Chapter 8

The next morning, after breakfast, Margaret grabbed a basket, containing fresh bread and some fruit. She hid the letter to Frederick inside and covered it with a cloth, as she made her way down the stairs to the front door to visit Bessy Higgins. Bessy had been in low spirits since the beginning of the strike and her cough had gotten worse, which had Margaret worried.

As she was passing her father's study, she halted for a moment, surprised to find him crouched down in front of the bookshelf. "Now, where did I put it?", he mumbled to himself, "Ah there it is!" He grabbed a book from a lower shelf and straightened himself, when he saw her standing there.

"Ah, Margaret", he smiled at her. "You see, I have been looking for this." He held up a book titled The Theory of Moral Sentiments. "I had promised John Thornton to lend him this book, as he seemed most interested when I mentioned it to him. I'll call for an errand boy to deliver it."

"There is no need, papa. I'm on my way to visit Bessy Higgins and I will pass by Marlborough mills on the way. I can drop the book there for you, if you like", Margaret offered. "Are you sure, Margaret?" "Quite." Mr. Hale smiled and handed her the book. "Well thank you, my dear, that is most kind."

Margaret left the house and made for the nearest post box, quickly dropping the letter to Fred inside. She prayed that it would reach him in time. And she prayed that she was not making a terrible mistake in posting it.

Engrossed in her worries, she made her way down the street, noticing that it was unusually quiet. Even more than it had been in the past four weeks, since the beginning of the strike. The further she walked, the more she sensed a feeling of unease creep up on her. The strange silence seemed almost like the quiet before a storm. What was going on?

Margaret quickened her step, occasionally looking over her shoulder worriedly, but there was no one there. She reached the green gates of Marlborough mills, to find them closed and bolted, which was unusual. Over the past four weeks no one had worked there, except maybe Mr. Thornton, who was probably still sitting in his office. But the gates leading into the yard had always been open. Margaret found the bell and pulled it quickly, the ringing echoing loudly through the empty mill yard inside.

She waited, but no answer came. This was very strange indeed. After a minute she tried again. This time she heard quick steps, and then the gate was opened just a crack to reveal the pale face of Williams, the overseer. There was a look of fear in his eyes.

"Oh, it's you, Miss", he exclaimed in his thick Darkshire accent. "What on earth are ye doing out in the street today?" She did not know what to make of his reaction, as it was a weekday and it was not unusual to be out.

"I have come to deliver a book to Mr. Thornton. It's from my father. Would you be so kind as to pass it on to him?" She held out the book to Williams, but he made no move to take it, instead his eyes focused on something behind her, his mouth slightly agape as if in shock.

"Pray, what is going on?", Margaret demanded, but then she heard it. There was a tapping sound, almost as if hundreds of footsteps were coming closer from the end of the street. A faint roar of voices could be heard, which rose with each passing second. "Oh, dear Lord", Williams exclaimed, quickly opening the door further and grabbing the shocked Margaret by the arm, dragging her inside. He shoved the mill gates closed behind her and bolted them. "You really shouldn't be here, Miss. They're coming for us. What do I do with ye now?!"

"Coming for you? Who is coming for you?", Margaret called out, appalled. She felt a strange anxiety rise inside her. There was the sound of a door closing and she spun around to see Mr. Thornton, who had just come out of the factory building. He was as pale as she had ever seen him, as he rushed down the few steps into the yard. Then his eyes caught sight of her.

He froze, his mouth hanging slightly open as he stared at her in disbelief. "Miss Hale! What are you doing here?" "I – I came to bring you a book from my father, but…" "Mr. Thornton, they are coming!", Williams interrupted her, his voice terrified.

There was a loud bang against the mill gates, followed by the yelling of countless angry voices. Margaret jumped and turned to face the noise. There were people out there. Many people. They were screaming and banging against the wooden planks of the door. She could not make out their words, but they seemed in a mood to murder whoever stepped in their way.

"Quick!" Thornton exclaimed, and he sprung towards Margaret, grabbing her upper arm and practically dragging her away with him. Panicked, as she was now, there was no use in trying to resist him. His hand held her in a firm grasp and she almost had to run to keep pace with him. He took her over to the mill house, up the steps onto the porch and then through the front door, into the entrance hall she remembered from that fateful night when he had saved her from the two men in Princeton.

