why I'm jumpy, that's why I second-guess everything and everyone. Furthermore, you're a lady, and if anything happened to you, I'd never be able forgive myself for letting that happen."

Margaret blinked after his unexpected speech. She had no words to say. "I—I…I'm sorry, sir," she stammered after a moment.

He dropped his penetrating gaze to the ground, suddenly looking weary. "No, I shouldn't have said such things to you. I'm sorry, ma'am."

She put her other hand on his arm, feeling the despair, the guilt, radiate out of him. "You were in the army?" she asked softly.

"Yes."

He fell silent, and Margaret's heart ached for the man. "Sometimes it helps to talk about it," she offered.

He gave a sharp, mirthless laugh. "Talking isn't going to change anything. They're dead, and they're not coming back. They're dead and buried in India, never to come home to their wives, their families."

Clouds had scuttled over the sun, now masking the land in dreary gray as Margaret and Parker made their way back to Marlborough Mills by way of the cemetery. Margaret glanced at the graves, then looked away.

"They shouldn't have died there," he muttered, startling her. He spoke as if he were talking to himself, expressionless. "I should have died instead of them. It was my mistake, not theirs." He shook his head, bringing a hand to his mouth. "I should be dead and buried there, and yet I'm not. They are."

"Mr. Parker…I don't know what happened to you. I don't know…what you saw, what you did… I'll never know. But I know this to be true: that the Lord loves me; He loves you; and He says this to you; He promises this to you. 'Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.'"

He looked over at her, his eyes a mixture of surprise and doubt. Then he dropped his gaze again. "You're a kind lady, Mrs. Thornton, but…you don't know what I've done. God would never have me, regardless."

"No, that is false." Oh, Lord, what should I say? Margaret felt as if she were venturing out in the unknown. Help me… "All of us are sinners. Yes. We are all guilty. But God sent his Son, Jesus, to die for us. To save us. And he rose again, conquering death, the grave, and hell. Trusting Him is the only way to salvation. To rest."

They turned onto the main road, nearly to the mill's gates. Parker didn't say anything for long moments, then said, "Thank you, ma'am." His voice was tight. "You've said things to me…I've never heard before. Never…dreamed possible."

"They are possible," she said gently as they walked up the front steps. "'For with God, all things are possible'."

Chapter Nineteen

John paced the remains of the mills as the night shadows began falling. Construction was about a quarter of the way finished, but it still didn't look anything like Marlborough Mills once had. In the back of his mind, he wondered if it ever would.

Maybe he was simply overreacting to everything. Maybe the mill fire had just been an accident, a loose pipe from an employee. Maybe Higgins's assault had simply been some of his past nemeses.

He sighed, kicking the ashes absently with the toe of his boot.

"What are you doing out here, Thornton?"

He turned at the voice, his pulse spiking. It slowed as he realized who had spoken to him. North. He hadn't even heard the man's footsteps. The man should have been a spy instead of a bodyguard. He shook his head. "Just thinking."

"Ah." North came to stand beside him, shoving his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels. "Waitin' is a hard thing, isn't it?"

John nodded. "I just don't understand. Who is it? Why? Are they going to do something now, a week from now, a month from now, a year from now? It's frustrating."

"Nothing came from your employees?"

John shook his head. "I can't question them all. I just can't imagine it's one of my good employees. The questionable ones seem completely innocent."

North again shrugged, looking noncommittal as he always did. He was nearly impossible to read, as he kept his true thoughts hidden behind his intelligent eyes.

"I hate to have to keep you three here for too much longer if nothing else happens."

"I don't mind, sir. And not just for the money. You're a fine man, a good man to work for. I wouldn't feel comfortable leaving now, especially your wife."

John nodded. "Yes. You're right. If anything happened to her…" His voice trailed off, and he couldn't bear to let the thought come to fruition.

"Nothin' is goin' to happen to her. We'll keep her safe, Thornton. You know that."

