A/N: I'm so sorry for the delay in posting this – my internet has been down for an impossibly long time due to – wait for it – a truck driving over the cables which are underground, and crushing them. True story – my internet connection was killed by a truck. o_O
Anyway – extra-long chapter for you guys to make up for the awful cliffhanger I left you with last time. Hope you like it!
Thank you to everyone for reviewing, and thanks to the anonymous reviewers: Crazyfaith, Rosdal, Nocturne, Chris01, loriBear and Lara-chan.
Please let me know your thoughts on this chapter too!
Chapter Thirteen – The Best Medicine
When Margaret slowly made her way back to Marlborough street from Crampton, she was completely unprepared for the scene she encountered. Men were calling out to each other, and running across the yard, and a group of five or six of them seemed to be carrying someone inside, led by a hysterical Jane.
Stopping one of the men in the yard, Margaret tried to find out what was happening. 'James, what is all this? What's going on here?'
The man looked at her in surprise. 'Oh, it's the master, Mrs. Thornton,' he said, and her blood turned to ice.
'What happened?' she asked, and her voice sounded strange to her own ears, as if it were coming from someone else.
The man scratched his head. 'I'm not sure exactly, ma'am, but I think there was an accident with one of the machines. His mother's just gone herself to fetch the doctor.'
She managed a breathless 'Thank you, James' before she hurried across the yard inside the house. In the sitting room she could see Fanny lying prostrate on one of the sofas, either unconscious, or pretending to be. Either way it did not bode well.
Following the voices, she took the stairs two at a time, finally joining the crowd gathered in their – her and Mr. Thornton's – bedchamber. Nicholas Higgins, who was one of the men who had carried Mr. Thornton up into the house, began to herd out the others, trying to lessen the crowd.
Margaret cast a frantic glance over her husband's still body, her gaze fixing on his mangled and bloody right hand. There was so much blood – he was losing so much blood. She began to tremble uncontrollably, but then reproached herself sternly; now was not the time to start acting like Fanny.
Pulling herself together, she strode over to the wardrobe and rifled through it until she found one of Mr. Thornton's cotton shirts. Then she hurried around the bed to his right side. Holding her breath, she lifted his hand by the wrist as gently as she could and began to wrap it tightly in the shirt. Back in Helstone, she had learnt from the labourers that one must bind the wound tightly and keep a firm pressure on it to lessen blood loss.
Despite the cares she took not to jar him or increase the pain, even in his unconscious state his brow furrowed and he hissed in pain. Beads of sweat were beginning to form on his forehead, and his face was as white as the sheets that he lay upon.
Margaret turned slightly. 'Nicholas, could you bring some water, please?'
Relieved to be given something to do, Nicholas instantly set off to obey. Meanwhile Margaret darted a worried glance out the window. How long would it take Mrs. Thornton to reach Dr. Donaldson's residence? Would he be in, or would he already be doing his rounds somewhere? For a moment, the parson's daughter closed her eyes in prayer. Dear Lord, please let everything be alright. Please don't let anything happen to him.
Then she opened her eyes again, focusing on Mr. Thornton. His breathing was laboured, and her gaze went to his black cravat. Surely it could not be comfortable to lie down with one on? When she had been struck by the stone the rioters had thrown, her first thought on regaining consciousness had been a wish that her corset would not squeeze her so tightly, hindering her breathing. Perhaps the sensation was similar with a cravat?
For a moment the impropriety of what she planned to do made her hesitate, but then she brushed aside her reservations. In this situation, to be even thinking about whether or not it was improper seemed to be in itself improper.
Keeping one hand still pressed on the cloth which bound his wound, she used the other to unravel his cravat by pulling the ends. With one last tug, she laid it aside, and then began to undo his waistcoat buttons, which was no mean feat to accomplish one-handed. Finally, it was done, and if it was not her imagination, his breathing seemed to have eased.