Once they had entered the hall, he quickly bolted the door behind them. Margaret's upper arm stung where he had held her a bit too tightly. His breathing was slightly laboured. "Come with me", he told her and rushed up the stairs to the upper floor. Without questioning him further, Margaret followed him. Thornton entered a room to the left of the hallway and went straight to the windows. She joined him there, placing her basket on the floor beside her, as they looked down into the empty mill yard.

Williams had gone. He was probably also hiding somewhere. "Mr. Thornton, would you care to explain to me what is going on?", she inquired. He did not take his eyes from the yard for one moment. "I am sorry you have visited us at this unfortunate moment, Miss Hale. I have imported hands from Ireland to restart production. The strikers are not taking it too well."

She stared at him. "Imported workers?", she breathed. "But w-where are they?" "They are inside the mill, huddled up in the top room. They are frightened of the strikers." "Oh, dear God", Margaret exclaimed, as everything fell into place.

Was this what she had heard Slickson and him speak about, at the Latimer's ball? He had replaced the strikers with new workers to keep the mill running, effectively taking their job away for good. She was thunderstruck. How could he do such a thing? What was to become of the workers now? They would most definitely starve.

She suddenly recalled his stern, determined look, as she had asked him what was to happen if he could not meet his orders. "We will find ways to meet them", he had told her. Well, he seemed to have found a way. But if the strikers managed to get into the mill, she did not want to imagine what they would do to the poor wretches from Ireland. People were capable of many things when they were desperate enough. There was a loud crash, as the front gates broke and an angry mob flooded the mill yard.

"Oh my god, they're going for the mill door", Thornton called out, alarmed.

Margaret had recognized one of the strikers. It was Boucher, Nicholas Higgin's neighbour – the man who had six starving children at home. Opposite them, up in the mill building, she could see some dark shadows in the windows, looking down – the Irish workers were locked up there, absolutely terrified, waiting for the angry mob to break down the doors and kill them.

"Let them yell!" Thornton said in a quivering voice. "Keep up your courage a few minutes longer, Miss Hale." She turned her face to him. "I'm not afraid! But can't you pacify them?" "The soldiers will make them see reason", was all he replied. "Reas-" her voice broke, shocked at his statement. "What kind of reason?" He looked at her sternly, almost defiantly, and for a moment she felt like she wanted to grab him and shake some sense into him. The nerve of this man!

"Mr Thornton, go down this instant and face them like a man!" she demanded in a raised voice. "Speak to them as if they were human beings. They are driven mad with hunger, their children are starving! They don't know what they are doing! Go and save your innocent Irishmen!"

He stared at her in bewilderment for a few seconds, which felt like minutes. Then, suddenly, he seemed to come to a conclusion, and without a word he spun around and left the room, heading downstairs. Margaret stood rooted to the spot, and it was only when she heard the front door open to the voices of the angry mob, that she realized what she had done.

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As he stepped out onto the landing and into view of the angry strikers, their voices raised immediately. It was like a gigantic wave of angry cries, which hit him. John stood, crossing his arms in front of his chest in an unconscious attempt to protect himself. What was he doing? There was nothing he could say to pacify them, if anything, his appearance would aggravate them further.

When she had commanded him to go and face them, her eyes boring into his with such angry passion, his brain had just shut off momentarily. She tended to have this kind of effect on him. As if of their own accord, his legs had carried him downstairs and through the front door, onto the landing. So far, so good. But now he was standing here, all alone against a good hundred men who seemed ready to jump up at him and beat him to death at any second.

Margaret was still staring out of the window. The men were shouting wildly now. She could see Thornton standing on the landing, unmoving. He was not even making an attempt at speaking to them. She saw some men bend down and pick up stones from the ground, and a sudden fear gripped her.

Before she knew what she was doing, she was out of the door and practically flew down the stairs. She dashed through the front door and ran past Thornton, until she was standing right there in front of the strikers, who seemed taken aback momentarily to see a woman there.

"In god's name, stop!", Margaret yelled, her heart threatening to burst out of her chest. "Think of what you are doing! He is only one man and you are many! Go home! The soldiers are coming!" She lowered her voice trying to calm the people, who were now staring at her. "Go in peace. You shall have an answer to your complaints."

For a second it seemed like she had actually managed to calm them down. Then – "Will ye send th' Irish 'ome?!" one of the men called out. Before Margaret could say anything more, she heard Thornton's voice bellow from behind her: "NEVER!"

This was enough to wreak complete havoc amongst the strikers. Margaret felt Mr. Thornton grab her arms. "Go inside, this is not your place!" "They will not want to hurt a woman!" she cried, as the noise around them swelled even further.