"I pray that's the truth," he murmured, stepping forward.

North followed him silently, his footsteps quiet behind John.

They reached the home. "Have a good night, North," John said. "You need your rest. You've been up since early this morning."

"No earlier than you."

He gave a faint smile.

"But I'll take you up on it." North yawned, then slipped into the house. "Have a good night, Thornton," he said over his shoulder.

John paused on the landing of the steps, looking out over the silent and still yard that had once bustled with activity. Would it ever be the same?

Would he ever see it be the same?

He shook the thoughts from his head, annoyed at the dark turn they seemed to keep taking. Yet he couldn't run from the very real possibilities: he could be killed, and he had to prepare for it. Margaret, their child, Mother…He had already written his will when he had married Margaret, giving her everything in the occurrence of his death.

A tiny smirk lifted his lips as he thought of his conversation last night with Mother. She had suggested that Margaret had something to do with the threats. That she would stop at nothing to get all the money she could. John had been able to do nothing but shake his head at the outlandish suggestion.

But, really, would Margaret want to be saddled with the mill? She couldn't run it. And what of his child, without a father? A hollow ache spread in his chest at the thought. He'd lived without his father for many years, and even though he was more than thankful for his mother's dedicated care and training, he had always longed for a father to guide him, to help him. He wanted to give that to his son or daughter.

He sighed, dropping his head as he leaned against the railing. He had a heavenly Father now, one Who was much more capable that any earthly father, and he could only trust Him. Yet trust proved to be a difficult thing for John. Trust was not easily earned in his sight, and though he knew the Lord trustworthy, he still struggled at times to allow God to control everything.

He does anyway, John thought wryly, turning away from the railing. Help me, he silently prayed as he entered the house. Your will be done.

John closed the book on the dining room table, his mind a blur of numbers, contracts, and letters from angry buyers. It was nearly dawn, and he had yet to sleep. The sooner the mill could be back to running, the better. They had enough money in the bank to hold them over for quite a while, but he didn't want to run the risk of possible losing the mill, and in essence, losing all of Margaret's money.

He stood from his seat, his back protesting the action. Either he was getting old, or the landing on the hard ground from two stories up had wreaked havoc. Regardless, his back ached as he straightened.

Margaret had long since retired to bed, hours and hours before, and the thought of a warm bed was appealing even though it was near morning. Maybe he could get a few hours of rest. He smothered the two flickering candles, then slowly walked toward the stairs.

The parlor was still dark as he walked through it, and he felt his way toward the staircase. His hand found the banister—

Suddenly, what felt like an iron clamp snapped around his throat, pulling him backward. He tried to regain his balance, his exhausted mind functioning slowly as he crashed to the floor.

A glint of steel shone in the faintest of light.

"No! You fool!" The iron band released at the angry shout, and the sound of scuffling reached his ears. The sound of fighting, a cry of pain, then a growl of anger.

"Thornton. You all right?" The voice was slightly breathless, roughened.

John struggled to his feet, grasping the banister in his hand. His breath came in gasps, cut off by the tight grip around his throat. "I'm fine," he muttered, his eyes trying to adjust to the darkness.

"What happened?" Someone came running down the steps, a candle flickering in his hand. North came to John's side, fingering something at his hip. "Parker. What—"

The light revealed Parker, his eyes alight with the rare ferocity of a man in battle, yet calm and controlled. Borne lay at his feet, a knife buried in his chest.

John started. Borne? The man he'd hired had tried to kill him?

"He tried to kill you," Parker said coldly, backing away. He cursed under his breath, then reached down to pull the knife out.

"No. Stop." North stepped to Borne's side, crouching beside him. "He's still alive."

The man's eyes opened, revealing raw pain.

"Tell me," North said, his voice as cold as his name implied. "What do you know?" he demanded without mercy.

"No…" the man gasped.

"Tell me, Borne. You're dyin', and you know it. It's easier with a clear conscience." North leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "Tell me now."