When Nicholas returned with the water, she took out her clean handkerchief and dipped it in the bowl and began to mop at her husband's forehead, keeping up a steady stream of conversation as she did so. 'There, that feels better, doesn't it?' She stroked his hair as she moved it off his forehead. Even if he could not hear her, it made her feel a little less anxious to keep talking. 'I'm sure you'll be fine in no time. Just lie still and relax; the doctor will be here soon.' She paused, laying the cloth down and taking his uninjured hand. 'You will be alright,' she said, her voice not entirely steady, trying to reassure herself as much as him. 'You will be alright.'
When Dr. Donaldson arrived after what seemed like an age to Margaret, but what was in reality actually only half an hour after the accident had occurred, he commended Margaret on her presence of mind in stemming the blood flow. She hardly heard, instantly pressing him to tell her if the wound was serious, a concern he did not address immediately, looking over the wound in a way that seemed painfully slow to Margaret, all the while making 'Hmm's and 'Oh my's which shed no light whatsoever.
As the doctor set about carefully peeling away the blood-soaked shirt Margaret had used as a makeshift bandage, Margaret's eyes met Mrs. Thornton's. She could see the worry and fear she was feeling mirrored in her mother-in-law's eyes, and for that one moment at least, united in their regard for the man who was lying unconscious before them, they understood one another completely. As if in acknowledgement of this, Mrs. Thornton silently came and stood by Margaret, and they both watched the doctor's work anxiously.
Having efficiently cleaned the wounded hand, he finally told them what they longed to hear. 'It's not as bad as it looks,' he declared, and they both gave audible sighs of relief. 'He will be almost perfectly alright in a few weeks or so.' Tears of gratitude welled up in Margaret's eyes and she blinked rapidly to contain them. Having lived in Milton for almost two years now, she was horribly aware that not everyone was so lucky after an accident with the machinery. She had heard of many cases where men had died, or at the very least had to have their injured limbs amputated. She shivered to think how close her Mr. Thornton had come to such a fate. With an effort she wrenched her thoughts away from this dangerous train and focused her attention on what was passing before her.
The doctor proceeded to hold up a small bottle to Mr. Thornton's nose, and sure enough, after breathing in whatever was present there, he regained consciousness with a start. For a moment he looked blank, but almost instantly his eyes glazed over with the pain, and he slumped back onto the bed, wincing as his injured head was jarred by the fall, letting out a low groan which he could not contain.
Margaret helped the doctor in propping up his pillows so that he could partially sit up, acting with the understanding and quickness that came of substantial affection, the doctor thought approvingly. Then both Margaret and Mrs. Thornton instinctively stepped forward to take Mr. Thornton's uninjured hand, but Margaret being closer, got there first. Mrs. Thornton stepped back at once, hoping that nobody had noticed her blunder. The doctor was busy with his patient, her daughter-in-law was too absorbed in her husband and that worker...
Mrs. Thornton noticed a look in the eye of Nicholas Higgins – what was a worker doing by her son's bedside anyway? – that told her that he had seen and understood her, but instead of the amusement or mockery she had been expecting, she found she could only discern sympathy in his expression. She looked away hurriedly, eyes prickling uncomfortably.
Meanwhile Margaret was whispering reassurances to her husband, clutching his hand and inwardly cursing her voice for being so weak. 'Do not worry, Mr. Thornton, you will be alright. Dr. Donaldson will take care of it – you will be fine.' Without thinking, she brought his hand up and pressed her lips against the firm nubs of his knuckles, before continuing in her rapid flow of assurances.
It was not so easily forgotten by Mr. Thornton, however. As Margaret's lips touched his skin, a myriad of emotions could be seen to flit across his face, ranging from joy to confusion to longing to inexpressible sadness as the memory of that other man, which he had tried to suppress for months now came back to him as vividly as if he had seen them together yesterday.
'There are deep lacerations along the front and back of the hand,' said Dr. Donaldson, his voice interrupting Mr. Thornton's painful reverie. 'And I will have to reset the wrist – it's dislocated.' Pulling a vial out of a pocket of his satchel, he handed it to Mr. Thornton. 'You'd better drink this – laudanum,' he added, in response to Mr. Thornton's look of enquiry.