"Go inside or I will take you!", he almost yelled, his voice quivering with obvious panic now. Margaret had no time to contemplate her actions. She threw her arms around his neck and turned them so that he was facing away from the crowd. She felt his hands on her wrists, as he hastily attempted to remove her arms from his body and spun them both back around.

At this very moment something whizzed through the air, there was a muffled thud, a gasp and before she knew what had happened, Mr. Thornton collapsed against sudden weight was too much for Margaret, her legs gave way under her and they both tumbled to the ground.

Within a second the mill yard went completely silent. Margaret, not knowing what had happened, managed to scramble to her feet. She looked about wildly, trying to recognize what had happened and was faced with the shocked looks of the workers, who were staring up at the porch in disbelief. As she looked down, her heart skipped a beat.

Mr. Thornton lay there on the ground, his eyes closed, his mouth slightly open. Blood tickled down the side of his face. Within an instant, she was down on her knees beside him, her hand grabbing his shoulder. "Mr. Thornton!", she exclaimed, hoping to stir him awake. He gave a small, almost inaudible moan, but otherwise did not move.

Before she could do anything else, the mill yard erupted loudly once again. Uniformed men on horseback came galloping through the mill doors, yelling. Immediately the workers scattered, trying to make for the gates as the rider's cudgels came down hard upon them and many a man stumbled to the ground in pain.

"Miss Hale!" It was Williams, who was racing up the steps onto the porch and immediately crouched down beside her. "Master!", he exclaimed as he grabbed Thorntons arm, trying to shake him awake. His action tore Margaret out of her daze. "We need to get him inside the house, quickly!" Williams bent down and grabbed Thornton's arm, trying to raise up his body. "Master, come on, please!" Margaret tried to grab the other arm and after a short struggle they managed to stand shakily, holding the mill master between them, each of his arms around one of their shoulders.

Margaret panted; he was heavier than he looked. Thornton moaned again and she saw his eyes flutter for a moment. "Wha- happened?", he breathed out in pain, his head rolling so his chin came down against his chest, his eyes unfocused. "It's alright master. Ye took a blow to the head, is all. We'll get ye inside."

They stumbled through the front door and into the sitting room where Mr. Thornton had taken Margaret on the night he had saved her from Princeton. There, they carefully placed the unconscious onto the settee. He sank into the cushioning, his eyes drooping.

"He needs a doctor", Margaret told Williams shakily, unable to tear her eyes off Thornton. Williams looked torn. "I can go fetch one, but Miss – you should not be in here by yourself!" She did not listen to him and instead dropped to her knees next to the settee, intently searching Thornton's face for any sign of life. "Williams, quick! Tell the maid to bring some water and a cloth!"

"Miss-" "Do as I tell you!", she heard herself command him. He hesitated for one more second. Then, with a small sigh, he rushed out of the room, leaving the door open in a last attempt to protect the young woman's dignity.

"Mr. Thornton!", Margaret whispered, carefully placing her hand on his upper arm. "Can you hear me?" She saw him blink a little, as he tried to move his head, but stopped instantly, wincing. "It's alright", she heard herself whisper to him in what she hoped was a reassuring voice. "The doctor is on his way."

Soon the young housemaid came in, a look of shock appearing on her face at the sight before her, her master lying on the settee unconscious, and that strange woman from a few weeks ago kneeling so closely beside him. She caught herself and set down the tray near Margaret. Then she stood, uncertain for a moment, fidgeting her hands. Eventually she dropped her gaze and hurriedly rushed out of the room.

Margaret's hands reached for the tray. She dipped the cloth into the bowl of water with her right hand and carefully started to dab at the blood on his temple. He winced, instinctively turning his face away from the cloth, obviously in pain. Without thinking, Margaret brought her left hand up to his cheek, holding his head in place, as she gently pressed the cloth to his skin. "Shhh, it's okay", she whispered. His skin was hot and flushed against her hand and she could feel the stubble of his beard beneath her fingers.

Margaret bit her lip, trying hard to focus on the task at hand. Thornton seemed uncomfortable, his lips were opened slightly and he seemed to have some trouble breathing. She dropped the cloth for a moment, as a thought came to her. She could not – could she?

Everything about this situation was highly improper already, with them being here in this room alone. But he was injured and unconscious, she told herself. She could not just leave him here, unattended. Surely there were moments where propriety had to give way to necessity.