The man's eyes slid closed, and he groaned. "I—I was…sent to kill Thornton."

"That's obvious. Keep talkin'. And fast."

"I—I don't know…why."

"Who was it? Who sent you?" North questioned. When the man didn't reply, he snapped, "Talk to me, Borne. Now. You don't have anything to lose. Talk."

The man drew in a ragged breath. "Bell."

John staggered backward. "No. Not—Mr. Bell…"

"I don't know…why," Borne gasped. His eyes opened, then slid to John. "Forgive—me…"

John couldn't speak. Bell? The man whom he trusted? Whom Margaret trusted? Whom Mr. Hale had trusted? His best friend?

Borne's eyes closed, and his head lolled to the side. North stood suddenly. "We're done here. Call the undertaker."

"John! Oh…what—what happened?"

Margaret's shocked and horrified voice turned him back, and he rushed to her. "No, Margaret. Don't look." He pulled her back toward the steps, trying to maintain his composure. Not Mr. Bell…

"Was…was that Mr. Borne? Did someone kill him?" she cried, fighting his hands as he guided her to the steps.

"He tried to kill me," he answered leadenly. "Parker killed him."

"What?" She spun in his arms, her eyes wide with fear. "Oh, John! You were almost killed!" She flung her arms around his neck, and he closed his eyes, breathing deeply of her scent. He was alive, and she was safe.

For now.

Margaret sniffed in his arms, and he could tell she was struggling to refrain from crying. "My love, shh…I promise it'll be all right. I promise."

She leaned back, forcing a shaky smile for him. "Yes, I suppose. Was…was Borne…the one?"

How could he tell Margaret this? The man she trusted, the man they all had trusted…

"No," he said softly. "It's Mr. Bell."

Chapter Twenty

Margaret's mouth fell open, and her knees buckled. She would have fallen to the ground if John had not held her up. Mr. Bell. No. It couldn't be.

"I'm sorry, darling," he murmured, holding her close, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "I don't understand either."

"Thornton."

North's voice was sharp, and Margaret looked over at him. Parker lunged for the door as a horrendous banging rattled the glass in the windows.

John shoved her behind him. "Stay back," he commanded her, stepping forward. "Move," he barked to North and Parker. He grabbed the doorknob.

"Thornton—" North warned.

John yanked the door open.

It was Mr. Bell. Margaret's breath caught in her throat, and fear shot through her.

John raised his head, his shoulders ruler straight, his sharp profile eerily shadowed in the predawn light. "Mr. Bell. Would you like to explain your presence?"

"Thornton," Bell growled, sounding nothing like the man Margaret had always known. His eyes went down to Borne's body, and his brow raised, but he made no comment on the man. He looked back at John, his eyes glinting.

A snarl raised John's lip, and he grabbed Bell by the collar, violently. "Get out of here, Bell, before I kill you!"

His voice thundered through the house, and Margaret shrank back. He had a temper, and now he showed it. Anger such as she'd never known.

Just then, eight burly men entered the room, crowding in behind Bell. Two of them grabbed John's shoulders, trying to pull him off Bell. As they yanked him backward, he kept his hold on Bell's collar. "Tell me why you're doin' this, you coward!" he shouted, his Northern accent sharpening.

"Because you have everything I've ever wanted!" Bell choked out as Parker and North dragged the two men off John.

John's grip loosened the slightest bit. "Why?"

"Margaret. Money. Power. Everything I've ever wanted, and you took it all from me! And you're going to pay for it, Thornton!" he cried, then swung his fist, the punch going wide, hardly grazing John's face.

The six men behind Bell surged forward, and the whole room dissolved into a cacophony of shouts and crashes and punches.

Margaret eased backward, trying to stay out of the way, fear racing through her. What would Bell try? What if he had a gun? She stumbled back further, wrapping her arms protectively around herself.