Reluctantly taking his hand out of Margaret's, he took the vial and downed it in one gulp, making a face at the awful taste. 'Was that necessary?' he asked, grimacing at the aftertaste.
Dr. Donaldson nodded. 'Oh yes,' he said. He pulled out a horribly large-looking needle. 'You'll be glad of it when I'm doing the stitches.' Thornton began to smile in amusement, but his smile froze and slowly faded as he saw the doctor's grave face. The man was completely serious.
Closing his eyes, Mr. Thornton reached for Margaret's supportive hand once more.
Four weeks. That was how long he would have to wear this sling, and that was how long he had to abstain from writing in order to let his hand heal and ensure that the wound did not reopen and begin to bleed afresh.
Thankful as he was that his injury was so minor, he could not ignore the fact that the timing could not have been worse. There was so much work to do for the mill, and although between them Williams and Higgins were doing a fine job of running it, the accounts and correspondence with clients were languishing. In Mr. Thornton's opinion, despite what the doctor had insisted upon, he did not need a week's bed rest; the doctor himself had admitted that his head wound was not at all serious, and hadn't even caused concussion. His hand was perfectly fine, so long as he didn't move too much – so then what was the need to lie here like an idle fool, being bored out of his brain, except when Margaret came in to talk with him or read to him?
Already he had spent the past two days in bed, forced to observe the doctor's orders by the hawk-like watchfulness of his wife and his mother, who seemed to be conspiring together to ensure that he did not lift a finger to do something for himself.
He was contemplating the practicality of making an escape to the mill through his second-storey window, fiddling with the catch, when after a soft knock, Margaret entered. He started as guiltily as if she had caught him with one leg outside.
She smiled to see him up and about again, despite her and Mrs. Thornton's best efforts to get him to rest. 'You are looking well today,' she said.
Hope entered his heart. 'I feel well,' he said truthfully. Then his eyes became pleading. 'Margaret, is there any chance that I could –'
Any hope died with the iron determination of her expression. 'No,' she said sternly. 'You know what Dr. Donaldson ordered. Not for five more days.' She placed a hand on his elbow, careful not to jar his right hand, and began to steer him back to the bed. 'Now get back in.'
Sighing, he did as he was told, grumbling under his breath about quacks and their good-for-nothing orders.
Once she had seen him settled under his covers like a good little patient, she sat in the chair near the bedside, folding her hands on her lap. 'I actually came here with a purpose other than making sure you weren't trying to break out of your cell,' she smiled, and he shifted uncomfortably under his covers; she little knew how close she had hit to the truth with her jest.
'Oh?' he asked, in response to her statement. 'What would that be?'
'I am aware,' she began, 'that although Williams and Nicholas have been making sure business runs as usual in the mill, your absence has meant a setback in the other formal matters of business which you usually attend to.'
His ears pricked hopefully. Was this a prelude to allowing him to return to work early?
'So what I have come to propose,' she continued, 'is that I could help you with them. You could dictate to me, and I could be your right hand, so to speak.' He was silent for so long that she lost her confidence, and her face fell. 'I had – hoped that the suggestion would be welcome to you,' she said, crestfallen.
She had mistaken his silence. His first reaction had been gratification at her thoughtfulness, but then the thought had occurred to him that if he let her make the accounts, she would know exactly how deplorable a state the mill's finances were really in. He had no choice but to say it. 'It's a nice thought, Margaret,' he said stiffly, hating himself as he saw the hurt in her eyes. 'But it's not necessary, I assure you.'
'Oh.' She nodded, biting her lip and blinking rapidly. She did not look up at him. 'Very well.' She slowly stood, still not meeting his eyes. 'I understand.' Then she hurried out of the room, leaving him gazing after her in regret.
She did not understand. How could she? He could not let her know what a mess he had made of things – he knew that if she ever found out, she would leave, go to the man she actually loved. He still clung to the vain but persistent hope that if he could save the mill, then she would stay.
He closed his eyes, sighing. It was the only way – he had to save a mill that was collapsing; he had to deliver on orders he didn't have time to fulfill; he had to hope and pray for overdue payments which seemed as if they would never arrive. He had to save the mill. He had to.