His breathing was still laboured and – holding her own breath – Margaret threw all caution to the wind and reached out her hands to his cravat, tugging at it carefully. It came off surprisingly easy and dropped to the ground beside them. Margaret averted her eyes, her face flashing hot with embarrassment. As she resumed her task of cleaning the blood from his face, she tried to force her gaze away from his now exposed neck, but failed miserably.

Her eyes lingered for a brief moment on his strong jawline and the base of his throat, where his shirt collar had fallen open, exposing his skin. She felt him stir and then his eyes fluttered open, darting about the room confusedly, before settling on her face. She was not sure he recognized her, he seemed in a daze.

His lips quivered as if to say something, but no sound came. Very aware that her hands were still on his cheeks, she swiftly drew them back and started to rise when his hand caught her lower arm. She froze instantly.

"Stay", he whispered, his eyes drifting closed once more. He started mumbling something incoherent. She strained to catch his words, but they made no sense to her. "Please, Fanny. You need to drink the water. The pain will stop soon…" his eyes flew open once more, staring at her. "Miss Hale?", he breathed, finally recognizing her. Margaret still could not move. His hand was holding her wrist tightly as if clinging on for dear life. He seemed agitated. "Mr. Thornton, you are confused. You need to rest, everything will be alright", she tried to soothe him.

"Please", he whispered pleadingly, "please let me go to Fanny. She needs me. Don't – don't take her away. She's all I have left." "Mr. Thornton", she tried softly. "I do not know who you are speaking of." He looked up at her and for a moment his mind seemed to clear. "W-where am I?"

"You are at home, Mr. Thornton. At Marlborough mills. There was a riot. You took quite a blow to the head, that's why you are a bit confused, but it will be better soon, surely." She tried to convince herself as much as him. She was not sure whether he had understood her words, as his eyes drifted closed again and he did not say any more. She sat next to him for what seemed like hours, until eventually there was a sound from the hall and then Williams stormed in, closely followed by Doctor Donaldson.

Margaret jumped up and quickly tried to put as much distance between herself and Mr. Thornton as possible. As the doctor drew a chair near the settee to sit down and look at his patient, Williams motioned for Margaret to follow him outside.

As they reached the hall, he looked at her conspicuously, and when he spoke his voice was hushed. "Miss Hale, I have warned the house staff to keep this entire affair to themselves, if they want to keep their position. I tried to be as persuasive as possible, but I still cannot guarantee that word will not spread. We need to get you home as quickly as possible. I will arrange for the carriage to take you straight back to Crampton. You must not tell anyone about what happened."

Margaret nodded at him, thankfully. He was a good man, she realized. She did not want to contemplate what would happen if the events of today were carried to the wrong people. Since she had come to Milton, Margaret had involuntarily found herself increasingly often in situations which could prove detrimental to her reputation, and strangely, most of them had somehow involved Mr. Thornton.

But today's affair was certainly the worst of them all. And all, because she had wanted to drop off her father's book, she mused in angry disbelief.

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Mere minutes later, she found herself in a carriage back to Crampton, clasping the basket she had intended for Bessy, which still held her father's book. As she had entered the house and was ascending the stairs to her room, she heard her mother call out for her from the sitting room. Margaret excused herself, stating that the streets had been dusty and she was to go and wash. She swiftly closed the door behind her and leaned against it, closing her eyes.

She hoped that Mr. Thornton was going to be alright. And most of all she prayed that none of the strikers had recognized her. She could not cause her parents such misery, her mother certainly would not survive it.

Margaret shook her head, trying to calm herself. God surely could not be so cruel as to let this be her downfall.

As she sat down on the edge of her bed, a different thought crossed her mind: Wo was Fanny? Mr. Thornton's voice had sounded so forlorn, when he had called out the name in his disarray. Was she his lover?

Margaret felt a pang of some unpleasant feeling shoot through her. She mentally shook herself. What did it matter who the woman was? Whatever she was to him, it was none of Margaret's concern and she honestly could not care less.

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Notes:

Fun fact: I debated with myself for the longest time on who of the two should be hit by the stone, because I think both would have created interesting situations. John lost in the end, simply because I wanted Margaret to do something nice for him for once ;)

The book Mr. Hale lends to John, "The Theory of Moral Sentiments" was written by Adam Smith and published in London, in 1759. It is a book on moral philosophy, in which Smith argues that our moral ideas and actions are a product of our very nature as social beings, and that as these social beings we automatically care about others. The work concentrates on ethics and charity, and I found it to be quite a fitting book for Mr. Hale to give to the mill master.