One of Bell's burly men stumbled to his feet, taken down by a blow from one of the other men. He glanced around the room hungrily, then his eyes landed on her. Margaret inched backward until her back hit the wall.

She was cornered.

Oh, God, help me! Please…The prayer trailed off as the man charged toward her. What would he do? Surely he wouldn't hurt her. Surely, surely not—

"Pretty little miss, aye," he grinned rabidly, then grabbed her arm with a grip that cut off her blood flow.

"Please, sir, please, no. I don't want—"

"Get offa 'er!" The man was pulled backward, then thrown on the ground as if he were a rag doll. North appeared at her side, breathing hard. "Miss, are you all right?" he shouted, and he grasped her arm tightly, though not painfully.

"Yes…yes, thank you…" She dropped her eyes, having the immediate reaction of wanting to slink away somewhere safe. North's hand didn't leave her arm, and she glanced up just in time to see one of Bell's men rushing toward them. "Mr. North, take care!" she cried.

He spun, and the man's fist clipped his jaw. North stumbled backward. The man caught him by the collar, pulling him toward him. The man raised his fist again, but North swiftly kicked the man's knees, sweeping them out from under him. The two fell to the ground, hitting the hard wood floor with a resounding crash. A vase teetered, then fell from a shelf.

Margaret recoiled in horror, terrified. She could hardly make out of the forms of anyone, but caught sight of John near the window, struggling with one of Bell's men. The metallic taste of fear filled her mouth as she watched the man's fist connect with John's face. He staggered backward, obviously dazed from the blow.

The man followed him, and Margaret stifled a silent scream. Oh, God…dear Lord Jesus, save us…It was all she could think. If only she could do something.

She could run for the police. Yes. She eyed the room, then turned, trying to be inconspicuous as she slipped out of the parlor.

"Where do you think you're going, Margaret?"

Another hand clamped onto her arm, and she tried to shake it off. She couldn't meet his eyes. "Mr. B—Bell. Please. Let go of me!"

His grip tightened, and her arm ached. He leaned close, and she looked up automatically, into his eyes. They were full of hatred, nothing like the man she had once known. What had happened to kind Mr. Bell?

"You're staying right here," he growled. "You're not getting away. I always wanted you, Margaret, but you chose that fool Thornton. You'll regret what you've done."

"Get off of me!" she cried, yanking her arm in vain. He reached out, and with two fingers, forcibly grasping her chin and turned her face toward him.

"I'm not leaving. I intend to get what I want."

Suddenly, two loud crashes sounded, and both Margaret and Bell turned to look. Parker stood by the window, breathing heavily, his fists clenched, looking downward with a sneer on his normally handsome face, now marred with ugly bruises and a bleeding cut on the bridge of his nose. The window's glass was broken, and two of the men had disappeared. The other six sprawled across on the floor. Margaret could only imagine what had happened. Parker closed his eyes, suddenly looking weary and broken, and stumbled back into the wall.

Mr. Bell dropped his hand from her arm and dashed toward the door.

Margaret watched in shock, not able to comprehend what had happened. North bolted after Bell, and she stepped forward, wondering if the Bell would escape.

North caught him on the balcony. Spun him around to face him, then threw a thundering blow into the man's nose. Mr. Bell tipped perilously backward, staggering into the single wrought-iron railing on the balcony.

He shouted something to North, then pulled a gun.

Margaret's breath caught in her throat, and she suddenly felt strong arms around her shoulders, and she glance up. "John!" she cried.

"Stay back, Margaret." His arm settled over her shoulders.

North kicked the gun from Bell's hand and slammed him back against the railing. Bell's hand wove through North's collar, jerking him forward. Margaret gasped as Bell's feet left the floor. For an endless second, he hung, suspended over the rail. Then he plummeted backward, still gripping North. Both men disappeared over the edge.

A dreadful scream echoed through the room. Then all was silent.

John looked back at her for a short moment, running his eyes over her, then dashed out of the door. "North!" he shouted.

Margaret followed him. Two men were crumpled under the front window. Mrs. Thornton stood over them, dagger in hand, looking every inch a vicious warrior. She vaguely wondered if they were dead, then recognized one as Peters, the overseer.

The thought dissolved from her mind as she hurried down the steps, terrified for Mr. North. Such a fall could kill a man. If he had been killed defending them…

She rushed to the far side of the balcony and stopped short. North lay beside Bell. John crouched beside him, his hands behind the man's shoulders. He helped North slowly sit up.

"Are you sure you're all right?" John asked, his brow furrowed with concern.

North nodded, touching the side of his head. He brought his hand away, then looked down at it, frowning. It was wet with blood.

Margaret started, then knelt beside him. "You're hurt!"

"No, miss…I'll be all right." He nodded down at Bell, wincing with the action. "He broke most of my fall. He's dead."

Margaret looked down at Bell, and nausea roiled in her stomach, burning her throat. John must have noticed her expression, for he laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Come. You don't need to see this." He stood, pulling her up with him.

"I'm—I'm all right," she insisted shakily. But she really wasn't. Mr. Bell. That was impossible. Not kind Mr. Bell…no. Not the man she had trusted, whom her father had trusted.

John reached down and helped North up. "Thank you," he murmured to the man. "You could have been killed."

"It's what I signed up for, wasn't it?" He looked back down at Bell. "Filth," he spat out.

John didn't say anything, only taking a deep breath she recognized as his way of containing his anger as they walked up the stairs. When they were in the parlor, he turned to her. "Margaret," he said, slipping an arm around her waist. "You're unharmed?" The anger in his eyes had died, replaced something else: fear.

The emotions that lurked in his eyes made her want to cry, but she nodded. "I'm fine."

He stopped, looking down at her strangely. "Your face." His jaw tightened, the anger coming back in his eyes. He reached out and slowly traced from her jawline down to her chin, and pain entered his expression. "He hurt you."

Margaret reached up and touched his fingers. Mr. Bell's rough hands must have left a mark, as her chin had ached slightly as John's fingers had brushed it. "No…I—" The ability to restrain her tears left her at that moment.

John pulled her into his arms. He slowly rocked her back and forth. "I'm so sorry, my love. I'm so sorry." His own voice was rough, and she felt his hot breath on her hair as she cried. "I'm sorry. This never should have happened. Forgive me, darling."

Margaret inhaled raggedly, trying to calm her tears. "No," she choked out. "It's not your fault, John. I promise. We're safe. We're safe now."

He didn't answer, but she felt him rest his chin on her head, and he gently rubbed her shoulder. Finally, he said, "It's only by the grace of God that he didn't do anything more. Only by God's unmerited, boundless grace." His voice was choked with emotion, and he pressed a kiss to her head.

"Yes." It was all she could answer.

But she was alive, and it was over. She had a husband she loved and who loved her back, a child she already loved, and a Savior Who had kept them all safe, and most of all, loved her more than anyone else in the world, Whose grace was enough for every trial that life would bring.

Chapter Twenty-one

"Sit down, now, Mr. Parker. You look as if you're goin' to fall over any second," Dixon bustled as she herded North and Parker into the kitchen. Both insisted they didn't need a doctor, but John had sent for one anyway.

Dixon scooted two chairs out for them in the kitchen. "Sit down," she barked, and the men collapsed into the chairs, both of them having similar pained expressions.

"Thank you, Miss Dixon," North murmured, touching a tentative hand to his head.

Dixon slapped it away. "Don't you be touchin' that, you fool boy. Wait for the doctor," she ordered, speaking to him as if he were a young child.

A faint smile played over North's mouth. "Thank you," he said drily.

John sank into another chair, and he felt Dixon's calculating gaze on his face. "Mr. Thornton!" she cried. "You're 'urt yourself." She rushed over to him, and John held up a hand.

"Dixon, I'm fine. I promise. Please." He took a breath, not ready for the woman's incessant chattering when his head ached, as well as most of his body. "Please go check on Margaret. She's upstairs."

Dixon sniffed and whirled around. She left, and the room was blessedly quiet for a few short moments. Mr. Bell had died instantly, and the rest of his brutes had been taken to jail. As magistrate, John knew he would be expected to watch over the trials eventually, and he dreaded the task. Perhaps he'd get someone else to oversee the trials. Williams, as well, had gone to jail, and John felt the sting of betrayal even more keenly with his overseer's traitorous ways. What had Bell wanted? Why had he been driven mad to try such things? Money? Because Margaret had used Bell's money to reopen Marlborough Mills? Because John had married the woman Bell wanted to marry? Why? What had driven the man to such lengths?

"I can't express my gratitude enough to both of you," John said, reluctantly breaking the silence.

Neither one spoke for a moment, then Parker mumbled, "'Twas nothin'."

"Only did wha' you paid me for," North chimed in. He sighed. "Gettin' too old for this work, I think," he added, putting a hand to his back.

"It would have turned out much worse if you hadn't been there. I can't thank you enough," John continued.

"You're payin' us well," Parker muttered, his eyes still closed. Then his brow furrowed, and he released a rough sigh. "You're a good man, Thornton, and your wife is a fine lady. I'm honored to have helped you."

"I'm honored to have ever met such fine men," John replied, meaning every word of it.

The doctor bustled in at that moment, quickly appraising all three men, then started on Parker. He tried to brush him off, but the doctor would have none of it.

After a half hour, the doctor stood from John's side and slipped his things back into his bag. "Bad scuffle you were involved in there, Thornton. Didn't think I'd see the day when you'd come to me lookin' like ye were in a street fight."

John wasn't even tempted to laugh, only managing a slight nod.

As the doctor slipped out of the door, more footsteps approached. He raised his head. Margaret. He stood, the room swaying slightly, but he reached for her hands. "Feeling better?"

"Yes," she answered, looking much more like herself. "Nicholas came by after hearing rumors of what had happened."

"Ah. Is he all right, himself?"

"Yes, of course." Her brow furrowed. "Now he's talking to Jane. Or Dixon, I'm not sure. It's rather strange, his habits these days."

He frowned and was about to ask her what she was speaking of, when she turned and saw North and Parker.

"Mr. Parker! Mr. North! Are you feeling better?" They had long ago sat back down after they had hauled themselves to their feet as she had entered.

"Fine, ma'am," North murmured, forcing a strained smile in her direction. "And you?"

"Much better. Thank you for everything. And you as well, Mr. Parker. I'm so thankful that the Lord allowed both of you to be here. If you hadn't been here…" Her voiced trailed off. "Thank you," she simply said.

A hushed silence welcomed her words, then Parker raised his head. John could have sworn he saw tear glistening in the rugged soldier's eyes. "No, ma'am. Thank you. You…you have given me hope."

"Hope?" she echoed gently.

"Yes. I—I've been thinking about what you said…I'm not sure of it all, right now … but…" He drew in a harsh breath. "There might even be hope for an old sinner like me. Rest…'tis a charming sound to me."

Margaret reached up and grasped his hand. "I'm so glad. There is hope for you. Always."

John smiled gently as he watched his wife, knowing Parker's words to be true. He himself had been just as much as sinner, and somehow, the Lord Jesus had saved him. It would forever be amazing to him, the amazing grace that had been shown to him.

"Mr. Higgins, it's in that closet, if you wouldn't mind grabbin' it?"

Jane waved in the direction of a door as she walked back toward the kitchen, and Higgins ambled toward it. "Oats," he grumbled. "That's all I have to find."

He yanked open the door, and a shrill shriek sounded. His foot caught on something, and he stumbled forward. The door slammed shut, plunging him in utter darkness. He bumped into something soft.

"Who—who goes there?"

He knew that voice. It was Dixon's. Why was she here, in the dark, of all places?

"Uh…Nicholas Higgins, ma'am." He swallowed hard, heat rising in his neck. He was squished up against her, as the closet was quite small, and Dixon was not small. Neither was he, for that matter. "Forgive me, Dixon, I…I was just fetchin' some oats."

"Nicholas?" Her voice warmed. "Nicholas…do you want some chocolates?"

"Chocolates?" he said blankly.

"Mmm, yes…here you go." She reached for him, touching his shoulder, then fumbling her way down to his hand. "Here."

She pressed a chocolate into his hand. "Try one. They're excellent."
"Thank you," he said, then bit into the candy. It melted across his tongue, pure bliss he'd never tasted the like of.

"See? They were Fanny's favorite, I was told, but she moved and forgot to take them."

"I see…" Nicholas shifted, swallowing the chocolate. Mmm, they were delicious. Never had he imagined he would taste such a thing.

Her hand brushed his. "Do you want another one?"

Before he could answer, she leaned even close, kissing him on the cheek. He started, then wrapped his arms around her. "I love you, Matilda Dixon," he murmured.

She stilled in his arms. "You do?" she asked, breathless.

"Yes. Always." He lowered his face to hers in the dark and kissed her. She tasted of a hundred chocolates.

"Mr. Higgins!"

A bright shaft of light pierced his closed eyelids, and he hurriedly moved away from Dixon, but of course it wasn't very far, probably only an inch or two because of the tight closet space available. "Miss Dixon!" Then Jane's shrill cry made him scoot back. Her eyes were wide. "What—what were ye thinkin', Miss Dixon? Kissin' 'im in the closet?" She shook her head slowly, then whirled and ran away from the closet.

Higgins swallowed hard. This didn't look good. The rumors…

"Well, Nicholas," Dixon said firmly. "It looks as if we're getting married."

Maybe he would have to get trapped in a closet more often.

Epilogue

Bright sunlight streamed through the parlor windows, painting the carpet in a tapestry of gold and shadow. The whirl of the mills echoed through the air, the sound of the busy cotton yard—the shouts, the sound of carts, horses—everything that went on in the making of cotton.

The mill had been fully reconstructed earlier that month and was back to its former glory of making fine Milton cotton. The last of the new machines had been brought in last week and were now at full capacity.

Higgins was now the overseer, as Williams had been tried and sent to jail. He and Dixon had been married six months earlier. With the substantial raise, they had moved into a larger house, out of the worst slums, where they lived with Boucher's six children and Mary. Dixon declared it was the best time of her life, and she was happier than most had ever seen her raising six children. Who would have ever thought? Dixon and children? Rumor had it that she was expecting as well.

Now, Margaret smiled as she looked over at John, who was gently playing with baby Hannah on his lap. Both had decided that if the baby were a girl, they would name her after John's mother, Hannah, and her middle name would be Rose, as Margaret always wanted to remember the beginning of her fervent love for her husband, the precious Helstone rose he had brought her. Mrs. Thornton was happier than a lark at that proclamation, and when little Hannah had been born, Mrs. Thornton had been overjoyed to find that she had a granddaughter.

John had been the most doting of fathers, somehow pulling himself away from the mill quite frequently to spend time with her and their two-month old daughter. Margaret found him spending less time at the mill now, even though business was more present than ever. It was a miracle in itself; John was a Thornton, after all, and cotton was the lifeblood that had flowed through him. Now, she wasn't so sure of that. After all—it was the Lord Whom he served now, not money or power, and Margaret could not thank God enough for what He had done in her and John's life.

"Ah, now, lass, you wouldn't say that, would you?"

Margaret looked up from her thoughts, smiling over at John as he tickled Hannah.

"She said that she would rather be held by her mother, I think." He stood, walking toward Margaret with the baby in his arms.

Margaret laughed, taking Hannah from him. "There, there," she soothed as she settled her in her arms. The baby's blue eyes shone up at her, then she blinked tiredly, and her eyes slowly closed. John sank down on the settee beside her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. "She's beautiful just like her mother," he murmured, gazing down at his young daughter with love shining from his eyes.

Margaret shook her head, not able to resist smiling at his words. She certainly still wasn't over the blushing newlywed stage. "Thank you. But—John, you have to agree, she does have your nose."

He winced. "I'm sorry, sweetheart," he said to Hannah, stroking her cheek with one long finger. "I never meant to burden you with such a grievous feature."

Margaret laughed, then touched his nose lightly. "I like it."

John squeezed her, a smiled dancing across his face. "Well, only you, I'm sure." He looked back down at Hannah. "Your mother's features will even it out, I promise," he whispered lightly.

Margaret leaned her head against his shoulder, savoring the feeling of Hannah resting peacefully in her arms and John's own arm around her. She deserved none of this, yet the Lord had blessed her beyond all measure. Sometimes, though, late at night, the horrifying images of John lying pale and still in the street marched through her memory, and fear would strike her heart. If anything happened to him again, she didn't know what she would do.

Yet, instead of worrying, she had learned to look to the King Who controlled all, Who governed all, the Lord of Life Who had conquered the grave, death, and hell, the One Who would ever be with them, never leaving their side, and the One Who would lead them home some day. And she found that the fear receded when she looked to Him, instead of at herself, and she knew if she only kept her eyes fixed on Him, all would truly be well, regardless of what happened on earth.

"I never thought that I would have you, Margaret, and never dreamed I would have a daughter," John said softly. "And most of all, I never dreamed that I would—no, that God would find me in my sin and pride. All my life I thought I had to look to myself for everything that I needed—wealth, power, money…even you. But only when I was saved, then did I find depths of love for you I never knew. I love you more than my very life, my breath…and I forever shall."
She blinked back tears at his quiet words. "I love you too, John," she choked out, trying to hold back her emotions.

His eyes closed, and he leaned over to her, and their lips met. Margaret's eyes slid shut, and she again thanked the Lord Who had turned their eyes to look unto Him, and in doing so, they had found everything they had ever longed for in Him.

Acknowledgements

First of all, I would like to thank whatever dear reader has traversed through this long and treacherous "collection of sentences," as my dear co-author has aptly put it so many times. It is a magnificent feat that you have made it through all of that…stuff.

Second of all, I would like to thank my dear, dear co-author. Thank you for putting up with five thousand major freakouts…you know what I'm talking about. Thank you for all those late-night conversations, akin to, "What was the Mr. Bell plot again?" "Who killed Borne?" "How can I describe Thorny's nose?" and all of those strange conversations that I don't even remember. And thank you for not letting me get super sappy and making some action happen. I'm sorry it ended much too happily for you, but I wasn't about to mess my babies up after all of that time. And of course, thank you for all of the accountant tips. Harry is forever indebted to you.

Third, I would like to thank Elizabeth Gaskell, who wrote this story so long ago and is probably freaking out if she could hear what I've done to her story. I'm sorry, ma'am.

Fourth, I would like to thank the BBC and all of those magnificent actors that portrayed North and South so well. I will forever love that show! But I also must apologize to the guy who played Mr. Bell. I'm sorry, bud, I didn't mean to make you evil. The more I watch it, the worse I feel about making you so bad. You're really not that mean.

Also, thank you to my dearest mum, for indulging my love of North and South so often and giving me one of the best birthday cards that I have ever received. I shall treasure it. Thank you for all of the roses! Happy birthday! I love you, Mum!

Last of all, but of course, the best is saved for last, thank You to the King, Jesus Christ, who is my Lord and Savior, regardless of how many times I fail Him. May this honor the King, despite the many flaws that mar it. Thank You for everything.